Page 122 of The Beach Shack Summer
Stella’s mind went blank for a moment. Then something kicked in—all those weeks of watching, learning, absorbing the rhythm of this place.
“Okay,” she said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Dante, clean that blood properly—spray everything, let it sit, then wipe. Joey, you’re on grill. I know you’ve been practicing Tyler’s technique when you think no one’s watching.”
“How did you?—”
“Not important. I’ll take register until the prep area’s clean, then I’ll switch to prep and Dante can have register back.” She was already moving, taking orderswith one eye on Joey. “You know how to make the sandwiches. You’ve got this.”
“But what about?—”
“Breathe,” she told him. “One sandwich at a time.”
By some miracle, Joey’s first attempt came out perfect. Golden brown, cheese melted just right.
“I did it!” He stared at the sandwich in amazement.
“Great! Do it again. Like, a thousand more times.” Stella turned to the next customer. “What can I get you?”
Dante finished sanitizing the prep station—properly, Tyler would be proud—and took over register. Which meant...
“You don’t do knives,” Joey said, watching her approach the prep station.
Stella looked at the cleaned cutting board, the waiting tomatoes. Somewhere in this restaurant were shells she’d picked up that first day, waiting until she was ready. She’d thought she’d have time to choose her moment.
“I do now.”
She picked up a clean knife. The weight was familiar—all those secret sessions in her room, preparing for a someday that had suddenly become today. Not the way she’d imagined it. Not on her terms. But then, when did anything with family happen on anyone’s terms?
The first tomato slice came out shaky but acceptable. The second, better. By the third, her hands remembered what they’d practiced.
“Order up!” Joey called, sliding a perfect grilled cheese across the pass.
“Beautiful!” Stella added tomato with increasing confidence. “Dante—table six!”
“The napkins!” Joey moaned as Dante grabbed a handful of his mangled creations.
“Let it go,” Stella said firmly. “The customers won’t die from ugly napkins.”
“My soul might,” Joey muttered, but he was already starting the next sandwich.
They found a rhythm. Not smooth—Dante kept hitting wrong buttons, Joey burned exactly one sandwich (which Bernie cheerfully ate), and Stella’s tomato slices varied wildly in thickness. But they were managing. Orders went out. Customers got fed. The apocalypse was postponed.
“You kids need help?” Bernie called from his corner booth.
“Can you run food?” Stella asked desperately.
“Do I look like a waiter?”
“Today? Yes.”
Bernie grinned and stood up. “Fair enough. Point me at the plates, boss.”
That helped. Bernie might have been seventy-something, but he could charm a table and deliver food with the best of them. He turned their staff shortage into dinner theater, regaling customers with tales of Beach Shack history.
Just when Stella thought they might actually survive, Lisa burst through the door.
“I’m so sorry! My mom’s car—it doesn’t matter. Where do you need me?”
“Food running,” Stella said immediately. “Bernie’s covering but?—”
