Page 13 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
Stella caught her father’s eye across the table. He looked like someone watching a tennis match played with invisible balls.
“That sounds exciting,” Stella said, because that seemed like the safe response.
“What about you?” Bea leaned forward eagerly. “Any interests? Hidden talents? I can sense there’s something creative about you.”
Stella glanced around the table—at Anna’s paint-stained fingers gesturing enthusiastically, at Bea treating the wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton, at Meg’s carefully controlled smile, at Tyler’s barely contained panic.
“Not really,” she said. “I’m more of an observer.”
“Oh.” Bea looked slightly deflated, like this wasn’t the answer she was hoping for. “Well, that’s... nice too, I guess.”
Anna jumped in quickly. “Observation is important! You have to really see things before you can create them.”
“I’m not trying to create anything,” Stella said. “I just notice stuff.”
“Like what?” Tyler asked. “Here?”
Stella hesitated. Like how Anna keeps saying “we” accomplished things when Meg did most of the work. Like how he looked ready to bolt every time they start talking about artistic philosophy. Like how Meg’s organizing everything perfectly to accommodate their chaos while they don’t seem to notice.
“Just... I don’t know. How people are.”
“That’s cool,” Bea said, rallying her enthusiasm. “Everyone needs different talents, right?”
Stella wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded better than “the kid who notices when things are weird.”
“That could be... interesting,” she said finally.
“Wonderful!” Anna beamed. “We’re going to have such a creative time together!”
Her dad was watching her again, but this time he didn’t look worried. More... relieved. Maybe he’d finally realized she could handle dinner without adult intervention.
Stella caught Margo’s eye across the table. The older woman gave her the slightest wink.
Adapt, Margo had said. Or develop that high tolerance.
Looking at her cousin, who was now explaining her theory about how the golden ratio applied to fork-twirling, Stella figured she was going to need both. But maybe being the family observer wouldn’t be the worst job in the world. Someone had to notice what was actually happening around here.
CHAPTER SIX
It wasn’t long before it was clear that Anna and Bea operated on what Stella privately called “Artist Philosophy”—a mysterious approach to work where every task required deep contemplation about its spiritual significance and aesthetic potential.
Stella stood in the Beach Shack kitchen at 9:30 a.m., methodically slicing sourdough while Anna stood motionless at the prep station, staring at a block of aged cheddar like she was waiting for inspiration to hit.
“It’s speaking to me,” Anna murmured, hands hovering over the cheese. “The way the morning light hits its golden surface... there’s something profound here about time and transformation.”
“It’s cheese,” Stella said gently. “For the lunch prep.”
“Everything is more than what it appears to be,” Bea said from the walk-in cooler, where she’d been “communing with the dairy” for ten minutes.
Through the pass-through window, Stella could see Margo setting up the grill with her usual calm, occasionally glancing over patiently.
“Anna?” Margo called. “How’s that prep coming?”
“We’re approaching it mindfully,” Anna replied. “Bea’s taught me about intentional food preparation. It’s about infusing positive energy into the cooking process.”
“The cheese doesn’t need positive energy,” Stella pointed out. “It needs to be sliced.”
“But think about how much better everything would taste if we prepared it with conscious intention instead of rushing through mechanically,” Bea said, emerging from the cooler with a single perfect sourdough loaf held like a precious gem.
