“I don’t see a sign.”
I stepped beside Taryn, not in front of her. “She said it’s reserved.”
The man tipped his chin up at me, then turned to Taryn, then to Nella behind the bar.
Nella didn’t stop shaking a drink. “The table’s reserved, sir. The line starts at the host stand, and Taryn has the list.”
The man lifted both hands. “I’m not trying to cause a problem.”
“Great,” Taryn said. “Then we’re all having a beautiful afternoon.”
He went back to the line.
Taryn glanced at me. “Nice supporting role.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
“Try not to strain anything.”
From the bar, Nella called, “He can strain something after he moves the backup tequila.”
I turned. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m managing labor.”
“You’re enjoying labor.”
“I enjoy being right. The labor is a bonus.”
Shay slid three margaritas down the service well. The blood-orange batch flashed bright under the lights, fresh lime and orange wheels on top, the kind of color tourists photographed before they drank. A woman at the rail lifted her phone.
“What’s that one called?” she asked.
“Tonight’s special,” Nella said. “Blood orange, fresh lime, and enough vacation optimism to make you believe in your hotel balcony view.”
The woman tapped the bar near the glasses. “We’ll take four.”
“Good choice. Excellent life path.” Nella tipped her chin at Shay. “Four more for the camera people.”
The table cards worked. The smell of meatballs and peppers pulled people from the boardwalk. Tomato pie squares left the kitchen in steady waves. Every time the card reader chimed, Nella’s shoulders dropped one fraction lower before she caught the next problem.
The bar could pay.
Uncle Sal would see the full patio, the crowded counter, the staff moving under Nella’s voice, the food leaving the pass, the specials selling, and the cash drawer filling.
He would want all of it.
At four thirty, Nella sent me toward the back hall. “Storage. More specials. They’re by the emergency candles.”
“Emergency candles?”
“We had one romantic power outage and tourists tipped better.”
“Of course they did.”
“I’m not above ambiance.”
I went to storage and found the stack exactly where she said it would be, under a shelf of candles, spare menus, and one plastic bin labeled DO NOT LET DUSTY DECIDE.
