Page 77 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
Bernie popped up, already typing on his phone. “I told you—never bet on family.”
“You never once said that, Bernie,” Margo said. “You’ve been betting on this family for decades.”
Bernie’s cheeks went pink, and everyone started laughing.
Meg leaned into Luke. “I think I forgot how to breathe.”
“You did,” he said, grinning. “I was about to fan you with the program.”
Someone suggested ice cream. No one argued.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The ice cream shop glowed under its flickering neon sign, shining bright red letters on the sidewalk. Stella could smell waffle cones and vanilla mixed with salt air from the beach.
The Walshes filed in still dressed from the Festival gala—a mix of wrinkled linen and smudged makeup. Bea had glitter on her cheek that wouldn’t come off.
Nobody talked about losing. Not directly. But it was good, and she was grateful for the way everyone moved without the careful tension they’d had all evening.
The shop was nearly empty except for a teenage couple sharing a sundae and an old man reading his newspaper very carefully. The overhead fans made a gentle rhythm, and the freezer cases hummed.
“Well,” Anna said, sliding into a booth with squeaky red vinyl, “that was humbling.”
“I’d like to submit my piece entitled, ‘Why Didn’t They Understand My Genius,’” Bea announced, already scanning the ice cream flavors. “It features salted caramel and deep dread.”
“Followed by ‘Mixed Media: Caffeine & Regret,’” Anna added, grabbing a menu she didn’t need. Her fingers still hadpaint stains from last-minute touch-ups. “And, by the way, the coffee stains were intentional.”
Tyler flopped into a chair and gave the table a look of mock despair.
“Mine didn’t have a name,” Stella said.
Margo raised an eyebrow. “Very minimalist.”
“I can’t believe you actually submitted something,” Anna said suddenly, turning to Stella. “Six weeks ago you wouldn’t even call what you were doing ‘photography.’”
Stella slid into the booth beside Tyler, trying to fix her curls that had escaped during the evening. The compliment made her cheeks warm. “Yeah, well. Apparently I had opinions about how the Shack should be documented.”
“You did have a name. You called it ‘The Shack Breathes,’” Bea said, sounding awed. “That’s poetry, not just documentation.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Stella said, but she was smiling.
Tyler nudged her shoulder. “Remember when you said you weren’t ‘the artistic type’ and just wanted to take pictures of things?”
“I still just want to take pictures of things,” Stella protested. “I just... maybe care more about which things and why.”
“That’s literally what art is,” Margo said gently.
Meg returned from the counter with Luke, both carrying way too much ice cream. “Mine was ‘Spectator with Clipboard and Mild Panic,’” she said, handing out cones. “It didn’t make it past the concept phase.”
“Conceptually strong,” Luke said, giving her extra napkins. “Execution needed more confidence.”
They’d ordered too many scoops in too many flavors, and now they passed around sticky cones that dripped onto the table, stealing bites from each other.
“So what happens now?” Stella asked. “I mean, next year. Do we try again?”
The table went quiet for a moment. Outside, Stella could hear sounds from the amphitheater—voices calling directions, someone testing a microphone. Joey would be getting into costume about now, transforming into Coffee Drinker Number Two for his moment of artistic glory.
“I want to try again,” Anna said firmly. “But maybe with something that doesn’t require me to work at three a.m. on Doritos.”
