Stella set a chair on a table. “Yeah.”
“She doesn’t do that for anyone. She barely adjusts herownplates.”
“I know.”
Bea stacked another chair. Her movements were deliberate, careful. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It might not.”
“She’s been through a lot. The move, the teaching, the Shack. She’s just—comfortable with him. Because he’s been around.” Bea set the last chair up and stood with her hands on the back of it, looking at the dark ocean. “She’s not—it’s not?—”
“I’m not saying it is.”
“Good.”
“But if it were. Would that be bad?”
Bea was quiet for a long time. The ocean moved. The boardwalk was empty. Inside, Anna was turning off lights, moving through the closing routine the way she’d done it a thousand times.
“I don’t know,” Bea said. “She’s never—there’s never been anyone. It’s always been us. Me and Mom. And now there’s this person who shows up every day with a folder and eats gazpacho and doesn’t smile and somehow makes her—” She gestured at the Shack. “That.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Bea.”
“I know it’s not a bad thing.” Her voice was tight. “I know that. I just need a minute to know it, okay?”
“Okay.”
They finished closing the patio. Inside, Anna had her jacket on and her bag over her shoulder and the register closed and the lights off except the one above the counter that stayed on all night.
“Ready?” Anna called.
“Ready,” Bea said.
They walked home together—Anna and Bea one direction, Stella peeling off toward Tyler’s bungalow at the corner. The October night was cool and the stars were showing and somewhere behind them the Shack sat dark and closed, holding the day’s warmth in its walls.
Stella texted Bea from the corner.
You okay?
Bea’s response came a full minute later.
I’m processing.
Take your time.
Another minute.
She adjusted his olive oil, Stella.
I know.
That’s a LOT.
Stella smiled at her phone and walked home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He didn’t think about his shirt.
