Page 9 of The Beach Shack Legacy

“I’m conversational. Not the same thing.”

Their food arrived. The croissant was beautiful—golden layers that took years to learn and a four a.m. start to complete. Margo tore off one end and the layers separated like. Butter and air and something almost sweet underneath.

It was very good. She ate it slowly, paying attention.

“Well?” Bernie asked over his quiche.

“It’s well made. Proper lamination. Good butter.” She brushed a flake from her lip. “Very good.”

“But?”

“No but. It’s very good.”

“That’s what you said about Joey’s grilled cheese. Right before you said the whole restaurant was falling apart.”

“This is different.” Margo took another bite. “This is someone else’s restaurant. I’m allowed to just enjoy it.”

She was nearly finished when a woman stopped at their table—mid-seventies, silver hair pulled back, reading glasses on a chain—already smiling when Margo looked up.

“Margo Turner. I haven’t seen you in years.”

The face was familiar and the name took a moment. Names arrived late these days. “Dorothy. Dorothy Kessler. You used to come in on Saturdays.”

“Every Saturday for six years. Until we moved to Dana Point.” Dorothy shifted her paper bag to the other arm. “How’s the Shack?”

“Still standing. My grandchildren run it now.”

“Good for you. You’ve earned a rest.” Dorothy looked around the bakery, then back at Margo. “You know, I’ve been coming here for years, and the almond croissants are lovely, but they’ve never been as good as the ones you used to make. You’d do them on Saturdays, remember? With the sliced almonds on top and that apricot glaze. My husband used to drive twenty minutes for those.”

Margo’s hands went still on her coffee cup.

“That was a long time ago,” she said.

“It was. But some things you don’t forget.” Dorothy smiled and patted her bag. “Lovely to see you, Margo. Give my best to the family.”

She left. The door chimed behind her. The bakery went on—the girl with flour in her hair boxing up an order, a couple at the next table sharing a tart, the kitchen sounds drifting out every time someone pushed through the back door.

“Almond croissants,” Bernie said after a moment.

“Apparently.”

“I remember those. Best I’ve ever had.”

“It was a lifetime ago, Bernard.” She finished her coffee and set the cup in its saucer, centering it precisely. “Richard and I had ideas about expanding the menu. Baked goods, pastries, things beyond the grill. But then—” She stopped. Straightened the napkin beside her plate. “Well. Then things changed. And you know all of this.”

Bernie was quiet. He didn’t push. He’d been there. He knew exactly when things changed and what changed them and what went into a trunk in the garage afterward.

“Grilled cheese and a pickle,” Margo said. “That’s what I could manage. After.” She looked out the window at the Pacific, blue and flat in the morning light. “I barely remember making croissants at all. Isn’t that strange? Dorothy Kessler drove twenty minutes and I can barely picture it. I guess I was busy.”

“You were surviving,” Bernie said. “There’s a difference.”

Bernie put his hand over hers on the table. He didn’t say anything about it and neither did she. He had been right there when she put all of it away, and he had never once told her she should have kept going.

“Should we get the check?” she asked.

“I’m paying.”

“You are not paying.” She reached for her purse.