Page 19 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T he Beach Shack was in its sweet spot—post-lunch lull, pre-closing prep—when Patricia Henderson floated through the door like a ceramic-scented cloud of determination.

“Tyler!” She practically sang, yoga mat under one arm, oversized tote bag threatening to spill pottery samples. “Perfect timing!”

Tyler, who’d been peacefully cleaning the grill, looked like a deer caught in sustainable bamboo fiber headlights. “Patricia. Hi.”

“I have the most wonderful news about the festival booth placement!” She glided to the counter, somehow managing to invade his personal space from six feet away. “The committee approved the corner spot with eastern exposure!”

“That’s... great,” Tyler said, backing into the grill.

“But I need new photos. The morning shots were lovely, but I’m thinking golden hour would really make the glazes pop.” She set her bag on the counter with a purposeful thud. “I brought samples!”

Bernie, nursing his afternoon coffee in the corner, didn’t even pretend not to watch. “Here we go,” he muttered happily.

Patricia began extracting pottery from her bag like a magician with an endless supply of ceramic rabbits. “This one has an iridescent quality that only shows in certain light—” She held up a bowl, angling it toward Tyler. “See how it catches?”

She moved closer, her hand brushing Tyler’s arm as she tilted the bowl. “The glaze has mica in it. Very rare. Very special.”

“Uh-huh,” Tyler said, focused on the bowl like it might explode.

“I was thinking we could shoot at my home studio. I’ve set up a whole area with perfect natural light.” She touched his arm again. “Very private. No distractions.”

Stella, who’d been folding napkins at the counter, watched the performance with growing fascination. Patricia had now touched Tyler’s arm three times in two minutes.

“I brought lavender lemon cookies too!” Patricia produced a tin. “Made them this morning. Your favorite, right?”

“I don’t really eat cookies?—“

“Of course you do! I remember from the arts council meeting.” She opened the tin, releasing a cloud of expensive vanilla. “I made extra. For everyone.”

“Tyler’s more of a burrito guy,” Joey said helpfully .

Patricia’s smile tightened slightly. “Well, more for the rest of us then!” She turned back to Tyler. “So about tomorrow morning...”

“Tomorrow’s pretty busy?—“

“Tuesday then. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday.” She laughed, the sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. “I’m very flexible.”

“I’ll check my schedule,” Tyler said, the same thing he’d been saying for weeks.

“Perfect! I’ll text you. And call. Just to confirm.” She began repacking her pottery with the efficiency of someone who’d done this routine before. “Oh, and Tyler? I’m teaching a couples pottery class next month. Very sensual. All about connection through clay.”

Tyler knocked over a stack of cups.

“I’ll just... let myself out,” Patricia said, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Enjoy the cookies!”

She swept out, leaving behind the scent of ceramics and designer perfume.

Bernie waited until the door closed completely before letting out a low whistle. “Six months of this,” he said to no one in particular.

Stella abandoned her napkins and drifted over to Bernie’s table. “Six months?”

“Started when Tyler shot her spring collection. ‘Just a few photos,’ she said.” Bernie shook his head. “That was twenty photo sessions ago.”

“Twenty?”

“I’ve been counting. We all have.” He gestured vaguely at the empty Shack. “She went from monthly visits to weekly to... well, you’ve seen.”

Stella glanced at Tyler, who was now staring at the cookie tin like it might contain explosives. “And he doesn’t...?”

“Not a clue.” Bernie sipped his coffee. “Thinks she really needs that many photos. ‘Very dedicated to her craft,’ he says.”

“But she just invited him to couples pottery!”

“Last week it was partner yoga. Week before that, tandem paddleboarding.” Bernie grinned. “Your dad’s always been like this. Completely oblivious.”

“How does he not see it?”

“Walsh family trait, maybe. Your grandma Margo finds it hilarious. We’ve got a betting pool on when he’ll figure it out.”

“A betting pool?”

“I’ve got twenty on ‘never.’ Realistic expectations.”

Stella looked back at Tyler, who was now suspiciously sniffing a cookie. “This is incredible.”

“Oh, this is nothing. You should’ve seen the gallery owner from Newport. Brought him lunch every day for three weeks. Lobster rolls. From that fancy place in Corona del Mar.”

“What happened?”

“She eventually gave up. Told him she was moving to Seattle for love. He said ‘That’s nice.’”

Stella laughed, actually laughed, and Tyler looked over suspiciously.

“What’s so funny? ”

“Bernie’s weather knee stories,” Stella said quickly.

“I haven’t told any weather knee stories,” Bernie protested.

“Right. That’s what’s funny.”

Tyler shook his head and went back to cleaning the already-clean grill.

Just then, a customer approached the register—a woman in her sixties with sun-weathered hands. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small shell, placing it carefully in a basket by the register.

“From Maui,” she told Margo. “Found it at Wailea Beach.”

“Thank you, dear,” Margo said warmly. “It’s lovely.”

Stella watched the exchange with curiosity. After the woman left, she peered into the basket. Several shells nestled inside—different colors, shapes, sizes.

“What’s that for?” Stella asked.

“Look up,” Meg said from her barstool, where she’d been trying to work on her laptop.

Stella tilted her head back and really looked at the ceiling for the first time. Her mouth fell open. The entire surface was covered in shells—thousands of them creating swirling patterns, waves, flowers, abstract designs that seemed to shift in the light.

“Whoa,” she said. “I mean, I noticed it before, but I didn’t really see it.”

“Customers bring them,” Margo explained, coming around the counter. “From their travels, their beaches, places that matter to them. Been doing it for decades now. ”

“And you put them all up there?”

“The special ones. The ones that tell stories.” Margo smiled up at her life’s work.

“That spiral near the window? Those are from a woman who brought one shell from each beach where she scattered her husband’s ashes.

The wave pattern by the door is made of shells that kids have brought me over the years. ”

Stella stared at the ceiling with new appreciation. “That’s actually... really cool.”

“Want to help with prep?” Margo asked, heading back behind the counter. “I could use an extra set of hands for the tomatoes.”

She held out a knife toward Stella, who eyed it warily. “I know how to cut tomatoes.”

“I’m sure you do. But there’s a way that works best for sandwiches. Here—“ Margo demonstrated, her weathered hands steady and sure. “Uniform slices, about this thick. And hold the knife like this, fingers curved, knuckles forward.”

Stella took the knife reluctantly, attempting to mirror the grip. Her first slice came out wedge-shaped.

“Curve your fingers more,” Margo corrected gently. “Like this. It protects them and gives you better control.”

“I am curving them.”

“A bit more. And rock the knife, don’t saw?—”

Stella set the knife down with a sharp click. “I don’t need to know this. I’m not planning to work here.”

Tyler started to speak, but Margo touched his arm. “ That’s fine,” she said easily. “The offer stands whenever you’re ready.”

Stella crossed her arms, watching as Margo returned to her prep work with practiced efficiency. After a moment, she drifted back toward the front counter where Joey was organizing napkins.

“I’m good with napkins,” Stella muttered, but her eyes lingered on Margo’s smooth, confident movements with the knife.

Margo nodded, no judgment in her expression. “Napkins it is.”

The door chimed and Luke walked in, still damp from what looked like an afternoon swim.

“Hey, everyone. Saw Patricia rushing out. She okay?”

“The kids blinded her with science,” Bernie said happily.

“We were documenting behavioral patterns,” Stella said with dignity.

“Of course you were.” Luke grabbed a water from the cooler. “Speaking of patterns, when are we doing those surf lessons, Tyler?”

“Soon,” Tyler said. “This weekend maybe?”

“I’m in,” Luke said. “Meg, you coming? Been a while since I’ve seen you on a board.”

“Not since you taught me,” Meg said. “And I was terrible.”

“You were terrified,” Luke corrected. “There’s a difference. Jaws really did a number on you.”

“Jaws did a number on everyone,” Tyler said .

“You conquered it though,” Luke told Meg. “Remember? By the end of summer you were catching waves at Salt Creek.”

“Baby waves,” Meg protested.

“Still waves.” He turned to Stella. “Your aunt was my most determined student. Afraid of sharks but refused to quit.”

“Sounds familiar,” Tyler said, looking at Stella. “Stubborn must be genetic.”

“Speaking of which,” Luke said, “I should head out. But seriously, this weekend for surfing? Saturday morning?”

“Saturday,” Tyler agreed. “Early.”

“I’ll be there,” Luke said. “Meg, you sure you don’t want to try again?”

“My shark phobia and I will think about it,” Meg said.

“Fair enough.” He headed for the door. “See you all later.”

After he left, Stella looked at the shell basket again, then up at the ceiling. “So people just... bring them? From everywhere?”

“From everywhere,” Margo confirmed. “Each one is a little piece of someone’s story.”

“Huh.” Stella went back to her napkin folding, but Meg noticed her glance at the basket several more times.

“I should get back too,” Meg said, closing her laptop. “Those presentations won’t format themselves. ”

“Stay for coffee,” Tyler said. “Real coffee, not whatever Patricia thinks coffee is.”

“Can’t. I need to finish before—“ Her phone rang. She looked at the screen and sighed. “My client. I should?—”

“Bathroom’s free,” Tyler said. “Best acoustics, remember?”

“I hate my life.” But Meg was already heading for the back.

“Linen closet’s also available,” Stella called after her. “Mix it up!”

“Your family is deeply weird,” she told Tyler.

“You said that already.”

“It bears repeating.”

Bernie stood to leave, creaking audibly. “Well, this has been illuminating. Same time tomorrow?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Tyler asked.

“Than watch you get flustered by pottery? Nope.” Bernie shuffled toward the door. “Besides, someone needs to witness Stella’s scientific achievements.”

“It’s important data,” Stella said solemnly.

“The most important,” Bernie agreed. “See you tomorrow, kid.”

After he left, Stella helped clear the last of the afternoon dishes while Tyler restocked supplies. It was quietly comfortable, just the sounds of work and the distant ocean.

“So,” Stella said eventually. “Is she okay?”

“Who?”

“Meg. With the bathroom calls and everything. ”

“She will be. After Thursday. Then we’ll figure out the space thing.”

“Maybe she could work from the beach,” Stella suggested. “Set up a whole outdoor office. Very California.”

“Don’t give her ideas.”

They finished closing prep in silence. As they headed for the door, Stella paused by the shell basket one more time.

“Do they really come from all over?”

“All over the world,” Tyler confirmed. “Margo’s got shells from places I can’t even pronounce.”

“Cool,” Stella said quietly. “That’s actually really cool.”

And Tyler thought he saw her glance up at the ceiling one more time, like she was imagining her own shells up there someday.

But that was probably just wishful thinking.

Wasn’t it?