Page 9 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“Oh man,” he said, backing toward the door. “It’s like high school all over again. I’m getting coffee at the Shack. At least Joey’s chaos has a system.”
“Coward,” Meg called after him, though she was smiling.
“Self-preservation!” he shot back. “I still have paint PTSD from the Great Art Project of 2002.”
“That was experimental!” Anna protested, returning with brushes now tucked into her messy bun. “And Mom loved it.”
“Mom was in Peru and never saw it,” Meg reminded her. “We had to repaint before she got back.”
“Details.” Anna waved a hand, then began setting up her easel—next to the stove.
“Anna,” Meg said evenly, “you can’t paint there.”
“Why not? The light is perfect.”
“It’s also where I cook.”
“Oh.” Anna blinked, as if this were brand-new information. “Well, I’ll move it when you need to cook. When do you usually cook?”
Meg opened her mouth, then closed it. When would she usually cook? Whenever she could navigate around the installations apparently happening in every room.
“Aunt Meg, do you have any old sheets?” Bea returned, dragging a massive canvas behind her. “We want to protect the floors. This piece might get messy.”
“This piece?”
“I want to paint about this house where you guys grew up,” Bea said earnestly. “Even though I mostly just visited. I remember this place differently than it actually was, you know?”
“She’s exploring memory,” Anna translated proudly.
Meg glanced at the hardwood near Bea’s feet—new paint splatters, definitely.
Her laptop chimed. San Clemente. She opened the email, trying to focus as Anna dragged the easel across the floor with a screech that probably woke the neighbors.
“Oh, you’re working!” Anna said. “I’ll be quiet.” She immediately knocked over a jar of brushes. “Sorry! They’re multiplying.”
“Sure they are.” Meg remembered Anna’s “twelve” brushes from high school that filled three drawers.
“Just like you only brought ‘a few’ canvases?”
“I’m an optimist,” Anna said. She held a canvas up to the light, tilting it back and forth. “This light really is extraordinary. Different from Florence. Sharper.”
Meg checked the clock again. 6:47. Luke would be here soon. She could escape for an hour—breathe air that didn’t smell like turpentine.
“Meg?” Luke appeared in the doorway, eyes widening at the scene. “Wow. It’s like an art supply store exploded.”
“Welcome to my teenage years,” Meg said dryly. “Except now there are two of them.”
“It’s wonderful,” Anna said. “The whole family together, creating. Well, Meg creates in the kitchen. Her cooking is definitely art.”
“When I can find the stove,” Meg muttered.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Stella, and Meg read it out loud.
Bernie’s starting a Festival pool. Wants to know which Walshes are entering.
Meg typed back.
Not sure yet. Definitely not me.
