Page 64 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“What happened?” Eleanor asked gently.
Margo took a sip of wine, then let the words come slowly. “Art supplies in the kitchen. Turpentine near the sink. Paint brushes soaking next to the coffee station.”
Vivian blinked. “So… not a rat infestation.”
“Just an art infestation.”
Margo laughed, but it was a tired sound. “Anna was in the zone. Tyler was off photographing sculpture emergencies. Meg was trying to fix it all at once. Stella and Joey are the only reason we didn’t get shut down on the spot.”
Eleanor raised her brows. “The teenagers saved the day?”
“Completely. Logs. Cleanliness. Poise. I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud—or more… frustrated.”
The others waited. They knew her well enough to let the silence work.
“I’ve been watching the kids,” Margo said eventually. “Trying to figure out if they really want the Shack, or if they’re just here out of obligation. I even asked Rick to set up a trust. The kind that would split ownership between them.”
Vivian sat up. “You’re serious.”
“I am. I haven’t signed it yet.” Margo looked down at her wineglass, swirling the deep red liquid. “Because I’m afraid.”
“Of what?” Eleanor asked.
“That they don’t want it. Not really. That they love me enough to help me… but not enough to fight for this place when I’m gone.”
Vivian reached for the raspberry tart and cut a piece before answering. “Then don’t leave yet.”
“I’m eighty.”
“Exactly,” Vivian said. “You’ve earned the right to see the truth while you’re still around to do something about it.”
“I don’t want to guilt them into taking it. I don’t want this place to become a burden they inherit like an old dog they didn’t choose.”
Eleanor nodded slowly. “Then maybe this week was a gift.”
“Some gift. They nearly broke each other in the aftermath.”
“But now you know,” Vivian said. “They didn’t show up the way you hoped. They flailed. They argued. They dropped the ball. All things we’ve done at one point or another.”
“And yet,” Eleanor added, “you’re here. And they’re still there. That says something too.”
Margo sat back in her chair, the sky now streaked with soft pink and lavender.
“I used to think the hard part was keeping everything running,” she said quietly. “But it turns out the hard part is stepping back and letting things fall a little, just to see who cares enough to pick them up.”
Vivian topped off her wine. “So? Did anyone pick up the pieces?”
“They tried,” Margo said. “Sloppily. Emotionally. Late.”
“And?”
“And… I finished a painting,” she admitted. “A real one. For the Festival.”
Vivian’s eyes widened. “You’re submitting?”
Margo nodded, starting to smile. “Finished it yesterday. Haven’t painted like that in decades. And you know what? It felt good. Messy and scary and hard—butgood.”
“See?” Eleanor said with a satisfied smile. “That’s what you get for letting go.”
