Page 67 of The Beach Shack Summer
“Oh, this is nothing. You should’ve seen the gallery owner from Newport. Brought him lunch every day for three weeks. Lobster rolls. From that fancy place in Corona del Mar.”
“What happened?”
“She eventually gave up. Told him she was moving to Seattle for love. He said ‘That’s nice.’”
Stella laughed, actually laughed, and Tyler looked over suspiciously.
“What’s so funny?”
“Bernie’s weather knee stories,” Stella said quickly.
“I haven’t told any weather knee stories,” Bernie protested.
“Right. That’s what’s funny.”
Tyler shook his head and went back to cleaning the already-clean grill.
Just then, a customer approached the register—a woman in her sixties with sun-weathered hands. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small shell, placing it carefully in a basket by the register.
“From Maui,” she told Margo. “Found it at Wailea Beach.”
“Thank you, dear,” Margo said warmly. “It’s lovely.”
Stella watched the exchange with curiosity. After the woman left, she peered into the basket. Several shells nestled inside—different colors, shapes, sizes.
“What’s that for?” Stella asked.
“Look up,” Meg said from her barstool, where she’d been trying to work on her laptop.
Stella tilted her head back and really looked at the ceiling for the first time. Her mouth fell open. The entire surface was covered in shells—thousands of them creating swirling patterns, waves, flowers, abstract designs that seemed to shift in the light.
“Whoa,” she said. “I mean, I noticed it before, but I didn’t really see it.”
“Customers bring them,” Margo explained, coming around the counter. “From their travels, their beaches, places that matter to them. Been doing it for decades now.”
“And you put them all up there?”
“The special ones. The ones that tell stories.” Margo smiled up at her life’s work. “That spiral near the window? Those are from a woman who brought one shell from each beach where she scattered her husband’s ashes. The wave pattern by the door is made of shells that kids have brought me over the years.”
Stella stared at the ceiling with new appreciation. “That’s actually... really cool.”
“Want to help with prep?” Margo asked, heading back behind the counter. “I could use an extra set of hands for the tomatoes.”
She held out a knife toward Stella, who eyed it warily. “I know how to cut tomatoes.”
“I’m sure you do. But there’s a way that works best for sandwiches. Here—“ Margo demonstrated, her weathered hands steady and sure. “Uniform slices, about this thick. And hold the knife like this, fingers curved, knuckles forward.”
Stella took the knife reluctantly, attempting to mirror the grip. Her first slice came out wedge-shaped.
“Curve your fingers more,” Margo corrected gently. “Like this. It protects them and gives you better control.”
“I am curving them.”
“A bit more. And rock the knife, don’t saw?—”
Stella set the knife down with a sharp click. “I don’t need to know this. I’m not planning to work here.”
Tyler started to speak, but Margo touched his arm. “That’s fine,” she said easily. “The offer stands whenever you’re ready.”
