After Joey scrambled out the front door, Bernie waved Stella over to his booth.
“Sit for a minute.”
She slid in across from him. His tablet was open to some kind of spreadsheet, but he closed it before she could see what he was tracking.
“You know about the scholarship?” Bernie asked. “The one Joey got?”
“The Laguna Promise thing? Yeah, he mentioned it.”
“Did he mention Luke got one too? Years ago?”
Stella shook her head.
“Margo’s husband started it. Richard. Back in the seventies.” Bernie’s voice softened the way it always did when he talked about the old days. “Quiet thing. No fanfare. Just helping local kids who needed a break. Joey, Luke, probably a dozen others over the years.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Bernie studied her with those sharp eyes that saw too much. “Because you’re a Walsh now. Whether you’ve got the paperwork or not. And Walshes should know what this place means to people.”
Stella took a deep breath. She looked around the Shack—the sun-faded booths, the shells clustered on the ceiling, the ancient soda machine that Joey had trained her to bang in just the right spot.
“It’s just a restaurant,” she said, but she didn’t mean it.
“Yeah.” Bernie smiled. “And the ocean’s just water.”
The front door banged open again—Joey returning, slightly out of breath.
“Okay, car’s moved. What did Margo want? Did she say? Is it about the schedule?”
“She wanted you,” Stella said. “Back office.”
Joey smoothed his apron, ran a hand through his hair, and headed toward the back like a man walking tohis execution. Or his graduation. Sometimes with Joey it was hard to tell.
Bea appeared at Stella’s elbow. “What was that about? With Bernie?”
“Walsh history lesson.” Stella watched Joey disappear into the office. “Did you know Luke got a scholarship from here too?”
“The Promise Foundation? Yeah. Mom says that’s part of why he stuck around. Felt like he owed Laguna something.” Bea stole a pickle from the prep station. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just...” Stella gestured vaguely at the Shack, the ceiling, all of it. “A lot.”
“Good lot or bad lot?”
Stella thought about it. About the laminated folders and the napkin angles and Bernie’s quiet history lessons. About Joey’s anxiety that wasn’t really about napkins at all, and the scholarship that connected people to this place in ways she was only starting to understand.
“Good lot,” she decided. “Weird. But good.”
The kitchen timer beeped—first prep of the day. Stella grabbed her apron from the hook and tied it on.
She had a grill startup sequence to memorize.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tyler was attempting to make scrambled eggs when Stella got home from the Shack.
Stella had tried to get him not to improvise.
He had improvised.
