Page 10 of The Beach Shack Legacy

“I invited you. I’m paying.”

“Bernard, I have been financially independent longer than you’ve had that car.”

“And I’ve been trying to buy you breakfast since Ford was president. Let me have this.”

Margo pressed her lips together. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m driving home.”

“You’re not driving my car.”

“Then I’m choosing where we go next time.”

“There’s a next time?” Bernie asked to the last of his coffee.

“Don’t push your luck, Bernard.”

She let him pay. They walked out into the morning sun, Margo’s purse over her arm, the Pacific stretched out blue and endless across the highway.

He opened the car door for her again. She got in without commenting on it this time.

They drove back toward the beach in silence, the windows cracked, the air carrying salt and jasmine. Margo looked at the ocean. Almond croissants and apricot glaze and a kitchen that used to smell like more than grilled cheese.

She couldn’t quite get the picture back. Just the edges of it. Just the feeling.

A lifetime ago.

CHAPTER FOUR

Stella stood on a chair.

Not helping. Not closing. Standing on one of the dining chairs with her camera pointed straight up at the ceiling, clicking away at the shells like she’d discovered them that morning.

Anna was elbow-deep in closing—grill scraped, surfaces wiped, the last of the pesto containers sealed and stacked in the walk-in. She’d been at the Shack since seven and her feet knew it. The afternoon light came in hard, the way it did in June once the gloom burned off, and the dining room had that scoured look it got when the last plate went back.

She wiped down the counter and got about forty-five seconds into not saying anything about the chair, which for her was a distance record.

“Stella, we close in twenty minutes.”

“I know. Mum asked me to send her a picture of the ceiling—she says she thinks about it sometimes.” Click. “The abalone near the window, the light catches it differently depending on the time of day. Right now it’s almost purple.”

“Right now the tables need wiping and the register needs counting.”

“One more shot.” Click. Click. “There have to be hundreds.”

“There are hundreds. They’ve been there my entire life. The tables, Stella.”

Stella climbed down, but her chin stayed up, tracking across the plaster, her fingers still on the camera like she might need it again any second. She wasn’t done up there. She was just temporarily on the ground.

Tyler came out of the kitchen with a bus tub balanced on his hip and took the last two tables. Bernie was in his booth with the crossword folded over to whatever he hadn’t finished. Margo was there much later than she usually was, still drinking her coffee.

The front door opened and Meg came through it with two covered trays balanced on one arm.

“Tomorrow’s bread,” she said. “Don’t let Joey label it. He labels over my labels.”

Anna looked up from the register. “You were here Monday?”

“I was.”

“And Saturday?”