Page 3 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“No fair, you got a head start!” Tyler called, jogging after her with the equipment bag bouncing against his hip.
Whatever chaos Anna and Bea brought with them, at least he’d have these memories of peaceful mornings.
CHAPTER TWO
Meg Walsh stood in her living room, holding a stack of work files and staring at the antique writing desk that had been her mother's. The afternoon light streaming through the window behind it was perfect for painting—exactly what Anna would need.
"You've been standing there for ten minutes," Luke observed from the doorway.
"I'm thinking." She gestured at the room. "Anna needs this space for the light, but if I move the desk to my bedroom, there's no room for my filing cabinet. And if I move the filing cabinet?—"
"Or," Luke said, gently removing the files from her hands, "we could let them figure it out when they get here."
Tomorrow. Anna and Bea’s flight landed at two in the afternoon. Less than twenty-four hours from now, her perfectly organized house would transform into... what? She couldn’t quite picture it, which made the anxiety worse.
When Anna had first asked if she and Bea could stay with Meg for a few weeks she’d almost frozen in place. Not at all what she’d had in mind.
But Anna had rented her house out while she’d been in Florence for a year and coming back early didn’t mean that her renters could leave early. So there it was.
"I'm being ridiculous," Meg said, letting Luke pull her into a hug.
"You're being you. Which includes planning for every contingency." He pulled back to look at her. "I take it the spice cabinet got reorganized again?"
"Three times yesterday. And I color-coded the towels this morning." She gestured toward the hall closet she'd spent two hours perfecting. "Blue for guests, white for everyday, gray for the beach. It's a system."
"Very practical." Luke's eyes danced with suppressed laughter. "What's left to organize?"
"I don't know what Bea needs. I haven't seen her since she was eleven. What if she's vegetarian? What if she has allergies? What if?—"
"Meg." His voice was gentle but firm. "Anna would have mentioned allergies. You're not hosting strangers. You're hosting family."
"Family I don't really know anymore." She looked out the window at Mrs. Walker across the street, watering the same roses she'd tended for thirty years. Predictable. Orderly. "What if we drive each other crazy?"
A memory surfaced—seventeen years old, trying to study for SATs while Anna turned their dining room into a pottery studio. Clay dust coating every surface, Anna humming off-key while she worked, completely oblivious to Meg's mounting frustration as the test date approached. Meg had snapped finally, yelling about responsibility and consideration for others.
But she also remembered what came after—Anna appearing at her bedroom door at midnight with tea and homemade cookies, settling cross-legged on the bed. "I'm sorry aboutthe mess. Want help with the practice tests?" Anna had stayed up until two in the morning, patiently working through vocabulary flashcards and essay prompts, making Meg laugh with ridiculous mnemonics that somehow actually helped her remember.
The chaos had been real. But so had the love underneath it.
Her phone buzzed. Tyler.
You ready for the invasion?
Define ready.
Fair point. How's the organizing going?
How did you know I was organizing?
Because I know you. Go easy on yourself, okay? It's going to be chaotic. That's Anna's thing. But it'll also probably be good.
When did you become so wise?
Since having a teenager. They force perspective.
How’s Stella handling all this?
Cautiously optimistic. She's curious about Bea but trying not to show it.
