Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The thing about visits from Rick, Margo decided, was that they were rarely social calls.
“Margo,” he said, settling into the booth across from her moving like he'd rather be anywhere else. “We need to talk.”
“Good morning to you too.” Margo poured coffee from the pot she’d prepared for this exact conversation. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Rick opened his portfolio with the sense of someone who’d rehearsed this moment. “This isn’t a social visit.”
“I figured. You only drive down here for problems.” She softened it with a small smile. “Or birthdays. You did come for my eightieth.”
“That was different.” He pulled out documents—official-looking papers. “You don’t have a will.”
“We’ve discussed this.”
“We’ve discussed it. You’ve refused to do anything about it.” Rick sounded like he'd been worrying about this for months. “Do you understand what can go wrong if something happens to you?”
Margo stirred her coffee, buying time. “I’m fine, Rick.”
“You needed twelve stitches three weeks ago. The knife slipped for the first time in fifty years.” His voice cracked slightly. “Tyler had to drive you to the emergency room because you were bleeding all over the prep station.”
The memory was still sharp—the sudden slice of pain, the shock of seeing her own blood on the cutting board, Tyler’s white face as he helped her to his car. Fifty years of handling knives, and her hand had just... slipped.
“Accidents happen,” she said quietly.
“Not to you. Not like that.” Rick leaned forward. “Mom, if something happens tomorrow—if you have another dizzy spell, if you fall, if anything happens—the Beach Shack goes into probate. Do you know what that means?”
She knew exactly what it meant. Had been avoiding thinking about it for months.
“It means lawyers. Court proceedings. Estate taxes.” Rick’s businessman tone couldn’t quite hide his emotion. “It means this place could be sold to pay legal fees. Fifty years of your life, gone to bureaucracy.”
“Rick—”
“Sam’s been MIA for five years. I live hours away and have no interest in running a restaurant.
Your grandchildren are all busy with their own lives.
” He gestured around the dining room—their dining room, the place Richard had built, the place she’d kept alive.
“Who gets it? Who’s prepared to take this on? ”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Margo looked around the Beach Shack—the worn wooden tables, the shell mosaic ceiling she’d spent decades creating, the window where morning light fell exactly right across the counter.
Fifty years of her life, and she’d never officially decided what would happen to it.
“I don’t know,” she said finally.
“That’s the problem,” Rick said, his voice gentle. “You have to know. You have to make decisions.”
“The Shack isn’t just a restaurant, Rick. It’s funded kids through school, kept people employed, given them a place to start again. It’s a big responsibility.”
Margo thought about Tyler, photographing tides and disappearing when things got complicated.
About Anna, arriving with her artistic visions and her daughter Bea.
About Sam, somewhere in the world, sending the occasional postcard but never coming home.
And Meg—Meg at the threshold of a new beginning in her life.
“What if none of them want it?” she asked quietly.
“Then we’ll figure something else out. But we need to know.
” Rick pulled out a business card. “I’ve talked to an estate attorney.
She can draw up papers, create a trust, make sure your wishes are followed.
But Margo—” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “You have to have wishes first.”
Through the window, Margo could see Bernie approaching with his usual morning purpose. In a few hours, the lunch rush would begin. Anna and Bea would arrive. For the first time in almost twenty years, all three grandchildren would be here together.
“How long do I have?” she asked.
“To make decisions? As long as you want.” Rick’s grip tightened. “To avoid probate if something happens? You don’t have any time. Every day you wait is a risk.”
Margo looked at the papers in Rick’s portfolio, then at the Beach Shack around them. Her life’s work. Richard’s dream. The place that had held their family together through decades of chaos and change.
“They’re all coming home this week,” she said thoughtfully. “Anna arrives soon. Meg’s been here for months. Tyler is here to stay.”
“All the more reason to get this settled,” Rick said. “While everyone’s here to discuss it.”
“Or,” Margo said, an idea forming, “while everyone’s here to figure out who actually wants it.”
Rick frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean maybe I should find out if any of them are ready for this responsibility—or even want it, before I make legal decisions about their futures.”
“Margo—”
“They’re all adults, Rick. They’ve all worked here growing up. But working somewhere and wanting to dedicate your life to it—those are different things.”
The front door chimed and Bernie entered, taking in the scene with the practiced eye of someone who’d witnessed fifty years of family meetings.
“Morning, Margo. Rick.” Bernie settled at his usual booth, keeping his distance. “Official business?”
“Estate planning,” Rick said.
“Ah.” Bernie pulled out his tablet. “Long overdue.”
“Very helpful, Bernie,” Margo said dryly.
“I’m just saying, succession planning is crucial for any family business.” Bernie’s fingers flew over his screen. “Actually, I’ve got some interesting data on family restaurant transitions—“
“Not now, Bernie,” Rick interrupted.
But Margo was already thinking. Rick’s urgency was real—the legal danger was genuine. But the timing... Anna arriving, all three grandchildren together for the first time in years...
“I’ll make the decisions,” she said finally. “But I need to know if they’re ready to live with the consequences.”
“What does that mean?” Rick asked.
“It means,” Margo said, watching Bernie pretend not to listen while obviously cataloging every word, “maybe it’s time to see how they handle things when I’m not fixing everything.”
Rick looked alarmed. “This isn’t the time for games.”
“Not games. Observation.” Margo stood, moving toward the kitchen. “You want me to make legal decisions about their futures? Fine. But first I want to see if they can handle the present.”
“How long?” Rick called after her.
“Give me a few weeks,” she said over her shoulder. “Just a few weeks to see which of them notices when the plates start wobbling.”
As she pushed through the kitchen door, she heard Bernie chuckle and Rick groan. But her mind was already working, already planning.
Anna would arrive with her artistic visions and her sixteen-year-old daughter. All three grandchildren would be here, together, probably for the last time before everything changed forever.
Time to find out which of them was ready for the responsibility of carrying on what she and Richard had built.
The legal papers could wait. But not for long.
“So,” Bernie said after Rick had left with promises to call the estate attorney and schedule meetings a few weeks out, “testing them, are we?”
“I prefer ‘observing,’” Margo said, settling across from him with fresh coffee.
“And what exactly are we observing for?”
“Whether they can handle responsibility when things get difficult. Whether they show up when it matters. Whether they actually want this place or just feel obligated to it.”
Bernie made notes on his tablet. “I’ll need to adjust the betting pool.”
“You have a betting pool on my estate planning?”
“I have a betting pool on everything. Very scientific. Data-driven analysis of family patterns.” He looked up from his screen.
“Three-to-one Meg tries to organize a family meeting within forty-eight hours. Two-to-one Anna starts ‘improving’ something before she’s been here a full week.
Five-to-one Tyler finds urgent photography work the moment things get complicated. ”
“And what are the odds,” Margo asked quietly, “that any of them actually want to spend their lives here?”
Bernie studied her face carefully. “That’s not a betting pool question, Margo. That’s the million-dollar question.”
“Fifty years,” she said softly. “Richard and I built this place from nothing. I’ve kept it going since he died. And I have no idea if any of them love it enough to make the sacrifices it requires.”
“Maybe that’s what you’re really testing,” Bernie said gently. “Not whether they can handle the work. Whether they love it enough to choose it.”
“Maybe.” Margo looked around the dining room that had been her life for five decades. “Rick’s right, though. I can’t wait much longer. If something happens to me before I make decisions...”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“You don’t know that. The knife slipping—that wasn’t like me, Bernie. Fifty years of cooking, and my hand just... gave out.”
“You were tired. You’ve been working too hard since Tyler left for a while.”
“Or I’m getting old.” She smiled ruefully. “Eighty years old, to be precise. Rick’s not wrong about the urgency.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“A few weeks. I let them handle things—all of them, together—without stepping in to fix everything. See who shows up, who disappears, who actually pays attention to what this place needs.”
“And if none of them pass the test?”
Margo was quiet for a long moment. “Then I’ll know I need to make different plans.”
Outside, the morning was warming toward another perfect Laguna Beach day.
Anna was on her way with her artistic chaos and her daughter Bea.
Their world would fill with creative energy and family noise and all the complicated love that came with three generations trying to figure out how to be together.
Bernie raised his coffee mug in a mock toast. “To the most interesting few weeks in Beach Shack history.”
“Indeed,” Margo said quietly, not certain at all if the outcome would be what she hoped for. But she clinked her mug against his anyway.
Time to find out which of her grandchildren was ready to inherit not just a business, but a legacy.