Page 42 of The Beach Shack Summer
Meg glanced in his direction. “How was the Shack?”
“Busy. Joey asked about Stella approximately every five minutes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That she needed time to settle in. He’s already planning her training schedule.” Tyler grabbed a beer from the fridge, then noticed the flowers. “Where did these come from?”
“Margo sent them back with Stella.”
Tyler’s head snapped up. “Sent them back? What do you mean sent them back?”
“I needed more basil, so I sent Stella to Margo’s garden to?—”
“You sent her out alone?” His voice pitched higher. “She doesn’t know the neighborhood! What if she got lost?”
“Tyler, it’s five houses down.”
“She’s from Sydney! Everything looks different here. What if she took a wrong turn? What if—” He was already moving toward the door.
“She made it back fine,” Meg said, trying not to smile at his panic. “With basil and flowers. Margo was home, apparently.”
Tyler stopped mid-stride. “Margo was there?”
“Painting, according to Stella. They talked. Looked at photos, I think?”
“Photos?” Tyler sank onto a barstool, processing this. “She went to get herbs and ended up looking at photos with Margo?”
“Apparently your middle school hair was a topic of discussion.”
“Oh God.” Tyler dropped his head into his hands. “The sheepdog phase.”
“That’s what I called it too.” Meg checked the pasta water. “Stella seemed... I don’t know. Lighter when she came back. Less defensive.”
“Margo has that effect on people.” Tyler lifted his head. “But seriously, Meg, next time maybe?—”
“Next time I’ll send up a flare so you know her exact location at all times?”
“That would be helpful, yes.”
From down the hall came the sound of Stella’s music, bass thumping through the closed door.
"Think she'll join us?" Tyler asked.
"She's sixteen. The smell of food is biologically irresistible. Plus, she helped make it."
As if summoned, Stella appeared in the kitchen doorway, trying to look casual.
"Is it ready yet?"
"Almost. Want to help me plate it?" Meg offered.
"I guess." Stella slid onto a barstool, maintaining careful indifference. "You weren't kidding about presentation mattering."
"Even for home cooking," Meg said, demonstrating. "See? Just a little twist of the wrist when you put the pasta down..."
A knock interrupted—three raps, pause, one more.
“That’s Luke,” Meg said, then caught herself. “I’ll get it.”
