Page 13 of The Beach Shack Legacy

“Who’s playing?”

“We’ve moved on from college to the NBA,” Margo said. “I might need a new jersey.”

“You don’t have a jersey,” Bernie said.

“I might get one. To support the transition.” She waved at the pie. “There’s a plate in the kitchen.”

Stella went to the kitchen and found a clean plate and a stack of napkins Margo had folded into triangles. Not unlike Joey’s method. The counters were spotless except for a dusting of flour near the mixer and a bowl of lemons from the tree in the side yard—small, bright, none of them the same size, the kind that only grew in somebody’s garden and never in a store. She came back into the living room and cut herself a slice.

The pie was good. Really good. The meringue was tall and lightly browned and the filling had that sharp bite that meant Margo had used her own fruit instead of bottled juice. The crust had gone dark on one side.

“The crust burned,” Margo said, eyes on the screen. “I was in the studio.”

“It’s perfect.”

“It’s overbaked on the left. But the meringue held, which is all that matters.”

Stella ate her pie and let the scene settle around her—the two of them on opposite ends of the couch, the game between them, the pie on the coffee table. Margo in her house cardigan with her reading glasses pushed up on her head. Bernie in a flannel shirt that had seen better decades. Two remotes on the coffee table, one sleek and new for the soundbar Tyler had installed, one held together with electrical tape for everything else.

“And yet here we are,” Bernie said, during a timeout. “Two people. Two remotes. Two houses.”

“Don’t start, Bernard.”

“I’m not starting. I’m observing.”

“The trunk,” Stella said. “It’s in the garage?”

“Behind the painting supplies. There’s a green tarp over it.” Margo pulled her cardigan tighter. “I haven’t looked at it in years. It’s Richard’s things, mostly. Old menus, paperwork. I don’t know what else.”

“You could go through it first,” Bernie said. “Before she takes it.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To see what’s in there.”

“Just old menus and paperwork. I just said that.” Margo reached for her water glass. “Stella needs it for her project. She’s welcome to it.”

Bernie looked at Margo for a moment. A long one. Then he turned back to the game.

“Tyler’s coming to help carry it,” Stella said. “It’s too heavy for me.”

“It’s not that heavy.”

“Margo, it’s a trunk.”

“It’s a small trunk.”

“You said it was behind the painting supplies?”

“Behind, not under.” Margo looked at the screen. “This point guard has no composure.”

The doorbell rang.

“It’s open,” Margo and Bernie said in unison, and then looked at each other.

Tyler came through the door, car keys in hand. He stopped in the doorway and took in the scene—the two of them on the couch, the pie, the game, the two remotes.

“Look at you two,” he said. “Just like old married people.” He tilted his head. “At least I think that’s what old married people do. I wouldn’t actually know.”