Stella crossed her arms, watching as Margo returned to her prep work with practiced efficiency. After a moment, she drifted back toward the front counter where Joey was organizing napkins.
“I’m good with napkins,” Stella muttered, but her eyes lingered on Margo’s smooth, confident movements with the knife.
Margo nodded, no judgment in her expression. “Napkins it is.”
The door chimed and Luke walked in, still damp from what looked like an afternoon swim.
“Hey, everyone. Saw Patricia rushing out. She okay?”
“The kids blinded her with science,” Bernie said happily.
“We were documenting behavioral patterns,” Stella said with dignity.
“Of course you were.” Luke grabbed a water from the cooler. “Speaking of patterns, when are we doing those surf lessons, Tyler?”
“Soon,” Tyler said. “This weekend maybe?”
“I’m in,” Luke said. “Meg, you coming? Been a while since I’ve seen you on a board.”
“Not since you taught me,” Meg said. “And I was terrible.”
“You were terrified,” Luke corrected. “There’s a difference. Jaws really did a number on you.”
“Jaws did a number on everyone,” Tyler said.
“You conquered it though,” Luke told Meg. “Remember? By the end of summer you were catching waves at Salt Creek.”
“Baby waves,” Meg protested.
“Still waves.” He turned to Stella. “Your aunt was my most determined student. Afraid of sharks but refused to quit.”
“Sounds familiar,” Tyler said, looking at Stella. “Stubborn must be genetic.”
“Speaking of which,” Luke said, “I should head out. But seriously, this weekend for surfing? Saturday morning?”
“Saturday,” Tyler agreed. “Early.”
“I’ll be there,” Luke said. “Meg, you sure you don’t want to try again?”
“My shark phobia and I will think about it,” Meg said.
“Fair enough.” He headed for the door. “See you all later.”
After he left, Stella looked at the shell basket again, then up at the ceiling. “So people just... bring them? From everywhere?”
“From everywhere,” Margo confirmed. “Each one is a little piece of someone’s story.”
“Huh.” Stella went back to her napkin folding, but Meg noticed her glance at the basket several more times.
“I should get back too,” Meg said, closing her laptop. “Those presentations won’t format themselves.”
“Stay for coffee,” Tyler said. “Real coffee, not whatever Patricia thinks coffee is.”
“Can’t. I need to finish before—“ Her phone rang. She looked at the screen and sighed. “My client. I should?—”
“Bathroom’s free,” Tyler said. “Best acoustics, remember?”
“I hate my life.” But Meg was already heading for the back.
