Page 125 of The Beach Shack Summer
“Yeah,” Tyler agreed, and his smile was worth all the chaos. “It is.”
In the distance, the surf competition continued, waves rolling in with mechanical precision. But here in the Beach Shack parking lot, the only thing that mattered was this: they’d faced disaster and chosen each other.
Everything else could wait until tomorrow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tyler’s alarm went off at 5:15, same as always. Sunday prep waited for no one, especially with Margo down a hand.
He dressed quietly in the dark, muscle memory guiding him through the routine he’d done a thousand times. Coffee could wait until the Shack. The tomatoes couldn’t.
His bedroom door opened before he reached it.
“Going somewhere?” Stella stood in the hallway, fully dressed, hair pulled back in her work ponytail.
“It’s five-fifteen.”
“I can tell time.” She shouldered past him. “Someone needs to prep. You can’t do it alone.”
“I’ve been doing Sunday prep alone for?—”
“Not anymore.” She was already heading for the door. “Come on, buddy. Tomatoes wait for no one.”
Tyler followed, something warm and unfamiliarblooming in his chest. His daughter choosing to wake before dawn, choosing the work, choosing him.
The morning air carried salt and possibility. They’d made it three steps when another door opened.
“Seriously?” Meg emerged from her house, keys in hand. “You too?”
“Margo can’t prep with one hand,” Stella said.
“That’s why I’m—” Meg stopped, looking between them. “We’re all sneaking out early to help?”
“It’s not sneaking if it’s your job,” Tyler pointed out.
“It’s sneaking if you’re trying to beat everyone else there,” Meg countered.
They walked three abreast down the empty street, fog muffling their footsteps. The town slept around them—no surfers yet, even Bernie’s newsstand still shuttered. Just the Walsh family, heading to work.
“Bet you anything she’s already there,” Stella said.
“No bet,” Meg and Tyler said in unison.
They were right. The Shack glowed softly from within, back door unlocked, coffee already brewing. Margo sat at the prep station, good hand wrapped around a mug, studying her bandaged left hand like it had personally offended her.
“You’re all late,” she said without looking up.
“It’s five twenty-five,” Tyler protested.
“Like I said. Late.” But she was smiling. “Figured you’d all show up.”
“How?” Stella asked.
“Because you’re Walshes. It’s what we do.” Margoflexed her bandaged fingers experimentally. “Turns out one-handed prep is trickier than I thought.”
“That’s why we’re all here,” Meg said, already tying on an apron.
They fell into rhythm without discussion. Tyler at his usual station, Stella beside him with confident hands, Meg handling the tasks that required two hands while Margo directed. No one mentioned yesterday’s chaos, but it hung in the air—how close they’d come to disaster, how Stella had stepped up when it mattered.
