“The ceiling,” Fiona said, looking up. “What are all those? That’s…interesting.”
“Shells. Customers bring them from all over the world. Margo started the tradition decades ago.” Stella pointed to a cluster near the window. “That one’s from Fiji. That one’s from Norway. The pink one is from somewhere in Japan.”
“People just... bring shells?”
“If they feel like they belong here. It’s a thing.”
Fiona was quiet, still looking up. The shells gleamed, catching the light.
“There’s one from me,” Stella added, pointing to the shell she added. “Margo let me add it.”
Fiona’s eyes found it—a small white shell with a crack down the middle.
“You put a shell up there,” Fiona said softly.
“Yeah.”
Bernie cleared his throat from his booth. “You must be the mother.”
Fiona turned, seeming to notice him for the first time. “I am. And you are?”
“Bernie. Fixture. Local historian. Weather prophet.” He tapped his knee. “This joint predicts storms better than any app.”
“A weather knee.”
“Laugh if you want. It’s never wrong.”
Fiona didn’t laugh. She studied Bernie the way she’d studied the restaurant—cataloging, assessing. “You’ve been coming here a long time?”
“Fifty years, give or take. Watched this place through four generations.” Bernie smiled, his weathered face creasing. “Your daughter’s a good one. Works hard. Doesn’t complain. Even learned the napkin system without rolling her eyes.”
“I rolled my eyes a little,” Stella admitted.
“She rolled her eyes a lot,” came Joey’s voice from the kitchen doorway. He emerged with a tray ofsaltshakers, ready for refilling. “But she got it eventually. Forty-five degrees. No exceptions.”
“Joey, this is my mum. Mum, this is Joey. He’s... the systems guy.”
“I prefer ‘excellence coordinator.’” Joey set down the tray and wiped his hand on his apron before offering it to Fiona. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.... uh...”
“Fiona’s fine.”
“Nice to meet you, Fiona’s Fine.” Joey grinned. “Sorry. Nervous humor. I do that.”
“He does that,” Stella confirmed.
Fiona shook his hand, taking everything in. “You work here too?”
“Since I was sixteen. I’m leaving for school soon—marine technology, engines and electrical and stuff—but I’ll still do shifts. It’s only twenty minutes away.” Joey’s voice got a little tight on that last part. “Twenty-three, depending on traffic.”
“He’s very precise about the distance,” Stella said.
“Precision matters. That’s what the napkin system teaches you.”
Fiona looked between them—Joey earnest and nervous, Stella trying not to smile, Bernie watching from his booth with amusement. Something shifted in her expression. Not softening, exactly. More like... recalculating.
“Show me around?” she said to Stella.
“Yeah. Okay.”
