Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Margo’s garden had string lights.
Stella hadn’t seen them before—they weren’t the Shack’s lights, which Anna had hung and declared temporary in November.
These were new. Smaller. Wound through the trellis above the patio table and along the fence line, and someone had hung them with care because they followed the shape of the garden instead of cutting across it.
“Who hung the lights?” Stella said to Tyler as they came through the gate. Lindsey was behind them, carrying a bowl of something covered in foil.
“Not Margo.” Tyler shifted the wine to his other hand. “Margo doesn’t hang string lights.”
“Somebody hung string lights.”
“Somebody did.”
They came around the side of the house and into the garden and the table was set for eleven.
Margo’s good plates—the white ones with the thin blue rim that came out for Thanksgiving and birthdays and apparently tonight.
Cloth napkins. A centerpiece of lemons in a bowl, which was either decorative or ingredients that hadn’t been put away yet, and with Margo it could be either.
Bernie was at the grill.
Not the Shack grill—a small charcoal grill in the corner of the garden that Stella had never seen used. He had tongs in one hand and a dish towel over his shoulder and he was turning something that smelled like rosemary and lemon and garlic.
“Is that Bernie at the grill?” Tyler said.
“Looks like it,” Stella said.
“At Margo’s house.”
“At Margo’s grill, even.”
Tyler looked at Stella. Stella raised her camera and then lowered it.
“Interesting,” Tyler said, and went to find Lindsey a chair.
Anna and Michael arrived with a salad and a bottle of olive oil Anna had brought from a place she’d found in San Clemente that she’d been talking about for two weeks. Bea came with them, carrying a canvas bag with bread and what looked like a sketchbook she probably wasn’t going to open.
Anna stopped three steps into the garden. She was looking at the grill. At Bernie. At the dish towel on his shoulder that matched the one hanging from Margo’s oven handle inside.
“Huh,” Anna said.
Michael put his hand on her back and guided her toward the table without comment.
Meg and Luke came through the gate with Luke carrying a casserole dish and Meg carrying her phone, which she put in her pocket when she saw the table.
“She used the good plates,” Meg said to no one in particular.
“The blue-rim ones,” Luke said, setting the casserole down.
“She hasn’t used those since Tyler’s birthday.”
“Maybe it’s a special occasion.”
“What occasion?”
Luke looked at the grill where Bernie was turning chicken with Margo’s tongs. He looked back at Meg.
“Oh,” Meg said.
Joey arrived last, on foot, carrying a bag that clinked.
“I brought sparkling water and a lemon tart from the place on Forest that I personally find acceptable,” he announced, setting the bag on the table.
He surveyed the place settings, counting under his breath.
“Eleven. That’s correct. Although the spacing on the east side is tighter than the west side by approximately—”
“Joey, sit down,” Margo said, coming through the back door with a platter.
“I’m just observing that—”
“Sit.”
Joey sat. Then he stood back up. “Is that Bernie at the grill?”
“Bernie is helping with the chicken.”
“Bernie is grilling.”
“Bernard is operating a grill, yes.”
“At your house.”
“At my grill. In my garden. With my tongs.” Margo set the platter down. “Is there a question?”
Joey looked at the grill. Looked at Margo. Looked at the place settings—specifically at the two at the head of the table, set closer together than the others, with matching napkins.
“No question,” Joey said, and sat down.
Bernie brought the chicken to the table.
Margo had made the rest—roasted potatoes, the salad Anna had brought dressed with the San Clemente olive oil, bread from the bakery on Forest, Luke’s casserole set steaming next to the bread, and a bowl of something with peppers that smelled like it had been cooking all afternoon.
The chicken was his mother’s recipe. Lemon, thyme, garlic under the skin. Stella recognized it from the smell—she’d heard about it from Tyler, who’d heard about it from Anna, who’d heard about it from Margo, who’d made it for Bernie and who was now making it for everyone.
They ate. The garden filled with the sounds of eleven people eating and talking and reaching for bread and arguing about olive oil.
Tyler told a story about a surf session that went wrong and Lindsey corrected three details.
Meg asked Michael about a client project and Michael answered with more words than usual.
Bea and Stella sat across from each other and communicated mostly through looks, which was how they communicated best.
Joey ate his chicken with methodical attention and then set his fork down.
“This chicken,” he said.
“What about it?” Margo said.
“This is not regular chicken.”
“No, it isn’t,” Bernie said.
“The herb profile is—where did this recipe come from?”
Bernie, beside Margo, picked up his water glass. “My mother.”
Joey looked at Bernie. Looked at Margo. Looked at the chicken.
“Bernie’s mother’s recipe,” Joey said.
“Helen,” Bernie said. “Her name was Helen.”
“Helen’s chicken.” Joey folded his napkin precisely, twice—and set it beside his plate. “Well. It’s exceptional. I would like to propose that it be added to the Shack’s menu on a trial basis, pending nutritional review.”
“It’s not going on the menu, Joey,” Margo said.
Bernie smiled. “I’m glad you like it, but some recipes are just for family.”
The table went quiet for half a second. Just long enough for the word to land. Family. Bernie had said family. At Margo’s table. With her tongs and her good plates and her string lights in the garden.
Anna reached for the bread basket. Tyler took a drink of his wine. Meg looked at Luke and Luke looked back and neither of them said anything, but they were both smiling. Bea was studying the string lights with her head tilted, which meant the sketchbook was coming out later.
Margo picked up the pepper and passed it to Bernie without him asking.
After dinner they stayed in the garden. The string lights came on as the sky went dark.
Luke and Tyler cleared. Anna and Michael washed.
Joey dried, because Joey had a system for drying that involved a specific rotation pattern he’d explained once and nobody had retained.
Meg sat with Margo and Bernie at the table, and at some point Stella saw Meg look down and go still for a second, and when Stella followed her gaze she saw it.
Bernie’s hand on the table. Margo’s hand next to it. Not holding. Just close.
Stella raised her camera. Looked through the viewfinder. The hands on the table, the string lights behind them, the lemon bowl between them. A perfect frame. The kind of shot she would have taken without thinking six months ago.
She lowered the camera.
Some things were not for the camera. She’d learned that somewhere between Sedona and here. Some moments belonged to the people in them. This one belonged to Margo and Bernie, at their table, in their garden, with their family around them and the lights in the trellis and the night coming in warm.
She put the lens cap on and went to help with the dishes.