Page 28 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“She’s going to do it,” Meg said quietly.
“She’s definitely going to do it,” Tyler confirmed.
“And Margo’s going to say yes.”
“Margo’s definitely going to say yes.”
They stood there for a moment, processing the inevitable.
“I have a client meeting,” Meg said suddenly, grabbing her phone. “Very important. Can’t be rescheduled.”
“Festival documentation,” Tyler said, lifting his camera bag. “Critical. Time-sensitive.”
They both headed for the door like people fleeing a sinking ship.
Stella looked at Joey, who was now folding napkins like someone in shock.
“Should we warn Margo?” Joey asked.
From the kitchen came the sound of Anna’s enthusiastic voice explaining her revolutionary approach to café optimization, followed by Margo’s thoughtful murmurs and encouraging questions.
“Too late,” Stella said.
“Think it’ll be a disaster?”
Stella paused, watching through the kitchen doorway as Anna gestured excitedly at her sketches while Margo listened with the patient attention of someone genuinely interested in artistic vision.
“Oh, absolutely,” Stella said. “But it might be an educational disaster.”
“Educational for who?”
“Everyone,” Stella said, as Anna’s voice rose in triumph and Margo’s laughter drifted from the kitchen. “Definitely everyone.”
Joey sighed and reached for more napkins. “I’m going to need stronger coffee tomorrow.”
“We all are,” Stella agreed, then paused as Anna emerged from the kitchen with the radiant smile of someone who’d just received permission to reshape the world.
“Tomorrow’s going to be very interesting,” Anna announced.
Stella and Joey exchanged one final look—the look of people who’d just witnessed their family commit to a beautiful, well-intentioned, inevitable disaster.
“Very interesting,” Stella said.
By the time she was done, the Shack would either be reborn or barricaded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Margo settled into her usual chair on Eleanor’s deck, wine in hand, watching the last of the day’s light fade over the ocean. Friday evenings meant Circle gathering, and after the week she’d had, she needed the steady wisdom of her oldest friends.
“Meg couldn’t make it,” Margo said as Eleanor sat down beside her. “She had to go to San Clemente to see her big client.”
Eleanor nodded in understanding. “Next time,” she said.
Vivian turned to Margo. “You look tired,” Vivian observed with the directness of someone who’d known her for forty years.
“I feel eighty,” Margo admitted. “Which, coincidentally, I am.”
Eleanor laughed, passing around a plate of cheese and crackers. “Age is just a number until your body starts keeping score. How are you feeling? Really feeling, after the dizzy spells?”
