Luke took a bite of his sandwich. “Sounds like Rick’s type.”
“He is exactly Rick’s type.”
Luke’s phone buzzed. He checked it, typed something with one thumb, set it down. “Meg wants to know if he’s looked at the scholarship accounts.”
“Tell Meg I have it handled.”
“I’m going to tell Meg you said that and she’s going to text me four more questions.” Luke took another bite. “This is my life now. I’m a grilled cheese spy.”
Mrs. Patterson looked up from her crossword. “Seven letters. Financial examiner.”
“Auditor,” Bernie said from his booth without looking up.
“Thank you, Bernard.” Mrs. Patterson wrote it in and went back to her puzzle.
Stella pulled out her camera. She couldn’t help it—the light was awesome with the afternoon angle, turning Luke’s sandwich into something that belonged in a food magazine. She framed a shot of Luke mid-bite, phone buzzing on the counter beside him. Click.
“Don’t send that to Meg,” Luke said.
“I’m not sending it to anyone. It’s for the series.”
“The series of me eating a sandwich?”
“The series of the Shack. You’re in the Shack. You count.”
Bernie had been watching all of this from his corner booth, tablet forgotten. He caught Stella’s eye and raised one eyebrow—the eyebrow that meant he was cataloguing something for later use. She aimed the camera at him. He went back to his tablet with studied nonchalance. Click.
The typing down the hall stopped.
Everyone heard it. Anna’s hand paused on the rag. Tyler looked up from the grill. Bernie’s eyes went to the hallway. Even Mrs. Patterson glanced over her crossword.
Footsteps. And then a man appeared at the end of the counter.
Stella’s first thought was that he’d gotten lost on his way to a bank. Everything about him was straight lines—collar, shoulders, the way he held the legal pad. Two pens. One in the pocket, one behind the ear.
He looked at the counter. At Anna. At the dining room full of people looking back at him.
“I have a few questions about the vendor contracts,” he said to Anna. “When you have a moment.”
“After close. Give me twenty minutes.”
He nodded once—one single nod, like a period at the end of a sentence—and went back down the hall. The typing resumed.
Luke looked at Anna. “That’s the auditor?”
“That’s the auditor.”
“He has two pens.”
“I know.”
“Meg’s going to have a lot of questions.”
“Meg always has a lot of questions.”
Luke finished his sandwich, texted Meg something that took a full minute to type, and stood. “Tell Anna she’s doing great,” he said, reading aloud as he typed. “Tell her I’ll call tonight. Tell her not to let the auditor change anything without running it by me first.”
“Tell Meg,” Anna said, “that I love her and she needs to focus on her own work.”
