Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
They gathered around the prep table on a Saturday because it was the only day everyone could be in the same room, and even then Meg was on speakerphone from San Clemente because Margaret Cassidy needed her at the property by noon and she refused to miss both.
“I’m here,” Meg’s voice said from Anna’s phone, propped against the salt shaker. “I have forty-five minutes. Go.”
Tyler leaned against the walk-in door with his arms crossed.
Margo sat on the stool at the end of the counter—her first time inside the Shack in days.
She hadn’t put on an apron. She’d come straight to the stool, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap.
She hadn’t said a word since she arrived, which was its own kind of statement.
Michael stood at the head of the prep table with his laptop open and the legal pad beside it. He’d prepared a printed sheet — columns, not handwritten this time. His shirt was pressed. His briefcase sat closed on the floor beside his feet.
Anna had already heard the numbers. Meg had heard them on the phone.
But Margo hadn’t. And Tyler had only gotten the broad strokes from Anna over coffee yesterday.
This meeting was for the people who needed to hear it from Michael directly, with the full weight of the columns and the red circles and the two pens.
“I’ll keep this brief,” Michael said.
He walked them through it. Revenue. Operating costs.
The break-even months and the months they dipped below.
Anna watched the information land differently on each person—Tyler’s arms uncrossing as the picture got clearer, Meg’s silence on the speakerphone going sharper, the way you could hear someone listening harder.
And Margo. Margo, who hadn’t spoken. Whose hands stayed folded. Whose eyes moved from the printed sheet to Michael to Anna and back to the sheet as the numbers stacked up.
“The scholarship costs eighteen thousand a year,” Michael said.
“That’s funded. It’s tight, but it’s funded.
The problem is here.” He tapped the second column.
“More adults drawing salaries. Two years ago, this restaurant ran with part-time help and lower overhead. The costs have changed. Revenue hasn’t. ”
“We knew that,” Meg said from the phone. “We discussed it when we took over.”
“You discussed the costs, but you didn’t model the gap.” Michael closed the laptop. “At current revenue, you can keep the scholarship or pay yourselves. Not both. Not sustainably.”
The grill ticked. Outside, a jogger passed the window without looking in.
“The scholarship stays,” Anna said. She’d said it before. She’d say it again. As many times as it took.
“I’m not suggesting otherwise. I’m showing you the math so you can make a decision based on what’s real.” He pointed to a third column. “You need thirty percent more revenue. That’s the gap. Combined with a five-hour service window—”
“Four hours,” Tyler said. “We open at ten, close at three. Technically five, but the last hour is slow.”
“Which reinforces the point.” Michael set down his pen. “The question is how you close the gap.”
Tyler pushed off the walk-in door. “Breakfast. We’ve talked about this.” He looked at Anna. “Seven AM, the boardwalk’s packed and our chairs are on the tables. Michael saw it himself.”
“Or dinner,” Meg said. “Sunset service. The view alone is worth a premium.”
“Extended hours increase both revenue and overhead,” Michael said. “The margin improvement would be—”
“Marginal,” Anna said. “You’ve mentioned.”
“I’ll keep mentioning it until it’s factored into the plan.”
Anna looked at him. He looked back. His pen stayed on the table, which meant he’d said what he needed to say and was waiting.
Margo still hadn’t spoken.
The Shack was quiet around them—the kind of quiet that only happens when a place built for noise goes still. Anna could hear the ocean through the propped windows. The hum of the walk-in. The silence of five people and a speakerphone waiting for the person who’d built this place to say something.
Margo reached out and wiped the counter. Once. Slowly. Her hand moving across the surface the way it had ten thousand times before—not cleaning, not checking. Just touching the thing she’d made.
“Margo?” Anna said. “What do you think?”
Margo looked at the prep table. At the printed numbers. At Michael, who met her eyes and held them—she’d give him that much, the man didn’t flinch. At Tyler, whose jaw was set the way it got when he’d already decided. At the phone where Meg had gone quiet.
“I think,” Margo said, “that you should try.”
Not an endorsement. Not enthusiasm. Permission, from someone who’d earned it over fifty years and was handing it over with her hands still on the counter.
“Early and late,” Tyler said. “Doors open at seven for breakfast, dinner service until eight. I’ll take mornings. Anna takes afternoons and evenings.”
“I’ll handle the marketing push from here,” Meg said. “Social media, local press, tourism board. I can build a campaign this week.”
“Joey can cover transition hours if his schedule allows, and Stella and Bea can work after school,” Anna said.
Michael picked up his pen and wrote the plan down. Anna watched him — the set of his jaw, the pen pressing harder than it needed to. He was documenting a decision he disagreed with, and he wasn’t going to say so, and she almost respected him for it.
Almost.
“How long?” Tyler asked.
Anna looked at Michael. “How long before you know if it’s working?”
“Three weeks would give me data. Four would be better.”
“Three weeks.”
Michael capped his pen. “I’ll build a tracking model. If the numbers aren’t moving by week two, we should discuss alternatives.”
“What kind of alternatives?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t know yet.” Michael looked at Anna. “But you’re creative. You’ll think of something.”
She held his gaze. He’d said that before—in the back office, after the scholarship conversation. The first time it had sounded like a challenge. This time it sounded different. Like he meant it.
Margo stood from the stool. Smoothed her blouse. Picked up her bag. She looked at the kitchen one more time—the grill, the prep table, the printed numbers, her grandchildren making plans where she’d kneaded bread for fifty years.
“Monday,” she said. And left.
Michael gathered his papers and slid them into the briefcase. Every motion precise. Laptop, legal pad, pen in the pocket, brass clasps latched.
“You think it’s a mistake,” Anna said.
He paused at the door. “I think the numbers are what they are.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the most accurate one I have.” He shifted the briefcase to his other hand. “Monday. I’ll be here at six.”
“We don’t open until seven.”
“I know.”
He left. Anna stood in the kitchen and looked at the prep table—salt shaker, phone, the ghost of Michael’s printed columns. The grill ticked. The ocean filled the silence.
She picked up her phone. Meg was still on the line.
“I heard everything,” Meg said. “I’ll have the campaign framework by Monday.”
“Thank you.”
“Anna.” A pause. “You’ve got this.”
“I hope so.”
Meg hung up. Anna texted Joey.
Family meeting done. Expanded hours starting Monday. Breakfast at seven, dinner until eight. We need you.
His response came fast.
I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS. But first does the breakfast service require a different napkin fold? Because I have thoughts.
Anna smiled at the phone, turned off the lights, and locked the door.