“Sydney,” he said.
“Three weeks.”
“You’ll be back.”
“I’ll be back.”
He nodded once and went back to his tablet. Bernie’s goodbyes were the same as his hellos — short, certain, and over before you realized they’d happened.
They all came for her last lunch.
Meg and Luke arrived first. Meg carried a container of hollandaise she didn’t need to deliver—it was Thursday, not a brunch day—but she’d brought it anyway because Meg always needed a reason to show up and could never admit the reason was just showing up. Luke carried coffees and the calm he brought to everything.
“Three weeks,” Meg said, hugging Stella at the door. “Call if Fiona drives you crazy.”
“Fiona always drives me crazy. That’s the point.”
“Then call anyway.” Meg squeezed her once more and let go. Luke hugged her too—brief, steady.
Margo came from the grill with a plate. Grilled cheese on sourdough, cut diagonal, the way she’d been cutting them for fifty years.
“Eat,” Margo said. “The airplane food will be terrible.”
“It’s always terrible.”
“Then eat now.” She set the plate down. “Your mother’s lucky to have you for three weeks. We’ll want you back.”
Joey appeared with a small laminated card and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” Stella asked.
“Muffin restock schedule. In case you need it.”
“In Sydney.”
“You never know.”
She pocketed it. She’d keep it forever and Joey would never know.
Anna hugged her in the kitchen — a long one, and she was trying not to cry and mostly succeeding. She smelled like focaccia and olive oil and the Shack.
“Thank you,” Anna said. “For this fall. For all of it.”
“I just took pictures.”
“You did a lot more than that.”
Michael nodded at her from his stool. One nod. That was Michael’s goodbye and it was exactly right.
Bea walked her out to the patio. They stood at the railing—the same railing where people painted sunsets and Meg got married and the stray cat had become Bella.
“I’m going to miss getting ice cream with you,” Stella said.
“Yeah.” Bea leaned on the railing. “We still go, though. Me and Mom and Michael. Sundays.”
“You go for ice cream with Michael.”
“Well, sort of. He’s a straight mango sorbet guy. Every time. No variation.” Bea almost smiled. “Very on brand.”
