Page 40 of The Beach Shack Summer
Despite herself, Stella sat, leaving careful space between them. The album opened to reveal Tyler at various ages—gap-toothed grins, terrible haircuts, always with a camera in hand or around his neck.
“That’s him with his sisters,” Margo pointed to a photo of three kids covered in sand. “Meg was trying to organize a sandcastle competition. Anna just wanted to destroy everyone else’s. Tyler documented the chaos.”
Stella smiled, recognizing Meg’s determined expression even in childhood.
Margo turned the page. “Oh, this was when Sam—your grandmother—left for her artist residency in Greece.”
The boy in the photo looked older, maybe in his twenties, holding a camera at some family gathering.
“She travels a lot. Tyler was disappointed when she started missing holidays,” Margo said, her voiceneutral. “Threw himself deeper into work. Said at least photos stayed where you put them.”
“She doesn’t visit?” Stella asked carefully.
“She sends postcards. Promises to come home ‘soon.’” Margo’s smile was gentle but sad. “Sam’s always chasing the next perfect light, the next perfect canvas. Sometimes I think she forgets that life happens while you’re looking for perfect.”
“Tyler doesn’t talk about her much.”
“No, I imagine he doesn’t.” Margo studied the photo. “He took it personally for a while. But he’s built his own life. Learned that some people stay, even if others don’t.”
“Like you.”
“Like me. And Meg, in her own way. Even Luke.” Margo closed the album. “The point is, Tyler knows how to show up for people. He just needs to know they’ll show up for him too.”
The words hung in the air between them. Stella clutched the basket of basil, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.
“I should go. Meg’s waiting for this.”
“Of course.” Margo stood, then paused. “Wait here a moment.” She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a small bunch of flowers—bright zinnias in orange and pink—and something else. “For Meg. Tell her they’re for the table.”
She held out a small photo. “And this is for you. I thought you might like it.” Stella took the Polaroid—teenage Tyler with his terrible surfer hair, holding a surfboard and grinning like he owned the world.
“Really?” Stella’s voice came out smaller than intended.
“Every girl should have at least one embarrassing photo of her father,” Margo said, eyes twinkling. “For future leverage.”
“Um, do you want to...” Stella shifted awkwardly. “Meg’s making pasta. If you wanted to come for dinner?”
Margo’s smile was warm. “That’s sweet of you to ask. But you three need your evening together. Besides, I have a painting calling my name.” She handed Stella the flowers. “Meg she makes the best pesto on the coast. She’ll spoil you for all other pesto, fair warning.”
“Okay.” Stella headed for the door, then turned back. “Thanks. For the photos and... stuff.”
“Anytime. Garden’s always open if you need herbs. Or otherwise.”
Back at Tyler’s house, she burst through the door to find Meg at the stove.
“There you are!”
“Margo was there.” Stella set the basket on the counter, then remembered the flowers. “Oh, and these are for you. For the table.”
Meg’s face softened. ““She was there? She sent flowers? That’s so Margo.” She found a jar for them, arranging the bright blooms.
“Yeah, painting. She showed me photos of Tyler.”
“Oh?” Meg’s voice was carefully casual. “That must have been interesting.”
“He had terrible hair in middle school.”
“The worst,” Meg agreed, smiling. “He thought he looked like Kelly Slater. He looked like a sheepdog.”
