“At Margo’s grill, even.”
Tyler looked at Stella. Stella raised her camera and then lowered it.
“Interesting,” Tyler said, and went to find Lindsey a chair.
Anna and Michael arrived with a salad and a bottle of olive oil Anna had brought from a place she’d found in San Clemente that she’d been talking about for two weeks. Bea came with them, carrying a canvas bag with bread and what looked like a sketchbook she probably wasn’t going to open.
Anna stopped three steps into the garden. She was looking at the grill. At Bernie. At the dish towel on his shoulder that matched the one hanging from Margo’s oven handle inside.
“Huh,” Anna said.
Michael put his hand on her back and guided her toward the table without comment.
Meg and Luke came through the gate with Luke carrying a casserole dish and Meg carrying her phone, which she put in her pocket when she saw the table.
“She used the good plates,” Meg said to no one in particular.
“The blue-rim ones,” Luke said, setting the casserole down.
“She hasn’t used those since Tyler’s birthday.”
“Maybe it’s a special occasion.”
“What occasion?”
Luke looked at the grill where Bernie was turning chicken with Margo’s tongs. He looked back at Meg.
“Oh,” Meg said.
Joey arrived last, on foot, carrying a bag that clinked.
“I brought sparkling water and a lemon tart from the place on Forest that I personally find acceptable,” he announced, setting the bag on the table. He surveyed the place settings, counting under his breath. “Eleven. That’s correct. Although the spacing on the east side is tighter than the west side by approximately?—”
“Joey, sit down,” Margo said, coming through the back door with a platter.
“I’m just observing that?—”
“Sit.”
Joey sat. Then he stood back up. “Is that Bernie at the grill?”
“Bernie is helping with the chicken.”
“Bernie is grilling.”
“Bernard is operating a grill, yes.”
“At your house.”
“At my grill. In my garden. With my tongs.” Margo set the platter down. “Is there a question?”
Joey looked at the grill. Looked at Margo. Looked at the place settings—specifically at the two at the head of the table, set closer together than the others, with matching napkins.
“No question,” Joey said, and sat down.
Bernie brought the chicken to the table. Margo had made the rest—roasted potatoes, the salad Anna had brought dressed with the San Clemente olive oil, bread from the bakery on Forest, Luke’s casserole set steaming next to the bread, and a bowl of something with peppers that smelled like it had been cooking all afternoon.
The chicken was his mother’s recipe. Lemon, thyme, garlic under the skin. Stella recognized it from the smell—she’d heard about it from Tyler, who’d heard about it from Anna, who’d heard about it from Margo, who’d made it for Bernie and who was now making it for everyone.
