Page 81 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“Walk you home?” Tyler asked Stella.
“You bet.”
They fell into step together, leaving the bright parking lot for the quiet streets. The ocean was calm in the distance, and the moon reflected on the water, bright and peaceful.
“You okay?” Tyler asked as they walked.
“I am,” Stella said, surprised to hear the truth in it. “I thought I’d be wrecked if I didn’t win. I’m... not. I loved my wall. I loved seeing people stand in front of the Shack and smile.”
“They did,” he said. “Some cried.”
“Onion fumes,” she teased softly.
He nudged her shoulder. “You know, I kept wanting to shoot during the Pageant. And then I didn’t.”
“Me too.”
“Proud of you, kid.”
“I know,” she said, and it wasn’t teenage bravado; it was shared knowledge. “I’m proud of me, too.”
A salt breeze tugged at the hair Bea had styled so carefully hours ago. It was coming loose now, returning to its natural state, but Stella didn’t mind.
“Next summer?” Tyler asked.
“Next summer,” she said. “Different eyes. Same light.”
“I hope so,” Tyler said, and squeezed her hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Beach Shack smelled like fresh coffee and new paint. Stella moved behind the counter easily, pouring Mrs. Walker’s usual—half caf, extra cinnamon, no lid. The morning sun made warm stripes on the floor, and everything felt familiar even though the place looked a little different now. Someone had put wildflowers by the register. Definitely Meg.
“You’re a natural,” Mrs. Walker said, sipping with approval.
“I had the best training,” Stella replied, glancing toward the grill where Margo was nowhere to be seen.
Out front, Joey had appointed himself unofficial greeter, still glowing from last night’s pageant performance. There was faint stage makeup behind one ear that no one had the heart to tell him about.
“Welcome to the Shack! Coffee, muffins, emotional recovery—we’ve got it all,” he announced to a pair of joggers.
Bea stood on a step stool by the window, re-lettering the quote of the day. Her handwriting was surprisingly graceful for someone so chaotic.
“You don’t have to know the ending to begin the story.” — Unknown
The bell jingled, and Meg stepped in, followed by Anna and Tyler. Each of them held manila envelopes. Legal-sized.
Stella felt her stomach flip. The commitment papers. The official decision about the Shack’s future.
“Do we just... give them to her?” Anna whispered.
“We give them to her,” Meg said firmly, though her shoulders looked tense.
“Do we even know where she is?” Tyler asked.
Margo appeared from the back hallway, wiping her hands on a rag, a smear of turquoise paint on her wrist. She paused when she saw them. Took in the envelopes. The collective nervous energy.
Stella watched from behind the counter, feeling like she was witnessing something enormous. They were choosing the Shack. Choosing each other. Choosing to build something together.
