Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Shack was quiet in a way it almost never was.
Lunch had been dead again. Bernie and two tourists—that was it. Joey had spent most of the shift reorganizing the walk-in cooler because there was nothing else to do. “Third slow day this week,” he’d muttered. “Weird for summer.”
Stella wiped down the counter for the third time. She wasn’t nervous. She was just... thorough.
“You’re going to rub a hole in that Formica,” Bernie said from his corner booth. He hadn’t left yet, even though they’d closed fifteen minutes ago. He never left right at closing. “Been here fifty years,” he’d told her once. “I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
“I’m just cleaning.”
“You’re stress cleaning. There’s a difference.” Bernie folded his newspaper—an actual paper newspaper. “She’s your mother, not a health inspector.”
“Health inspectors are less scary.”
The front door opened. Stella’s stomach flipped.
Fiona stood in the doorway, backlit by afternoon sun, looking around the Shack like she was trying to memorize it. She was wearing linen pants and a silk blouse—overdressed for Laguna, but that was Fiona. Even exhausted and jet-lagged, she looked put together.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Stella.” Fiona stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. “This is it?”
“This is it.”
Fiona walked slowly through the dining room, taking in the mismatched chairs, the sun-faded booths, the ancient soda machine with the hand-lettered sign that said BANG HERE FOR SPRITE. Her heels clicked on the worn tile floor.
“It’s... charming,” she said.
Stella couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or not.
“The ceiling,” Fiona said, looking up. “What are all those? That’s…interesting.”
“Shells. Customers bring them from all over the world. Margo started the tradition decades ago.” Stella pointed to a cluster near the window. “That one’s from Fiji. That one’s from Norway. The pink one is from somewhere in Japan.”
“People just... bring shells?”
“If they feel like they belong here. It’s a thing.”
Fiona was quiet, still looking up. The shells gleamed, catching the light.
“There’s one from me,” Stella added, pointing to the shell she added. “Margo let me add it.”
Fiona’s eyes found it—a small white shell with a crack down the middle.
“You put a shell up there,” Fiona said softly.
“Yeah.”
Bernie cleared his throat from his booth. “You must be the mother.”
Fiona turned, seeming to notice him for the first time. “I am. And you are?”
“Bernie. Fixture. Local historian. Weather prophet.” He tapped his knee. “This joint predicts storms better than any app.”
“A weather knee.”
“Laugh if you want. It’s never wrong.”
Fiona didn’t laugh. She studied Bernie the way she’d studied the restaurant—cataloging, assessing. “You’ve been coming here a long time?”
“Fifty years, give or take. Watched this place through four generations.” Bernie smiled, his weathered face creasing. “Your daughter’s a good one. Works hard. Doesn’t complain. Even learned the napkin system without rolling her eyes.”
“I rolled my eyes a little,” Stella admitted.
“She rolled her eyes a lot,” came Joey’s voice from the kitchen doorway. He emerged with a tray of saltshakers, ready for refilling. “But she got it eventually. Forty-five degrees. No exceptions.”
“Joey, this is my mum. Mum, this is Joey. He’s... the systems guy.”
“I prefer ‘excellence coordinator.’” Joey set down the tray and wiped his hand on his apron before offering it to Fiona. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.... uh...”
“Fiona’s fine.”
“Nice to meet you, Fiona’s Fine.” Joey grinned. “Sorry. Nervous humor. I do that.”
“He does that,” Stella confirmed.
Fiona shook his hand, taking everything in. “You work here too?”
“Since I was sixteen. I’m leaving for school soon—marine technology, engines and electrical and stuff—but I’ll still do shifts. It’s only twenty minutes away.” Joey’s voice got a little tight on that last part. “Twenty-three, depending on traffic.”
“He’s very precise about the distance,” Stella said.
“Precision matters. That’s what the napkin system teaches you.”
Fiona looked between them—Joey earnest and nervous, Stella trying not to smile, Bernie watching from his booth with amusement. Something shifted in her expression. Not softening, exactly. More like... recalculating.
“Show me around?” she said to Stella.
“Yeah. Okay.”
They started with the grill.
“This is where the magic happens,” Stella said, then immediately felt stupid. “I mean, it’s just a grill. But Margo’s been cooking on it for fifty years. The grilled cheese is kind of famous.”
“Famous how?”
“People drive from all over for it. There was a TikTok video last month—some influencer called it ‘the best sandwich on the California coast.’”
“TikTok,” Fiona repeated, like the word was from another language.
“It’s a whole thing. We were slammed for a week.”
Stella showed her the walk-in cooler, (organized by Joey’s color-coded system), the ancient cash register (you had to hit the 7 key twice or it stuck), the back office where Margo did the books (still by hand, in a ledger, because she didn’t trust computers).
But when they got to the corner booth — Bernie’s booth, though he’d tactfully relocated to the counter to give them space — Fiona paused.
“This is where you sit? When you’re not working?”
“Sometimes. It’s got the best view of the door.” Stella slid into the booth, patting the seat across from her. “You can see everyone coming and going.”
Fiona sat. The vinyl creaked beneath her.
“It’s strange,” she said, looking around. “I’ve heard so much about this place. In your texts. Your calls. ‘The Shack this, the Shack that.’ I pictured something...”
“Fancier?”
“Different.” Fiona ran her hand along the edge of the table. “But I can see why you like it. It’s got character.”
“That’s a polite way of saying it’s falling apart.”
“No, I mean it. Character.” Fiona met her eyes.
Stella didn’t know what to say to that. It felt like a compliment and an accusation at the same time. In this place I’ve never been. With these people I don’t know. And it’s got “character”.
“Mum—”
“Don’t.” Fiona held up a hand. “I’m not... I didn’t mean it as a criticism. I’m just observing.”
“Okay.”
“You seem happy. That’s all.” Fiona’s voice was careful, controlled. “Happier than you’ve seemed in a long time.”
Stella thought about the last year in Sydney. The dinners of dinosaur nuggets. The feeling of being invisible in her own house. The way Fiona’s attention had narrowed to the twins, to David, to everything except her.
“I am happy,” she said. “I’m sorry if that hurts.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” A pause. “It stings a little. But it doesn’t hurt.”
Joey appeared with two glasses of lemonade, setting them down with more ceremony than necessary. “House specialty. Fresh squeezed. Well, fresh-ish. I squeezed them this morning.”
“Thank you, Joey,” Stella said.
“Yell if you need anything. I’ll be in the back, definitely not eavesdropping.”
He disappeared. Fiona watched him go with an expression Stella couldn’t quite read.
“He seems... enthusiastic,” Fiona said.
“He’s the best. Annoying, but the best.” Stella sipped her lemonade. “He taught me everything when I first started. How to work the register, how to deal with difficult customers, how to tell when the grill’s at the right temperature by sound.”
“By sound?”
“It sizzles differently. I can’t explain it, but you learn.”
Fiona nodded slowly. She looked tired — not just jet-lag tired, but something deeper. Like she’d been bracing for a fight and found something more complicated instead.
“You’ve built a life here,” she said.
“I’m trying to.”
“Without me.”
“Not without you. Just...” Stella searched for the right words. “Somewhere new. Somewhere I got to choose.”
Fiona was quiet for a long moment. Then she picked up her lemonade, took a sip, and set it down again.
“It’s good,” she said. “The lemonade.”
“Joey’s very particular about the sugar ratio.”
“That’s evident.”
They sat in the quiet, the ceiling shells clicking softly overhead, and for a moment it almost felt like peace.
Tyler picked them up at three.
He’d texted ahead — Coming in 5, staying in the car, giving you space — which Stella appreciated. She wasn’t ready for everyone to be in the same room yet.
Fiona climbed into the passenger seat. Stella got in the back. Tyler pulled out of the parking lot, and for a blessed thirty seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Tyler’s phone buzzed.
And buzzed again.
And again.
“Popular man,” Fiona observed.
Tyler glanced at the screen at a red light. “It’s just—”
Buzz.
“Family.”
Buzz buzz.
“Wanting to—”
Buzz.
“Meet you.”
He handed the phone to Stella. “Can you just... deal with that?”
She scrolled through the messages, grinning despite herself.
Meg.
Dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook! I make an excellent risotto. Or pasta. Or both?
Anna.
When do we get to meet her properly? I feel like I should be there.
Bea:
I have SO many questions about Australia. Do you really eat Vegemite? Is it as disgusting as it looks?
Bernie:
Tell her I said hello again. Also my knee says rain on Tuesday.
“What are they saying?” Fiona asked.
“They want to meet you. All of them.” Stella typed back quickly.
Dad says give her some space. She just landed yesterday.
Meg.
Family dinner. I’m making risotto AND pasta.
Anna.
Fine. But soon.
Bea.
Tell her the Vegemite question stands.
“They’re very... eager,” Fiona said, watching the phone light up repeatedly.
“They’re a lot.” Tyler glanced in the rearview mirror at Stella. “I’m trying to give you breathing room.”
“Appreciated.”
“Sunday, though.” He turned onto the road toward Margo’s. “Meg’s declared it non-negotiable. Family dinner.”
“Family,” Fiona repeated.
“You don’t have to come,” Stella said quickly. “If it’s too much.”
Fiona was quiet. The ocean appeared through the trees, glinting in the late afternoon light. Stella watched her mother look at it — this view that had become so familiar to Stella, so ordinary, and was brand new to Fiona.
“I’ll think about it,” Fiona said finally.
Tyler pulled up to Margo’s cottage. The garden was golden in the slanting sun, bougainvillea blazing purple against the fence.
“Get some rest,” Tyler said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”
“Yes.” Fiona opened the door, then paused. “It’s…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Just nodded once, got out, and walked up the path to Margo’s front door.
Stella watched her go.
“How’d it go?” Tyler asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” Stella climbed into the front seat. “She said I seemed happy. Like it surprised her.”
“Does it?”
“I guess.” Stella buckled her seatbelt. “She also said I’ve built a life without her.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
They sat for a moment, watching Margo’s front door close behind Fiona.
“She’s trying,” Tyler said. “In her way.”
“I know.”
“That counts for something.”
“I know.” Stella looked at her phone, still buzzing with messages from family members who wanted to welcome, include, overwhelm. “Can we get ice cream?”
“Always.”
Tyler pulled away from Margo’s, and Stella let herself breathe.
One day down. Who knew how many to go.