Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Stella Walsh stood in the bathroom she shared with her dad, watching him check his hair in the mirror for the third time in five minutes.
“Dad, it’s just dinner. And we’re walking three doors down.”
“I know it’s just dinner.” Tyler ran his hand through his hair again, then immediately messed it up.
“It’s just... you haven’t met Anna and Bea yet. In person, anyway. And they’re... they’re really...”
“Weird?”
“That’s one word for it.” He drummed his fingers on the bathroom counter. “Look, Anna’s great. She’s family. She’s just... a lot sometimes. And Bea’s sixteen, like you, but she’s been living in Florence all summer, so she might be a little...”
“Stuck up?”
“I was going to say worldly, but yeah. Maybe a little stuck up.”
Stella had been living with her dad for about six weeks now, long enough to figure out his moods. Right now, he looked like someone about to bring his kid to meet a bunch of people he wasn’t sure she’d like.
“Are you worried about me meeting them, or them meeting me?”
Tyler stopped messing with his hair. “Both? I just want everyone to get along.”
“Dad, I survived living with Mum and David’s twins in Sydney. I think I can handle dinner with some artists.”
“Right. Yes. You’re tough.” He took a deep breath. “It’s just that Anna and Bea are... they talk a lot. About art stuff. And Meg likes everything neat. And Margo’s probably going to sit there watching all of us like we’re on some reality show.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Nothing about our family is normal, kiddo.”
They walked down the street toward Meg’s house, where light was coming through the windows and Stella could see people moving around inside. Someone was waving their hands around a lot in the kitchen.
“That would be Anna,” Tyler said, following her gaze.
As they walked up to the front door, they could hear voices from inside—multiple conversations happening simultaneously.
Tyler knocked, and the door swung open to reveal Meg, who looked slightly frazzled but determinedly cheerful.
“Tyler! Stella! Perfect timing. Come in, come in. Anna’s just... helping with dinner preparation.”
They stepped inside, and Stella immediately understood why her father had been nervous. The house she’d visited before—Meg’s perfectly organized, quietly elegant space—had been transformed.
There were canvases propped against walls, art supplies scattered across surfaces, and what appeared to be an entire color wheel spread across the coffee table.
“TYLER!” Anna came out of the kitchen, paintbrush stuck behind her ear, arms wide open. She was smaller than Meg but somehow took up the whole room.
“And Stella! We finally get to meet in person.” Anna grabbed Stella’s hands before she could back away. “Oh my God, look at you! You’re gorgeous. Has anyone ever painted you? Because you have the most amazing—“
“Anna,” Tyler interrupted gently, “maybe let her get inside first?”
“Of course! Yes! Come in, come in. Bea!” Anna called toward the kitchen. “Come meet your cousin!”
A girl appeared in the doorway, and Stella had to blink twice. Bea was wearing what looked like a vintage Italian dress over paint-splattered leggings, her dark hair twisted up with what might have been chopsticks, and she was holding a wooden spoon like it was a painter’s brush.
“Hey, Stella!” Bea came over, somehow looking like she was floating. “This is so cool! Nice to meet you finally in the same room.”
Stella looked at her cousin—this girl who was exactly her age but lived in a completely different world—and managed, “Nice to meet you too. Same room and all. Yeah.”
“Bea’s been helping me cook,” Meg said, though her smile looked slightly strained. “She has some very... creative ideas about pasta preparation.”
“The way the steam rises,” Bea said seriously, “it’s like the dish is waking up.”
“And every dish tells a story,” Anna added, smiling at her daughter.
“Reunion,” Bea said immediately. “Family coming together, different people mixing. See how the tomatoes are like passion, and the basil—little green hopes scattered around?”
Stella nodded, filing this under Things She’d Never Understand.
The front door opened again, and Margo walked in carrying what smelled like fresh bread.
“Evening, everyone,” Margo said, taking in the scene with one comprehensive glance. “I see we’re in full swing already.”
“Margo!” Anna rushed over. “Perfect timing. We’re just discussing the artistic philosophy of pasta preparation.”
“Of course you are,” Margo said mildly, then looked at Stella.
“How are you holding up, honey?”
“Still processing,” Stella admitted.
“Give it time. You’ll either adapt or develop a very high tolerance for creative chaos.”
“Is there a third option?”
“Running away screaming, but that’s generally frowned upon at family dinners.”
From the kitchen came the sound of something clattering to the floor, followed by Bea’s voice. “It’s fine! It’s fine! The pasta is just... expressing itself!”
“Be right back,” Meg said, already heading toward the kitchen.
Stella found herself standing in the living room with Margo when Tyler headed outside to grab his camera bag.
“This is normal?” Stella asked.
“For Anna? Absolutely.” Margo settled into a chair with the air of someone settling in for a show. “She once turned a simple grilled cheese into a forty-five-minute exploration of the symbolism of melted dairy.”
“And Bea?”
“Anna’s daughter through and through. Maybe even more so.”
From the kitchen—“No, no, the herbs should be scattered like stars across the surface! Like Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ but with basil!”
“That’s... not how recipes work,” Meg’s said, her eyes wide.
“Recipes are just suggestions!” Anna said. “Guidelines for the uninspired!”
Twenty minutes later, they were all seated around Meg’s dining table, which had been set with what Bea declared was “perfect lighting for dinner.” The pasta—which had survived its artistic interpretation—actually looked and smelled amazing.
“So, Stella,” Anna said, serving herself a generous portion, “Meg tells us you’ve been working at the Beach Shack. How wonderful! There’s something so authentic about working with your hands, connecting with the community.”
“It’s just a summer job,” Stella said. “But I like it.”
“Just a summer job?” Bea looked scandalized. “Mom and I have worked there in the summers, too! It’s what makes Laguna Beach special! Every interaction, every order—it’s all part of connecting with people.”
Stella blinked. “It’s... grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“Exactly! Simple food, but made with care. There’s something beautiful about that.”
“Bea’s been reading a lot of philosophy,” Anna explained proudly. “The professors in Florence were so impressed with her insights.”
“That’s nice,” Stella managed, though she was starting to feel like she was having three different conversations at the same time.
“What about you?” Tyler asked Bea, clearly trying to redirect. “Any plans for when you get back to regular school?”
“School,” Bea said dramatically, “is just designed to limit creative thinking. But yes, I’ll go back. Though I’m thinking of taking a gap year after graduation. Maybe studying art somewhere in Europe. There’s so much to see.”
Stella caught her father’s eye across the table. He looked like someone watching a tennis match played with invisible balls.
“That sounds exciting,” Stella said, because that seemed like the safe response.
“What about you?” Bea leaned forward eagerly. “Any interests? Hidden talents? I can sense there’s something creative about you.”
Stella glanced around the table—at Anna’s paint-stained fingers gesturing enthusiastically, at Bea treating the wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton, at Meg’s carefully controlled smile, at Tyler’s barely contained panic.
“Not really,” she said. “I’m more of an observer.”
“Oh.” Bea looked slightly deflated, like this wasn’t the answer she was hoping for. “Well, that’s... nice too, I guess.”
Anna jumped in quickly. “Observation is important! You have to really see things before you can create them.”
“I’m not trying to create anything,” Stella said. “I just notice stuff.”
“Like what?” Tyler asked. “Here?”
Stella hesitated. Like how Anna keeps saying “we” accomplished things when Meg did most of the work. Like how he looked ready to bolt every time they start talking about artistic philosophy. Like how Meg’s organizing everything perfectly to accommodate their chaos while they don’t seem to notice.
“Just... I don’t know. How people are.”
“That’s cool,” Bea said, rallying her enthusiasm. “Everyone needs different talents, right?”
Stella wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded better than “the kid who notices when things are weird.”
“That could be... interesting,” she said finally.
“Wonderful!” Anna beamed. “We’re going to have such a creative time together!”
Her dad was watching her again, but this time he didn’t look worried. More... relieved. Maybe he’d finally realized she could handle dinner without adult intervention.
Stella caught Margo’s eye across the table. The older woman gave her the slightest wink.
Adapt, Margo had said. Or develop that high tolerance.
Looking at her cousin, who was now explaining her theory about how the golden ratio applied to fork-twirling, Stella figured she was going to need both. But maybe being the family observer wouldn’t be the worst job in the world. Someone had to notice what was actually happening around here.