Page 51 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
"He does. Even when I'm being controlling and anxious about family chaos." Meg paused. "Can I ask you something? What are people saying? About the Shack, I mean. The furniture rearrangement, Anna being back, all of it."
Paige and Natalie exchanged glances.
"Nothing terrible," Natalie said carefully. "Just... people noticing that things feel different. Bernie's been vocal about his booth situation, obviously."
"And Mrs. Franklin mentioned that her usual routine got disrupted when she couldn't find her table," Paige added. "But not in a mean way. More like concerned grandmother wondering if everything's okay."
"People love Margo," Natalie said. "And they want the Shack to succeed. But you know how small towns are—they notice when familiar rhythms get shaken up."
"So, they think we're incompetent," Meg said, feeling her stomach tighten.
"Not incompetent. Just... in transition. Which you are." Paige reached across the table to squeeze Meg's hand. "Change is messy. People understand that."
"But they also depend on the Shack being reliable," Natalie said gently. "When that consistency gets disrupted, even for creative reasons, it makes people nervous."
Meg nodded, processing this. It was one thing to manage family chaos in private; it was another to realize the whole community was watching their experiment unfold.
"The thing is," Paige said, "I think most people are rooting for you all. Anna's always been part of this community, even whenshe was away. And everyone knows how much Margo loves having family around."
"Plus, Bea and Stella are both sweethearts," Natalie added. "Bea helped me carry groceries last week, and Stella always says hello when she sees me. They're good kids."
"They are good kids. Stella especially has been amazing—she just jumps in and helps wherever she's needed." Meg smiled. "It's funny, I came back here thinking I'd help Margo for a few weeks and then go back to my real life. But this feels more real than anything I was doing in San Francisco."
"What about your work?" Paige asked.
"Still working, just remotely. That big hotel client in San Clemente has been keeping me busy, but it's different now. It feels like meaningful work instead of just climbing corporate ladders." Meg tapped her spoon on the table. "I keep thinking about what I want my life to look like in five years, and none of it involves conference rooms or commute stress."
"What does it involve?" Natalie asked.
"This. The Shack, the community, work that feels purposeful. Family dinners that sometimes turn into artistic chaos." Meg paused. "And Luke. Definitely Luke."
"Sounds like you're building something," Paige said.
"That's exactly what it feels like. For the first time in years, I'm building instead of just managing what already exists."
They finished their coffee talking about lighter things—Paige's latest wedding disasters, Natalie's plans for the upcoming school year, Meg's adjustment to small-town rhythms. But as they prepared to leave, Paige caught Meg's arm.
"You know what I love about seeing you now?" she said. "You look happy. Really happy. Not just successful or accomplished, but genuinely happy."
Walking back to her car, Meg thought about her friends' words. They were right—she was building something new, messyand uncertain and completely different than anything she'd planned.
The community might be watching, Anna might cause more artistic chaos, and the future might be unclear.
But she was in love, she was part of something meaningful, and for the first time in years, she was excited to see what happened next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tyler’s house smelled faintly like surf wax and frozen pizza—a unique combo that somehow suited him. He glanced out the window where Anna had asked to set up her easel earlier that morning to catch the perfect light and smiled as she shook her head and stood.
Seconds later, Anna burst through the door with cerulean blue streaked across her cheek and what appeared to be half a palette stuck to her elbow.
“I need your shower,” she announced. “And possibly a paint scraper.”
Tyler looked up from his laptop where he’d been editing photos. “Let me guess. Festival piece got aggressive?”
“Festival piece won. I look like I lost a fight with a Monet.” Anna held up her hands, which were more paint than skin. “Also, I may have accidentally painted your doorknob.”
“Naturally.” Tyler grabbed a beer from the fridge and tossed her one. “You know where the bathroom is. Try not to redecorate it.”
