Page 63 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
Meg covered her face with her hands. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up. I was thirteen.”
“You literally tried to serve gravy with a spatula,” Tyler said, grinning at the memory.
“It was the only clean utensil left!” Meg muttered into her palms.
“Gravy spatula it is,” Anna declared, still giggling. “When someone’s going off the rails, we say ‘gravy spatula’ and that’s the signal to pull back and regroup.”
Tyler looked at both his sisters, feeling something he hadn’t felt in years—like they were actually on the same team. “Agreed.” He stuck out his hand like they were fourth graders. “Shake on it.”
They all shook hands, slightly ridiculous but completely sincere.
Tyler leaned back against the bench, looking out at the horizon. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
“Feels like it,” Anna said.
Meg was quiet for a moment, then asked, “And if we mess it up?”
“We call ‘gravy spatula’ and try again,” Tyler said. The words felt surprisingly solid.
Anna looked at the cliffs, at the horizon, then back at them. “Then we need to show her. Not just with words.”
Tyler stood, feeling more certain than he had in years. “Then let’s show up. Today. Tomorrow. Long enough to prove it’s not a fluke.”
His sisters stood too, all three of them a little awkward, a little unsure, but facing in the same direction for once.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Eleanor’s deck still smelled faintly of sea air and citronella, the same way it always did on Friday evenings, when the wine was poured and the Circle convened like clockwork. The sun was low, and Vivian had already kicked off her sandals, settling into her usual chair.
“Tell me someone brought chocolate,” Vivian said, scanning the spread.
“Better,” Eleanor replied. “Raspberry tart from the bakery. You’re welcome.”
“I take back everything I’ve ever said about your taste in men.”
“You’ve never said anythingniceabout my taste in men.”
“Exactly.”
The laughter came easily, the way it always did when the three of them settled in together.
Margo sat quietly for a moment, holding her glass of wine without drinking it. The tart sat untouched on her plate. She wasn’t quite sure how to begin.
Vivian noticed first. “All right. What’s sitting on your chest like a cat that won’t move?”
Eleanor gave Margo a sideways glance. “You look like someone who needs to get something out.”
Margo sighed. “It’s been… a week.”
“Define ‘a week,’” Vivian said. “Plumbing disaster? Staff meltdown? Legal trouble? Bernie betting on crab migration again?”
“Health inspection,” Margo said dryly. “Surprise visit. And a citation.”
Vivian whistled. “Well, damn.”
Eleanor winced. “Serious?”
“Enough to light a fire under everyone.”
