Bernie laughed. “You can call me Bernie again, Joey.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m comfortable with this for now.” He turned to Margo and said, “The salt on table four is low. I topped off the others, but table four has a consumption pattern I’d like to discuss on Monday. The pepper is also low, but that’s a societal problem. People under-pepper.” He pushed through the kitchen door, and he was gone.
The Shack was down to the two of them. Margo finished the till, tied the cash in the bank bag, put it in the safe, and hung her apron on the hook—MARGO in her own handwriting, masking tape she’d replaced exactly once in all the time they’d been open. She grabbed her coat from behind the office door and shrugged it on.
Bernie was on his feet when she came out, coat already buttoned, tablet tucked under his arm. Lately, he’d been keeping his weight on the right side but trying to be nonchalant about it,as if she hadn’t been watching him stand up from that booth for decades.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, easing out from behind the table.
“It’s three blocks.” She pulled her keys from her purse. “I’ve been walking myself home for decades.”
“That’s a long time to walk alone.” He picked up his coffee cup—empty, nothing but habit—and set it back down on the table in the exact spot she’d pick it up from when she bussed the booth in the morning.
She’d never noticed that before. She stood there with his empty cup in her hand, not moving, while the Shack ticked and settled around her.
“You’re limping,” she said.
“I’ve been limping since the Carter administration.” He came around the booth, and she could see the hitch—the slight catch as his left leg took weight. “I’ve been sitting too long. The walk will do me good.”
She locked up while he waited on the boardwalk. The deadbolt made its heavy click—the Shack done for the day.
The February night was cold. The street lamps along the boardwalk had that winter-yellow quality, slightly dimmer than summer. Nobody was out. The surf shops were dark. A car passed on PCH and kept going.
They walked slowly. Not her pace—his. She matched it without thinking about it.
“Good night tonight,” he said, after they’d passed the last shop.
“I know. I was the one at the grill.” She pulled her coat tighter against the wind off the water.
Bernie shifted the tablet to his other arm. “You haven’t lost a thing, Margo.”
“I’ve lost plenty, Bernard. Just not that.” She glanced at him sideways. “You had the soup tonight instead of the salsa.”
He adjusted his step on a crack in the boardwalk. “I’m trying new things.”
“You’ve ordered the same Friday dinner since we opened for dinner.”
“Then it was time for a change.” He glanced back at her. “The soup was better, by the way.”
“The soup has always been better. You’ve just been too consistent to try it.”
“I appreciate that you said consistent instead of stubborn.”
“I was being generous.”
They reached the end of the sidewalk and turned inland. The street was darker here—fewer lamps, the houses set back behind hedges that needed trimming. The incline made his hitch worse. His left foot landed flatter than his right, and she could hear the difference—one step sure, the next one careful.
She slowed down without mentioning it.
“Eleanor called today,” she said, because if she didn’t fill the air she was going to say something about his leg and they’d have the same argument they’d been having since November.
“What did Eleanor want?”
“Vivian’s physical therapist called her by her first name. In front of the receptionist.”
Bernie laughed and shook his head. “The horror.”
“She’s considering switching practices. This would be her fourth in eighteen months.”
