Page 12 of The Beach Shack Legacy

Stella turned back to the counter. “Would that be okay? If I did my project on the Shack? The history, the people, the stories behind all of this?”

“It’s a restaurant, Stella. We made sandwiches.” Margo picked up her coffee. “I’m not sure there’s a senior project in sandwiches and shells.”

“You just pointed at the ceiling and knew every story,” Stella said.

Margo paused with the cup halfway up. Set it back down. “I suppose I did.”

“There might be old things worth looking at,” Bernie said, still working the crossword. “Menus. Photos. Things from the early days.”

“There’s a trunk in the garage,” Margo said. She straightened the napkin beside her cup. “Richard’s things. Old paperwork. I never went through it. You’re welcome to whatever’s in there.”

Margo slid out of the booth and reached for her tote, and stopped at the booth on her way past. “Eleanor has me signed up for something involving potting soil.”

“You hate gardening,” Bernie said.

“I hate petunias specifically. Eleanor assures me there will be no petunias.” She hooked the tote over her arm. “Let me know if you need help, Stella. Though I doubt there’s much to find beyond sandwiches.”

She left. The door chimed. Through the window, Margo crossed the street in her painting smock with the tote over her arm, not hurrying.

Joey came back from the walk-in with the clipboard. “Closing checklist. Grill scraped, surfaces wiped, walk-in reorganized, towels bagged, patio swept. I haven’t swept the patio because Stella was supposed to sweep the patio.”

“I’ll sweep the patio,” Stella said.

“It should have been swept before we flipped the sign. The timeline exists for a reason.”

“Okay, then you go sweep the patio.”

He went, clipboard under his arm, and the broom started up outside—brisk, methodical, covering every square foot in a pattern only Joey could see.

Anna finished closing. Register counted, kitchen lights off, the afternoon still bright and flat outside the windows. Meg came back from the walk-in with a padded mailer in one hand.

“This was under the supply boxes by the door.” She turned it over and held it out to Stella. “International postage. It’s for you.”

Stella took it and checked the return address. Sydney. “It’s from Mum. She was supposed to send Nana’s recipe box at Christmas but she couldn’t find it.”

“Well, looks like it found its way.” Anna untied her apron and hung it on the hook by the walk-in.

Stella tucked the package into her camera bag and paused at the door with her chin up one more time. Hundreds of shells, and Margo could name every one.

Anna turned off the lights. The shells went flat and gray without them, all those stories pressed into plaster, each one placed by a hand that thought it mattered enough to leave behind.

She locked the door and walked home.

CHAPTER FIVE

Margo’s cottage smelled like lemons, inside and outside both.

Stella stood on the porch and breathed it in—warm sugar and citrus and something scorched at the edge of it. Margo had baked something and gotten distracted, probably by her painting, probably at exactly the wrong moment. The blue shutters were open. The porch light was on against the dark. Through the front window the television flickered, and sneakers squeaked on a basketball court somewhere inside.

She knocked. Nobody answered. She knocked again.

“It’s open,” Bernie called from inside.

Stella pulled open the screen door and found them on the couch—Margo at one end with her feet tucked under her, Bernie at the other with a plate balanced on his knee. The game was on. A lemon meringue pie sat on the coffee table between them, one slice already cut.

“I’m here for the trunk,” Stella said.

“I know. It’s in the garage.” Margo didn’t look away from the television. “Sit down. Have some pie. The Finals are on.”