Page 82 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
And she was still supposed to leave in two weeks.
“We signed them,” Meg said. “All of us.”
“We don’t have a business plan,” Tyler added.
“Or a clear schedule,” Anna offered.
“Or defined roles.” Meg met Margo’s gaze. “But we have intent. And we’re here.”
Stella felt a sharp pang watching them commit to something she desperately wanted to be part of. They were building a future she might only visit during summer breaks. If that.
Margo looked at the three of them for a long moment. Then at her paint-stained rag. Then back at the family she’d spent so long trying to hold together.
“All right, then,” she said.
That was it. No grand declarations. Just quiet acknowledgment that this was starting.
Joey ran over to peer at the envelopes. “Wait, is this the real paperwork? Like, actual commitment?”
“Signed and everything,” Meg confirmed.
“Wow.” Joey blinked. “Guess I have to learn to do more than wave at people and recite pageant lines.”
“Baby steps,” Bea said, hopping down from the stool.
“Start by cleaning the makeup off your ear,” Stella added, though her heart wasn’t quite in the teasing. She was thinking about airplane tickets and school enrollment and all the reasons she was supposed to want to go back to Australia.
“Never. It’s part of my charm.”
Margo moved to the doorway, looking outside where a new wooden sign hung slightly askew above the entrance. Tyler and Joey had nailed it up yesterday, and the paint was still drying in one corner.
Still a Work in Progress
“Should we fix the tilt?” Bea asked.
Margo shook her head. “Leave it. It feels honest.”
Stella stared at the sign and felt something twist in her chest. She was still a work in progress too. Still figuring out where she belonged. Except she was starting to suspect she already knew.
The last customer left at three-fifteen, and Stella locked the door behind Mrs. Borden.
She finished wiping down tables while Joey restocked napkins and Bea swept the floor, humming something that might have been from her playlist or completely improvised. Anna sat at the counter, sketching the family in motion—Tyler counting the register, Meg organizing tomorrow’s prep list, Margo cleaning the grill like she’d done for fifty years.
“I need to add some shells to the ceiling,” Margo said suddenly.
Everyone paused. They all knew about the shell ceiling—dozens of shells collected over decades, each one representing a story that mattered enough to preserve.
“Customers brought some new ones this week,” Margo continued, pulling a small collection from the drawer. “Mrs.Walker’s grandchildren found these at Crescent Bay. And the Hart family left these after their anniversary lunch.”
She looked up at the ceiling, where shells caught the afternoon light. “I haven’t been up there in weeks. Keep meaning to, but...”
Tyler moved toward the storage closet. “I’ll get the step ladder.”
“Actually,” Meg said quietly, “remember how we used to help when we were kids? All of us holding the ladder steady?”
Anna looked up from her sketchbook. “Remember when I tried to climb up and add my own shell and nearly brought the whole thing down?”
“And Tyler wouldn’t let go of the ladder for an hour after that,” Stella added.
