Page 65 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“I let go for once and the health department showed up.”
“And you still painted.”
Margo laughed, the first full-bodied laugh she’d had in days. “That’s the headline, isn’t it?”
“The health inspector came,” Vivian said, raising her glass, “and Margo finally picked up a brush.”
They all raised their glasses.
“To chaos,” Eleanor toasted.
“To clarity,” Vivian added.
“To paint water in the coffee station,” Margo said dryly, and they all laughed again.
The night wore on with stories and tart and warmth that came not from the wine but from years of showing up for each other.
And when Margo walked home under the stars, she took the long way, following the familiar streets that held so much history.
First she passed Meg’s house—Sam’s house, really. When the bank had threatened foreclosure, Margo had quietly bought it, keeping it up the way you do for someone you still hope might come home.
Light spilled from the dining room. Through the window she saw Anna and Bea surrounded by paints and brushes, heads bent together, entirely absorbed. It looked right—creativity living where it was meant to, in a home. Anna leaned over a canvas, Bea sketching beside her.
Margo paused on the sidewalk, remembering Sam at that same table years ago, elbows deep in some wild project, paint on her cheek, conviction in her eyes. The apple hadn’t fallen far.
A few houses down, she passed Tyler’s bungalow. Warm light from the kitchen window revealed him and Stella at the small table, heads close over photographs. There was something steady in the picture—two people who’d found a rhythm together.
Tyler had surprised her this summer. She’d expected chaos, but he’d met it with quiet determination. He still disappeared when things got hard, but he always came back. And Stella—sharp, observant Stella—always seemed to see what the adults missed
Margo turned down the narrow path to her cottage and slipped through the back gate into her garden. The jasmine was blooming, soft and sweet in the night air. Her studio light still burned from earlier.
Inside, the familiar scent of turpentine wrapped around her. The easel stood empty now—the painting she’d finished yesterday gone from its frame.
It hadn’t been the seascape she meant to paint, or any of the safe things she used to attempt. It was the Beach Shack itself—not as customers saw it, but as she did: layers of memory, shells and stories woven together.
That morning she’d carried it to the Festival office, hands shaking as she filled out the entry form.“Shell Stories,” by Margo Turner.
Now, looking at the empty easel, she felt something she hadn’t in years—anticipation for her own future instead of anxiety about everyone else’s.
The kids would decide what they decided—about the Shack, the trust, all of it. They’d find their way, or they wouldn’t. But for once, she wasn’t waiting on them to move before she did.
She was choosing to keep creating. To matter, even now.
And she didn’t feel as afraid anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The coffee machine chose 10:47 a.m. on a busy Friday morning to have what could only be described as a complete breakdown.
Stella was taking an order from Mrs. Fell when the espresso machine began making a sound like a garbage disposal trying to eat rocks. Steam shot out at odd angles, the grinder made one final grinding noise, and then everything went ominously quiet.
"Um," said the customer at the counter, who had been mid-order for a cappuccino. "Is that normal?"
"Not remotely," Stella replied, moving quickly to the machine. She pressed buttons, checked connections, and tried the basic troubleshooting that Tyler had taught her. Nothing. The machine that was responsible for roughly sixty percent of their morning revenue was completely dead.
And there were twelve people in line waiting for coffee.
"Margo!" Stella called toward the grill. "We have a situation."
