Then he said, “Nico, call me after the event.”
“I will.”
“Alone.”
“No,” I said.
Nella met my eyes.
Uncle Sal’s voice dropped. “Careful.”
“I’ll call you after the event,” I said. “Nella will know what I’m saying about her business.”
The fan clicked again. Downstairs, Mari yelled, “Parsley isn’t decorative. It goes in the bowl.”
Nella stayed completely still.
Uncle Sal hung up.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then Nella picked up my phone, turned it facedown, and set it on the desk. “That man needs a hobby that isn’t predatory lending.”
“He likes fishing.”
“Of course he does.” She opened the office door. The prep noise came rushing back. “Come on. I’m about to make him hate theme nights.”
By noon, the bar had printed specials taped to the front rail, the takeout window, the patio posts, and one spot near the host stand that Taryn had chosen because confused tourists kept stopping there to read the chalkboard. The air outside had turned thick and bright. Palm shadows cut across the boardwalk. Tourists drifted past in swimsuits, cover-ups, and sandals that made me question the entire industry.
A woman at the first table tapped the menu. “What’s tomato pie?”
Nella aimed the clipboard at Dusty. “This is your moment. Explain it without using the words spiritual, journey, or vibe.”
Dusty stood a little taller. “Tomato pie is like pizza’s square cousin who went to the boardwalk and made better choices.”
Nella stared at him.
Taryn nodded slowly. “That was actually useful.”
“I contain multitudes,” Dusty said.
Mari slid a tray through the pass. “Tell the multitudes to run food.”
The lunch crowd built into the afternoon crowd without giving the staff room to breathe. Nella stayed at the center of it, red halter bright under her apron, ponytail swinging, scarf tail brushing the side of her neck when she turned. She called drink counts to Shay, redirected Taryn toward waiting tourists, answered Mari before the bell finished ringing, and sent me toward every heavy object that dared exist near her bar.
I carried tomato crates.
I moved glass racks.
I held the patio line back from blocking the service path by standing near it with my arms loose and my mouth shut.
A man in a straw hat tried to drift around the host stand. “I’m just going to grab that empty table.”
Taryn’s customer-service smile sharpened. “That table is for the next party on the list.”
“It’s empty.”
“It’s reserved.”
