Page 120 of The Beach Shack Summer
“We’ll need all hands,” Joey said.
“I can come in early,” Stella offered immediately. “Help with setup.”
“Me too,” Meg added.
“We’ll manage,” Margo said, but she looked pleased. “We always do. And remember, we close at three sharp. No exceptions, no matter how many competitors beg for late orders.We can’t do extra wave calls on competition weekends.”
The rest of the shift passed in comfortable rhythm. Meg caught Stella looking up at the shell ceiling twice more, that unconscious pocket-touch that suggested secrets. But mostly, she watched her niece own her space in the Shack, handling everything from difficult customers to Andrew’s friends’ lingering looks with easy confidence.
“She’s really good at this,” Tyler said quietly, joining Meg during a brief break.
“Natural Beach Shack material,” Meg agreed.
“Think she knows that?”
Meg thought about the pocket touches, the glances at the ceiling, the way Stella had accepted that sea glass like it was precious.
“She’s getting there.”
By closing time, everyone was tired but satisfied. Another good day in the books, everything running smoothly, family rhythms established.
“Same time tomorrow?” Stella asked, already knowing the answer.
“Bright and early,” Margo confirmed. “Surfing crowd waits for no one.”
As they cleaned up, Meg noticed Stella pause by the shell basket, running her fingers along the rim. Such a small gesture, but weighted with possibility.
Tomorrow would be chaos. Surfers and competitions and everyone wanting food at once.
But tonight, everything was exactly as it should be. Stella confident in her space, Tyler surviving the surfer boys and Bernie running pools on absolutely everything.
“Ten to one says tomorrow goes off without a hitch,” Bernie announced, heading for the door.
“No one’s taking that bet,” Margo called after him.
She was right. In a family like theirs, smooth sailing never lasted long.
But for now, in this moment, everything was perfect.
Even if Stella still wouldn’t touch a knife.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Saturday morning hit like a rogue wave. The surfing competition had drawn crowds from three counties, and by ten-thirty, the Beach Shack line snaked past Bernie’s newsstand.
“Order up!” Tyler called, sliding plates across the pass. “Two specials, extra crispy!”
Stella grabbed them, weaving between packed tables with practiced ease. Three weeks on the job and she’d found her rhythm—register, tables, napkins folded into perfect triangles. Everything except the knives and grill.
“We’re running low on tomatoes,” Joey announced, eyeing the prep station nervously. “Like, dangerously low.”
“Meg’s in San Clemente,” Tyler reminded him, flipping four sandwiches simultaneously. “Big presentation for her other job. Luke’s with her.”
“And Lisa had that family thing,” Stella added. “She texted sorry like twelve times.”
“I know, I know.” Joey grabbed another stack of orders from Dante, who looked overwhelmed at the register. “Just saying, we’re gonna need more soon.”
Margo appeared from the back, already assessing the situation. “I’ll prep more. We can’t run out on competition Saturday.”
