Page 12 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S tella stood outside Margo’s back gate, clutching the empty basket Meg had handed her like it was a lifeline. “Just grab a big handful from the herb garden,” Meg had said, like it was no big deal to send her to raid her great-grandmother’s garden alone.

The gate was unlocked—of course it was. This whole town seemed to operate on some kind of honor system that would get you robbed in Sydney. She pushed through, following the stone path around the side of the house.

The garden hit her senses all at once. Not just the size of it—though it was bigger than their entire yard back home—but the smell.

Layers of green scents she couldn’t identify, flowers she didn’t know the names of, and underneath it all, something that made her think of cooking and comfort and things she couldn’t quite name .

“The basil’s over there,” a voice said calmly.

Stella jumped, nearly dropping the basket. Margo stood near the back door, wearing paint-stained jeans and holding what looked like a wet brush.

“I didn’t—sorry. Meg said you were at the Shack.”

“Just got home. Wanted to get some painting in before the light faded.” Margo studied her with those sharp eyes that seemed to see everything. “The basil’s in the raised bed by the lemon tree.”

Stella moved toward the herbs, trying not to feel like she was trespassing. The basil plants were huge, nothing like the sad little pots at the grocery store. She pinched off leaves the way Meg had shown her, the scent making her stomach growl despite the Pop-Tart she’d demolished earlier.

“You paint?” she found herself asking, glancing at Margo’s stained clothes.

“Trying to again. It’s been a while.” Margo set the brush down on a small table. “Used to paint all the time when Tyler was young.”

“Was he always into photography?”

“Always noticed light, that one. From the time he could talk—pointing at shadows, fascinated by how things looked different in morning versus afternoon.” Margo moved closer, not crowding but clearly not leaving either.

“Drove us all crazy asking why the kitchen looked gold at breakfast but blue at dinner.”

“Yeah,” Stella said without thinking. “The light here. It’s different than Sydney. Softer or something. ”

Margo’s smile was small but pleased. “You have the eye too, then. Runs in the family.”

Stella focused on the basil, not sure what to do with that information. “He’s always going on about golden hour this, blue hour that.”

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid. Used to take him out with my paints, trying to capture morning colors. He complained every time but never missed a session.” Margo moved to a different plant, deadheading flowers with practiced movements.

“He offered to teach me,” Stella said, trying to sound casual. “Photography stuff.”

“And?”

“And... I don’t know. Maybe.”

They worked in silence for a moment, Stella picking basil while Margo tended her flowers. It should have been awkward, but something about the garden made the quiet feel natural.

“You want to see something?” Margo asked suddenly.

Stella looked up, wary. “What kind of something?”

“Photos. From when Tyler was your age. If you’re interested.”

She should say no. Should grab the basil and flee back to the safety of Tyler’s too-small house. Instead, she heard herself saying, “Okay.”

Margo’s living room was exactly what Stella expected—comfortable, lived-in, walls covered with family photos. What she didn’t expect was how many featured Tyler .

“That’s him at sixteen,” Margo said, pointing to a gangly kid with sun-bleached hair holding a surfboard. “Same age as you.”

Stella stared. It was Tyler but wasn’t—all knees and elbows, grinning at the camera with none of the careful distance she was used to seeing in him.

“He looks happy,” she said without meaning to.

“He was. Most of the time.” Margo pulled out a photo album, sitting on the couch and patting the space beside her. “Come on. I’ll show you his unfortunate middle school phase. Every thirteen-year-old boy thinks longer hair makes them look like a surfer.”

Despite herself, Stella sat, leaving careful space between them. The album opened to reveal Tyler at various ages—gap-toothed grins, terrible haircuts, always with a camera in hand or around his neck.

“That’s him with his sisters,” Margo pointed to a photo of three kids covered in sand. “Meg was trying to organize a sandcastle competition. Anna just wanted to destroy everyone else’s. Tyler documented the chaos.”

Stella smiled, recognizing Meg’s determined expression even in childhood.

Margo turned the page. “Oh, this was when Sam—your grandmother—left for her artist residency in Greece.”

The boy in the photo looked older, maybe in his twenties, holding a camera at some family gathering.

“She travels a lot. Tyler was disappointed when she started missing holidays,” Margo said, her voice neutral. “Threw himself deeper into work. Said at least photos stayed where you put them.”

“She doesn’t visit?” Stella asked carefully.

“She sends postcards. Promises to come home ‘soon.’” Margo’s smile was gentle but sad. “Sam’s always chasing the next perfect light, the next perfect canvas. Sometimes I think she forgets that life happens while you’re looking for perfect.”

“Tyler doesn’t talk about her much.”

“No, I imagine he doesn’t.” Margo studied the photo. “He took it personally for a while. But he’s built his own life. Learned that some people stay, even if others don’t.”

“Like you.”

“Like me. And Meg, in her own way. Even Luke.” Margo closed the album. “The point is, Tyler knows how to show up for people. He just needs to know they’ll show up for him too.”

The words hung in the air between them. Stella clutched the basket of basil, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

“I should go. Meg’s waiting for this.”

“Of course.” Margo stood, then paused. “Wait here a moment.” She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a small bunch of flowers—bright zinnias in orange and pink—and something else. “For Meg. Tell her they’re for the table.”

She held out a small photo. “And this is for you. I thought you might like it.” Stella took the Polaroid— teenage Tyler with his terrible surfer hair, holding a surfboard and grinning like he owned the world.

“Really?” Stella’s voice came out smaller than intended.

“Every girl should have at least one embarrassing photo of her father,” Margo said, eyes twinkling. “For future leverage.”

“Um, do you want to...” Stella shifted awkwardly. “Meg’s making pasta. If you wanted to come for dinner?”

Margo’s smile was warm. “That’s sweet of you to ask. But you three need your evening together. Besides, I have a painting calling my name.” She handed Stella the flowers. “Meg she makes the best pesto on the coast. She’ll spoil you for all other pesto, fair warning.”

“Okay.” Stella headed for the door, then turned back. “Thanks. For the photos and... stuff.”

“Anytime. Garden’s always open if you need herbs. Or otherwise.”

Back at Tyler’s house, she burst through the door to find Meg at the stove.

“There you are!”

“Margo was there.” Stella set the basket on the counter, then remembered the flowers. “Oh, and these are for you. For the table.”

Meg’s face softened. ““She was there? She sent flowers? That’s so Margo.” She found a jar for them, arranging the bright blooms.

“Yeah, painting. She showed me photos of Tyler. ”

“Oh?” Meg’s voice was carefully casual. “That must have been interesting.”

“He had terrible hair in middle school.”

“The worst,” Meg agreed, smiling. “He thought he looked like Kelly Slater. He looked like a sheepdog.”

Stella found herself almost smiling back. “She gave me this,” she said, holding out the offending Polaroid photo to Meg.

Meg couldn’t stop her laugh when she glanced at the photo. “Oh, wow. He’ll love that,” she said.

“She said he has an old Polaroid camera? That still works?”

“Oh, he definitely does. Won’t let anyone touch it.” Meg paused. “Well, he might let you. If you asked.”

“Maybe. If he offers.” Stella watched Meg work for a moment. “She also said you make the best pesto on the coast.”

“Did she?” Meg looked pleased. “That’s high praise from someone who grows her own everything.”

“Is it really that good?”

“You’ll have to judge for yourself. Want to help? You collected all the basil, might as well learn what to do with it.”

Stella hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine. But if I mess it up, we’re ordering pizza.”

“Deal.”

They worked side by side, Meg showing her how to blend the basil with olive oil, garlic, pine nuts.

The kitchen filled with the sharp, green scent, and Stella found herself thinking about photo albums and boys who noticed light from the time they could talk and great-grandmothers who knew when to give space.

“Hey, Meg?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you all call her Margo? Instead of, you know, Grandma?”

Meg smiled. “I asked her that once when I was little. She said ‘Grandma’ made her feel old, and she was too busy to be old. It stuck.”

“And Sam instead of Mom?”

Meg’s smile faded slightly. “That... started when she began leaving for longer trips. ‘Mom’ felt like a promise she wasn’t keeping. ‘Sam’ was just... easier. For everyone.”

Stella absorbed this, thinking of Fiona back in Sydney, probably feeding the twins their dinosaur nuggets right about now. At least her mother was there, even if she’d shipped Stella off for the summer.

“Families are weird,” she said finally.

“The weirdest,” Meg agreed. “But sometimes weird works.”

“Tyler’s on his way home,” Meg said, checking her phone. “Luke’s coming for dinner too.”

“The whole gang,” Stella said, then felt strange about including herself in that.

“The whole gang,” Meg confirmed easily. “Now come on, let’s see if Margo’s right about this being the best pesto on the coast. ”

And just like that, she was helping make dinner, the afternoon’s revelations settling into her bones like seeds waiting for the right conditions to grow. Not forced, not rushed. Just... possible.

Whatever that meant.