Page 104 of The Beach Shack Summer
“I feel attacked.”
“You should. Your wardrobe is a cry for help.”
The front door opened, and Meg’s voice carried into the kitchen. “I brought dessert! And wine! And my deep skepticism about whatever’s burning!”
“Nothing’s burning!” Tyler called back. “Anymore!”
Meg appeared in the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene—Stella at the stove looking competent, Tyler setting the table with actual napkins, the counter disaster zone that suggested multiple cooking attempts.
“You cooked,” she said, wonder in her voice.
“Stella cooked,” Tyler said. “I provided ingredients and anxiety.”
“He tried to make chicken,” Stella explained. “It achieved a new state of matter.”
“I’m not surprised.” Meg set down a bakery box and wine. “What smells good?”
“Fried rice.” Stella plated with surprising elegance. “Also, we’re buying a new pan tomorrow. The fancy French kind.”
“Le Creuset?”
“See? She pronounces it right too,” Stella muttered.
They settled at the table, the dinner surprisingly good despite its chaotic origins. Stella had even managed a vegetable garnish that looked almost professional.
“This is actually delicious,” Meg said, and meant it.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” Stella replied, but she was pleased. “I’ve been watching Margo. Learning through observation.”
“And YouTube,” Tyler added.
“YouTube helps. But mostly it’s about not doing what Tyler does.”
“Which is?”
“Panic and turn the heat to maximum.”
“It’s worked for photography,” Tyler said.
“Food isn’t film, Tyler.”
They fell into easy conversation—Meg sharing client victories from her new office, Tyler discussing an upcoming wedding shoot, Stella revealing she’d been asked to help with the Beach Shack’s social media.
“Joey wants to ‘expand our digital presence,’” she explained, making air quotes. “I think he just wants someone else to take food photos.”
“You’d be good at it,” Tyler said. “You’ve got the eye.”
“It’s just phones and filters.”
“It’s seeing what matters,” he said. “Making people care about a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“The Margo Special deserves respect,” Meg said solemnly.
Stella’s phone, face-down by her plate, buzzed. She ignored it, reaching for more rice.
“Mom always made good fried rice,” Meg said to Tyler. “Remember when she tried to teach us?”
“I remember Anna adding sugar instead of salt.”
