Page 84 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
Stella watched Tyler fold the ladder, Meg make notes about tomorrow’s specials, Anna capture the moment in quick sketches. She watched Bea and Joey tidy like they’d been doing this for years instead of weeks.
Outside, the sign reading “Still a Work in Progress” swayed in the ocean breeze.
Inside, three generations of Margo’s family and their chosen family finished cleaning up, turned off the lights, and locked the door behind them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Eleanor’s deck was bright in the late afternoon, the perfect backdrop for post-Festival analysis.
The Circle had gathered earlier than usual—Eleanor, Vivian, Margo, and Meg, who by now was considered a full member rather than honorary.
“Well,” Vivian said, settling into her chair with a glass of wine and looking like she had things to say, “that was quite a summer.”
“Quite a summer indeed,” Eleanor agreed, arranging cheese and crackers carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Walsh family dynamics shift so dramatically in such a short time.”
Margo looked up from her own wine, paint still faintly visible under her fingernails despite vigorous scrubbing. “You two have been watching us like hawks.”
“Of course we have,” Vivian said without shame. “It’s been better than cable television. Drama, character growth, artistic crises, and that delightful young woman of yours.”
“Stella,” Margo said, and her voice carried unmistakable pride. “She’s something special.”
“She is,” Eleanor confirmed. “Though I have to ask—how did Anna take losing the Festival? She seemed remarkably cheerful when I saw her at the market.”
“Better than I expected,” Margo said. “I think not winning was a relief. It gave her permission to enjoy the work instead of trying to prove herself.”
“And Bea?” Vivian asked.
“Already painting again,” Meg said with a smile. “Different light, different tone. I think she’s starting to paint for herself, not for comparison.”
Eleanor nodded approvingly. “And Stella?”
Margo’s eyes softened. “Her photographs drew quite a crowd. People stood in front of them for ages. Someone asked if they were for sale, but she said no—they weren’t about selling, they were about showing.”
“Very mature,” Vivian said. “Sixteen going on sixty.”
“She gets that from you,” Eleanor teased.
Margo shook her head. “From all of us, maybe.”
They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the steady sound of waves below.
“Speaking of seeing things,” Eleanor said carefully, “I ran into Patricia Henderson at the post office.”
Margo groaned. “That can’t be good.”
“Actually, it was. She was gracious about not winning. But she mentioned a rumor that Sam Walsh has applied to be a featured artist for next year’s Festival.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The ocean filled it.
“Featured?” Vivian repeated. “As in, front-and-center featured?”
“That’s what Patricia heard,” Eleanor said. “Apparently Sam’s been making quite a name for herself in the Southwest—gallery shows, collectors, the works.”
Meg looked down at her glass. “She hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
Margo’s voice was even. “She hasn’t mentioned it to me either.”
Vivian exchanged a glance with Eleanor. “How do you think everyone would handle it? Sam returning to all that attention?”
