“She served us canned soup and cornbread without an egg and then gave us ice cream for dessert.”
Bea pulled her knees up on the chair. “Stella, come on.”
“I’m just saying.”
“She’s amazing.”
Stella picked up her water glass. “She’s something.” She took a sip and left it there.
In bed at eleven-thirty, in the room with the two twin beds Sam had made up with what felt like real linen sheets—which,Stella noticed, were nicer than anything else in the house. Nicer than the towels, which were mismatched. Nicer than the dishes, which were rental-generic. As if Sam had bought the sheets specifically for this visit and hadn’t bothered to make the rest of the place match. Hosting in a burst.
The room was quiet in a way Laguna never was. No ocean. No surf breaking and pulling back. Just the wind chimes on the porch and the silence underneath them.
Stella took out her phone.
got here safe. she made dinner. and by made I mean Campbell’s and a box of jiffy.
The reply came back in under a minute. Tyler was awake.
please tell me she at least added water.
milk. she’s not an animal.
how’s Bea?
in love already. jury’s out for me.
text me tomorrow.
She scrolled to Margo’s number. Thought about it for a second. Then she sent the photo she’d taken at the turnout—the formations in the late light, the one that looked like the canyon was on fire. No message. Just the picture.
Margo’s reply came back two minutes later. Two words.
Beautiful, Stella.
She set the phone face down and stood at the window.
Cathedral Rock was there in the dark with the moon on it. It would be there tomorrow. Sam would be there tomorrow too,with her linen shirt and her turquoise pendant and her questions that went to Bea first and Stella second and Tyler not at all.
Stella stood for a minute. Then she got back in bed and closed her eyes and waited for the sleep that took longer than she’d expected to come.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Margo had been at the Shack that morning and the booth had been empty—she noticed it every morning now, and every morning she didn’t comment on it.
It was now three-fifteen when she got to Bernie’s. The week of being there at three-fifteen had become a routine she didn’t examine.
She let herself in.
He was in his chair with a book in his lap he was not reading. He’d gotten better at pretending he hadn’t been dozing—the book was open to a different page than yesterday, at least.
“You’re supposed to be walking,” she said.
He glanced at his walker. “I walked to the kitchen this morning. Twice.”
“The kitchen is ten feet.”
“Twenty, if you count the return trip.” He shifted the book to the side table. “What’s in the bag?”
