“People laugh.”
“Not like that. That was her Florence laugh.”
“Her what?”
“The laugh she does when she’s talking about Florence. Or about the focaccia recipe. Or about—” Stella stopped. “Things she cares about.”
Bea looked at the counter. Michael was eating gazpacho. His pen had resumed. He looked exactly like he always looked — pressed shirt, precise posture, geometric coffee cup. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should make a person’s mother laugh differently.
“You’re reading into things,” Bea said.
“I’m a photographer. Reading into things is the job.”
“You’re reading into a laugh.”
“And the olive oil ramekin—she set it parallel to his plate. That’s howhearranges things, Bea. She matched his layout without even thinking about it. And the fact that she wanted to work the front tonight instead of the grill.”
Bea set the breadbasket on the counter. Her face had gone still—not angry, not upset. Careful. The way she got when she was processing something she wasn’t ready for.
“It’s probably nothing,” Stella said.
“Probably.”
They refilled the breadbasket and delivered it to table four and picked up the toddler’s focaccia from the floor and didn’t talk about it for twenty minutes. The dinner service continued. Anna moved between tables. Michael ate and read and occasionally wrote something. Joey emerged from the kitchen to adjust a napkin on table two that Bea had apparently folded at an unacceptable angle, then disappeared again.
Bernie, from his booth, caught Stella’s eye as she passed. He glanced at Michael. Glanced at the kitchen where Anna was humming. Looked back at Stella and raised one eyebrow—a millimeter, barely perceptible, but Stella caught it. She nodded once. Bernie made a note on his tablet and went back to his soup.
At eight-thirty the last table left. Joey cleaned the grill and gave his muffin inventory report to no one in particular. Anna counted the register. Michael closed his folder and stood.
“Good numbers?” Anna asked.
“Better than projected for a first Friday.”
“That’s good.”
“That’s very good.” He picked up the folder. “The format works. Friday and Saturday dinners with the current menu are sustainable.”
“Sustainable. High praise from you.”
“It is.” He paused at the door. “Goodnight, Anna.”
“Goodnight, Michael.”
He left. The door closed. Anna stood behind the register, looking at the door for a moment longer than necessary, then turned back to the register tape.
Joey, on his way out, stopped at the counter. “The new muffin went over well. Three people asked if it was dairy-free before ordering. That’s a thirty-seven percent inquiry rate.”
“Good work, Joey.”
“Also, Michael finished everything. Even the focaccia crust. First time.”
“Joey.”
“Just reporting the data.” He adjusted one more napkin and left.
Stella and Bea stacked chairs on the patio. The ocean was dark, the string lights off, the October air cool and salt-smelling. They worked in silence for a while—two people who were thinking about the same thing and waiting to see who said it first.
“She adjusted his olive oil,” Bea said.
