Page 65 of The Beach Shack Summer
“I don’t know how.”
“You’re teaching her to drive. And planning surf lessons, apparently?”
“About that—I want to teach her, but I need Luke for backup. Safety. And so I can take some pictures. You should come too.”
“Tyler, I haven’t surfed in?—“
“Twenty years?”
“Something like that.”
“All the more reason. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”
“I have fun.”
“Spreadsheets don’t count.”
“They’re very satisfying spreadsheets.”
“Meg.”
“Fine. But if I drown, I’m haunting you.”
“Deal.”
Inside, they found Stella clearing a space on the fridge, moving Meg’s sticky notes aside.
“Photo wall,” she announced. “That okay?”
“Perfect,” Tyler said.
She put up the three Polaroids—Tyler protesting, Tyler with burrito, Meg with laptop. Next to them, she taped the old Polaroid of teenage Tyler with his surfboard.
“Good start,” she said, stepping back to admire them.
“Just the start,” Tyler agreed.
And looking at their faces already beginning to cluster on the fridge—a family in formation, one instant photo at a time—he thought maybe he understood something Margo had told him once.
It wasn’t about the pictures themselves. It was about choosing what mattered enough to keep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Beach Shack was in its sweet spot—post-lunch lull, pre-closing prep—when Patricia Henderson floated through the door like a ceramic-scented cloud of determination.
“Tyler!” She practically sang, yoga mat under one arm, oversized tote bag threatening to spill pottery samples. “Perfect timing!”
Tyler, who’d been peacefully cleaning the grill, looked like a deer caught in sustainable bamboo fiber headlights. “Patricia. Hi.”
“I have the most wonderful news about the festival booth placement!” She glided to the counter, somehow managing to invade his personal space from six feet away. “The committee approved the corner spot with eastern exposure!”
“That’s... great,” Tyler said, backing into the grill.
“But I need new photos. The morning shots were lovely, but I’m thinking golden hour would really makethe glazes pop.” She set her bag on the counter with a purposeful thud. “I brought samples!”
Bernie, nursing his afternoon coffee in the corner, didn’t even pretend not to watch. “Here we go,” he muttered happily.
Patricia began extracting pottery from her bag like a magician with an endless supply of ceramic rabbits. “This one has an iridescent quality that only shows in certain light—” She held up a bowl, angling it toward Tyler. “See how it catches?”
