She should probably think about what all of this meant.
She decided not to. Not yet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The first Friday dinner under the new model was quieter than expected, which meant Stella had time to notice things.
Seven tables occupied. Not bad for October, not great. The sunset crowd had come—couples, a family with a toddler who kept throwing focaccia on the floor, two women with wine they’d brought themselves because the Shack still couldn’t sell it. Bernie was in his booth with his tablet and a cup of soup, positioned as always: back to the wall, eyes on the room.
Stella and Bea were working the floor. Bea had the tables by the window. Stella had the counter and the two-tops near the door. Joey was in the kitchen handling the grill while Anna ran the front—a reversal of their usual positions, but Anna had wanted to be out here tonight. She’d said it was because the first Friday dinner needed a personal touch. Stella had her own theory about why Anna wanted to be at the front counter instead of behind the grill.
Michael Torres walked in at six-fifteen.
He’d come straight from somewhere—his shirt was still pressed but his sleeves were already rolled, which Stella had learned meant he’d been working and forgotten to unroll them.He carried a folder under one arm. Not the laptop. Not the full audit setup. Just a folder, thin enough to be an excuse.
“Evening,” Anna said from behind the register.
“I wanted to see how the first Friday goes.”
“You wanted to see how the numbers go.”
“The numbers are part of it.”
Anna reached under the counter for a plate—focaccia and gazpacho, his usual—but she’d added a ramekin of olive oil, set parallel to the dish the way Michael arranged things.
Anna did it without thinking about it. Her hand stayed on the counter a beat longer than it needed to. Stella, refilling napkin dispensers two seats away, clocked it.
Anna smiled. Not her regular smile—the one she used for customers and family and general Walsh interactions. A different one. Wider. Like something had loosened in her.
Stella picked up her camera from the counter and pretended to check the settings.
Michael looked at the plate. Looked at Anna. Something moved across his face—not a smile, but close. He picked up his spoon.
Stella watched her aunt walk back to the kitchen. The way she moved—lighter than she’d been in weeks, quicker, her humming pitched higher than usual.
Bea appeared at Stella’s elbow with an empty breadbasket.
“Table four needs more focaccia,” Bea said. “And the toddler threw his on the floor again.”
“On it.” Stella reached for the bread. “Hey.”
“What?”
Stella tilted her head toward the counter where Michael was eating his gazpacho and reading his folder and not looking up. And then toward the kitchen, where Anna was plating something and humming and also not looking up.
“What?” Bea said again.
“Watch your mom for a minute.”
Bea frowned but she watched. Anna came out of the kitchen with an order for table six—grilled cheese, tomato soup, the usual. She delivered it, checked on the wine women, and swung past the counter on her way back. She didn’t stop. But her hand trailed along the counter edge as she passed Michael’s spot, and she said something Stella couldn’t hear, and Michael’s pen stopped moving, and Anna kept walking with that smile still on her face.
Bea’s breadbasket lowered an inch.
“Did you see that?” Stella said.
“See what? She walked past.”
“She laughed.”
