Page 35 of The Beach Shack Summer
“That’s what we do,” Luke said simply. “Eight years of dawn patrol, remember? I’ve seen you at your worst. This isn’t even close.”
As Tyler drove to the Beach Shack, he felt something settle. Not fixed, not solved, but... manageable. His daughter was picking out Pop-Tarts with his sister. His best friend was solid. His grandmother would probably have Stella trained in proper grilled cheese technique within the week.
His life had exploded, yes. But maybe the pieces were falling somewhere good.
Even if it involved pulpy orange juice.
CHAPTER TEN
Meg gripped the steering wheel and tried not to look as nervous as she felt. Beside her, Stella stared out the window, earbuds in but music loud enough that Meg could hear the tinny beat.
“So,” Meg said, then immediately regretted starting a sentence she had no idea how to finish.
Stella pulled out one earbud. “So?”
“The grocery store is just up here. Gelson’s. It’s... nice.”
“Nice.” Stella’s tone was flat. “Cool.”
Silence stretched between them. Meg had negotiated million-dollar contracts, presented to hostile boardrooms, navigated corporate politics with ease. But making small talk with her teenage niece? Apparently impossible.
“So you’re my aunt,” Stella said suddenly.
“Apparently.”
“Do I have other relatives I should know about? Besides Tyler and Margo?”
Meg seized on the opening. “Well, there’s Anna—she’s your other aunt. In Florence right now with her daughter Bea. Your cousin. They’re both artists.”
“Artists run in the family, huh?”
“Seems like it. Tyler with his photography, Anna teaches art, Margo used to paint...” Meg trailed off.
“What about you?”
“I can’t even draw stick people.”
Almost a smile from Stella. Almost. “And my... grandmother? Tyler’s mom?”
“Sam. Samantha. She’s... traveling. We think.”
“You think?”
“She sends postcards sometimes. Last one was from Peru. Or maybe Portugal. Somewhere with a P.”
“That’s weird.”
“That’s Sam.” Meg pulled into the Gelson’s parking lot. “And there’s Rick—Margo’s son, so technically your great-uncle. He’s an accountant. Very... practical.”
“One non-artist in the bunch?”
“Two,” Meg added. “I went the corporate route.”
“Right. The fancy job Tyler mentioned.”
They got out of the car, Stella shoving her hands in her pockets. The automatic doors whooshed open, revealing the pristine interior of Laguna Beach’s upscale grocery store.
“Fancy,” Stella observed.
