Page 48 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
Stella asked. Bea shrugged. “We’re teenagers. We haven’t had time to get this messed up yet.”
“Give it a few years,” Joey said. “I’m sure we’ll figure out how to be just as dramatic.”
“Cool,” Stella said. “Something to look forward to.”
Joey leaned back in his chair, balancing a spoon on his finger. “Do you think we’ll be like them?”
“Define ‘like them,’” Bea said.
“High-functioning, emotionally constipated, and aesthetically excellent.”
Stella laughed. “We’re already halfway there.”
Stella thought about her conversation with Margo but decided to keep those insights to herself. Some things the adults needed to figure out on their own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Anna and Bea were in aisle four of the tiny art supply store, midway through what Anna had dubbed a “palette enlightenment” mission. She held two tubes of blue paint up to the fluorescent light, studying their nearly identical hues like it was the most important decision ever.
“Cerulean or ultramarine?” Anna asked, squinting. “They’re both speaking to me, but in very different dialects.”
“They’re both blue,” Bea said, though not unkindly.
Anna turned, scandalized. “They are not both blue. Cerulean is sunlight on shallow water. Ultramarine is midnight swimming. One sings; the other broods.”
Bea smiled despite herself. This was her mother in her purest form—rapt, dramatic, completely lost in color. And as usual, utterly sincere about it. But when Bea looked at the overflowing basket of supplies they already had, her smile faltered. So many plans. So many blues and brushes for whatever project Anna was cooking up now.
Anna was already moving down the aisle, testing a rack of brushes. “Oh, look at these. Natural bristle, perfect spring tension. These would be ideal for the texture work I’m planning.”
“What texture work?” Bea asked, dragging the basket behind her.
“Just some artwork I’m considering. Layers of blues and greens, maybe some mixed media elements.” Anna flexed a brush. “Something that would really transform a space.”
Bea trailed her fingers along a shelf of sketchbooks. “You know, I was thinking about something Stella said the other day.”
“Was it about my salt system? Because organizing by color temperature was revolutionary. I might apply it to the spice rack.”
“Not that,” Bea said, suppressing a smile. “Something more general.”
Anna tilted her head, giving Bea half her attention—an improvement, statistically speaking. “Okay. Listening.”
Bea took a breath. “Do you ever think your ideas might be... a lot for other people?”
Anna blinked. “A lot? Like—too much?”
“Not too much,” Bea said quickly, seeing the flicker of hurt. “Just... unexpected. Sometimes people need time to catch up.”
Anna went still, watching Bea the way she studied a composition—trying to decode what wasn’t being said.
“Is this about the Florence Method? The table optimization?”
“Kind of. It’s just—“ Bea hesitated, then decided to be specific. “You moved all of Joey’s napkin dispensers. He couldn’t find them when he needed to fold. I watched him get really panicked trying to locate them.”
Anna’s face changed completely. The artistic enthusiasm drained away, replaced by genuine concern. “Oh no. I had no idea. His napkin folding—that’s how he manages stress, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. And when you relocated all the dispensers to those strategic intervals, he couldn’t find any napkins when he needed them. He was trying to fold whatever he could grab—napkins from tables, paper towels from the kitchen.”
“Oh god.” Anna set down the brush she’d been holding. “I completely disrupted his coping system. I should apologize. I need to apologize.”
