“But she needs to learn the systems! How else will she?—”
The door chimed. A woman floated in, all flowing fabrics and purposeful energy, yoga mat under one arm.
“Tyler!” She practically sang his name. “You’re back! I’ve been hoping to catch you!”
Tyler’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Hi, Patricia.”
The woman—Patricia—glided to the counter, andStella watched with fascination as she seemed to invade Tyler’s personal space without actually moving that close. It was like she had her own gravitational field.
“I’ve been dying to discuss the festival photography. My ceramics pieces this year are particularly special, and I need someone who understands light and shadow and—” She stopped mid-sentence, noticing Stella for the first time. “Oh! Who’s this?”
“This is Stella,” Tyler said, and something in his voice made Stella stand a little straighter. “My daughter.”
Patricia’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up. “Your daughter? Tyler Walsh has a daughter?” She leaned across the counter, studying Stella like she was one of her ceramic pieces. “Oh my goodness, she has your eyes! How did I not know about this? How old are you, sweetheart?”
“Sixteen,” Stella said, suddenly feeling like a specimen under a microscope.
“Sixteen! Tyler, you’ve been hiding a sixteen-year-old daughter?” Patricia’s hand landed on Tyler’s arm, squeezing sympathetically. “That must have been so hard, being a single father all these years. Where has she been?”
“Sydney,” Stella said, saving Tyler from answering. “With my mum.”
“Australia! How exotic!” Patricia hadn’t removed her hand from Tyler’s arm. If anything, she’d moved closer. “And now you’re here for the summer? Howwonderful! A father-daughter reunion. It’s like something from a movie.”
Stella watched the interaction with growing interest. Patricia’s body language was fascinating—the way she tilted her head, how her hand lingered on Tyler’s arm, the breathy quality of her voice. It was like watching a nature documentary about mating rituals.
“About the photography,” Tyler said, extracting his arm to grab a spatula. “When’s the festival?”
“I know it seems far off, but I need time to select the perfect pieces, and then we’ll need to schedule sessions to capture them properly. Morning light would be best, don’t you think? My home studio is private. Very private, very peaceful. Just the two of us and the morning light. I could make breakfast...”
She was doing something weird with her hair now, tucking strands behind her ear in a way that seemed unnecessarily complicated. Stella found herself mentally cataloging the gestures. Hair tuck. Arm touch. That laugh that sounded like wind chimes.
“I’ll check my schedule,” Tyler said, focusing very hard on the grill.
“Wonderful! We could discuss it over coffee? Tomorrow morning perhaps? I know you must be busy with...” she gestured vaguely at Stella, “...all of this.”
“I’m good, thanks,” Tyler said flatly.
“But I’m sure you need adult conversation too. Maybe over dinner? I know this intimate little place in Newport...”
Joey, who’d been watching the exchange with barelyconcealed glee, jumped in. “Can I get you some coffee, Patricia? Fresh pot!”
“Oh, that would be lovely. You know how I like it.”
“Regular coffee with extra sugar, coming right up!” Joey said cheerfully.
While Joey poured, Patricia turned her attention back to Stella. “So you’re working here too? Family tradition?”
“I’m learning,” Stella said carefully. “Napkin placement, mostly.”
“How... thorough.” Patricia accepted her coffee from Joey, then immediately gravitated back toward Tyler. “You know, if Stella’s interested in the arts, she should come see my studio. I teach pottery classes for teenagers.”
“That’s kind,” Tyler said. “We’ll think about it.”
“Of course. No pressure.” She sipped her coffee, then made a face. “Joey, dear, this might be a touch too sweet.”
“Sorry! I’ll make a new one!”
“No, no, it’s fine.” She set the cup down and refocused on Tyler. “So about those morning sessions...”
