“Say no more.” Lisa tied on an apron and dove in.
An hour passed in controlled chaos. Stella’s hands moved with increasing confidence, Joey found his grill groove, and between Bernie and Lisa, food actually made it to tables. Even Dante had stopped looking terrified at the register.
“Is that Tyler’s truck?” someone called out.
Stella’s heart stuttered. Through the service window, she saw them pulling up.
“How bad?” was all she asked when Tyler came through the back door.
“Eight stitches. Clean cut, missed the tendons.” He was already surveying the scene—Joey at the grill, Stella with a knife, Dante folding napkins like he was personally offending the paper industry. “You did this?”
“We all did,” Stella said, but she couldn’t hide her pride.
Margo followed, left hand wrapped in pristine white bandages from fingertips to wrist. She took in the organized chaos, the full restaurant still running.
“Well,” she said. “This is something.”
“Margo, I’m so sorry,” Joey started again.
“Hush.” She pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Fifty-two years was a good run. Besides, look what you all accomplished.”
She moved to the prep station, examining Stella’shandiwork with her good hand. The tomato slices weren’t perfect—some thick, some thin, but all usable.
“You’ve been practicing,” Margo said quietly.
Stella flushed. “Maybe a little.”
“More than a little, I think.” Margo’s eyes crinkled. “How long?”
“Two weeks. In my room. Tyler’s carrots never stood a chance.”
“You knew?” Tyler asked Margo.
“Mothers always know. And grandmothers know even more.”
The door chimed again. Meg and Luke rushed in, still in their San Clemente clothes, faces tight with worry.
“We got your message,” Meg said breathlessly. “How bad—” She stopped, taking in the scene. Stella at prep, Joey on grill, Bernie delivering plates with theatrical flair. “Wait. What?”
“Your niece saved the day,” Bernie announced, setting down an empty tray. “Kid’s a natural. Took charge like a proper Walsh.”
“You’re doing prep?” Meg stared at Stella. “With knives?”
“Surprise?” Stella offered.
Luke was grinning. “Look at you, running the whole place.”
“Not running,” Stella said. “Just... helping it not fall apart.”
“Same thing in this family,” Tyler said.
The lunch rush was finally winding down. Theykept the kitchen open until three, their usual closing time, but the pace became manageable. Stella found herself moving between prep and expediting naturally, like she’d been doing it for years instead of hours.
“Bernie,” someone called out. “What’re the odds on Stella becoming official prep cook?”
“Not taking that action,” Bernie replied. “Kid’s already proved herself. No odds needed.”
By closing time, they’d made it. The Beach Shack had survived its busiest day with a skeleton crew of teenagers, Bernie’s charm offensive, and sheer determination.
