“Little bit.”
Bernie laughed from his booth, a dry chuckle that made Joey spin around.
“Something funny, Bernie?”
“Just remembering when Margo trained me on the napkin station.” Bernie tapped something on his tablet. “She was exactly this intense. You come by it honestly.”
“Margo trained you?”
“Long ago. I was between jobs, she needed help, I learned the sacred art of the forty-five-degree fold.” Bernie smiled, his weathered face creasing. “Course, she also made Tyler rebuild my newsstand that same summer. After he backed her truck into it.”
“I remember hearing about that.”
“Demolished it. He was young, thought he knew how to drive. Margo made him spend the wholesummer rebuilding it board by board.” Bernie shook his head. “That’s why he drives like a grandmother now. Traumatized.”
Stella filed this away. She’d heard that it happened, but not about the traumatized part. Ammunition for later.
The front door opened, and Bea breezed in, still wearing what Stella recognized as her “communing with dairy” outfit—paint-stained jeans and an oversized flannel that had belonged to Sam Walsh, apparently.
“Morning, everyone. Joey, your car is blocking the delivery zone again.”
“It’s not blocking, it’s adjacent.”
“It’s adjacent in a blocking way.” Bea slid onto a stool at the counter. “What’d I miss?”
“Joey’s teaching me about napkins. Again,” Stella said. “And Bernie told the story about when Tyler destroyed Bernie’s newsstand when he was our age.”
“Oh, the newsstand story!” Bea lit up. “Mom used to tell that one all the time. She said Uncle Tyler cried when Margo made him rebuild it.”
“I did not cry,” Tyler said from the kitchen doorway. He was carrying a crate of avocados, looking mildly horrified. “I had sawdust in my eyes.”
“For three months?” Bernie asked.
“It was a lot of sawdust.”
Tyler set down the avocados and surveyed the scene—Joey’s laminated folders, the obsessively arranged condiments, Stella and Bea grinning at him.
“I see training is going well.”
“Joey’s preparing us for his departure,” Stella said.
Margo appeared from the back office, reading glasses perched on her head, a sheaf of invoices in her hand. She took in the scene with the expression Stella had learned meant she was cataloging everything for later analysis.
“Joey, your car is blocking the delivery zone.”
“It’s adjacent?—”
“Move it.” Margo’s tone was mild but absolute. “And then come see me. I want to talk to you about something before you start school.”
Joey’s face flickered—nervous, hopeful, uncertain. “Good something or bad something?”
“Just something.” Margo disappeared back into the office.
Joey looked at Stella. “What does that mean?”
“No idea. But you should probably move your car first.”
He handed her the folder. “Quiz yourself on the grill startup sequence. Page twelve. I’ll be right back.”
