Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’m alive,” he announced to the hallway. “Barely.”
The house smelled like actual food—not cereal, not toast, but something that involved heat and possibly vegetables. Tyler followed his nose to the kitchen, where he found Stella at the stove, stirring something in a pan.
“You cooked,” he said.
“I reheated leftover pasta. Don’t nominate me for an award.”
Tyler collapsed into a kitchen chair. “I can’t feel my feet.”
“How long were you standing on concrete?”
“All day. Do you know how many pottery booths there are? Forty-seven. Patricia Henderson has three of them.”
Stella looked up from the stove. “Three?”
“The stages of seagull grief, apparently. It requires extensive space.”
“Of course it does.”
“I photographed more pottery today than should legally exist.” Tyler rubbed his eyes. “There’s also a woman who makes sculptures from driftwood and internal sorrow, and someone who might be Patricia’s artistic nemesis.”
“Patricia has a nemesis?”
“Another ceramic artist. They positioned their booths to face away from each other.” Tyler grinned. “Bernie’s already got odds on whether they’ll have words by the end of the week.”
“What are the odds?”
“Even money Patricia makes the first move.”
Stella turned off the burner and divided the pasta between two bowls. “Sounds like quality entertainment.”
Tyler stared at the food she set in front of him. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“You would’ve eaten cereal for dinner.”
“Cereal is a valid dinner choice.”
“For six-year-olds.”
“And photographers who are too tired to function.” Tyler took a bite. “How was your day? Less pottery-related, I assume.”
“Much less. Though Joey’s stress-folding napkins has reached new levels of precision.”
“Pageant nerves?”
“Pageant everything. He’s practicing coffee-drinking poses.”
“There are poses?”
“Apparently Coffee Drinker Number Two requires specific arm positioning.”
Tyler laughed. “Poor Joey.”
“Poor napkins. They’re getting folded and refolded until they achieve geometric perfection.”
They ate for a few minutes, Tyler finally relaxing after the longest day he’d had in weeks.
“So,” Stella said, “sounds like you’ll be living at the Festival grounds for a while.”
“Every day until the madness stops. Opening ceremony tomorrow, judging in a couple of weeks, awards after.” Tyler counted on his fingers. “I’m basically documenting the entire artistic process.”
“That’s a lot of pictures.”
“Someone’s got to capture the drama. Plus, Bernie’s betting pools.”
Stella looked thoughtful. “You know, I’ve been curious about what you actually do at these things. All I see is you leaving with camera equipment and coming back exhausted.”
“It’s chaos, but organized chaos. Artists setting up, visitors trying to appreciate things they don’t understand, vendors arguing about electrical outlets.” Tyler gestured with his fork. “Very photogenic chaos.”
“I’d love to see it sometime,” Stella said, and Tyler caught the genuine interest in her voice.
“Really? It’s not exactly exciting. Lots of standing around, lots of artistic temperament.”
“Sounds interesting to me. I like watching how people work.”
Tyler thought for a moment. Stella had been asking good questions about camera settings lately, and her own photography was getting genuinely impressive.
“I suppose it would qualify as ‘take your daughter to work’ day. You could come along if you want,” he offered. “After the Shack closes. I could show you around, introduce you to some of the artists.”
“That sounds really cool,” Stella said, and Tyler was struck by how much she sounded like she meant it.
“Fair warning though—if we run into Patricia, you might witness a lecture about ceramic grief stages.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Famous last words.”
Tyler stood to clear their bowls. “Thanks for dinner. And for letting me complain about art for twenty minutes.”
“Better than watching you eat the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms.”
“That was one time.”
“That was this morning.”
“Okay, fair point.” Tyler grabbed his camera bag. “I should look at today’s shots. Make sure I got something usable between all the pottery documentation.”
“Want company? I could tell you if you missed anything obvious.”
“Sure. But there are a lot of ceramic seagulls.”
“I’ll try to contain my excitement.”
They settled on the couch, Tyler’s laptop between them. Stella pointed out things as they scrolled—the way one artist lit up when someone stopped at her booth, how another guy arranged his tools like a surgeon, a quiet moment between a painter and a potential buyer.
“You’re good at this,” Tyler said. “Seeing the moments between the obvious shots.”
“Just looking.”
“That’s what photography is. Looking and getting the timing right.”
“Speaking of which,” Stella said, reaching for her own camera. “Want to see what I’ve been working on?”
“Always.”
She scrolled through her recent shots, then paused. “These are from the Shack. Just... people being people when they think no one’s watching.”
Tyler leaned closer as she showed him the first image. Bernie at his corner table, tablet open, but caught in a moment of pure concentration—like he was solving world peace through spreadsheet calculations.
“That’s perfect,” Tyler said. “Look at his expression. You can actually see him thinking.”
“Right? He does this thing where he gets completely absorbed.” Stella moved to the next shot. “This is Joey during the lunch rush.”
The image showed Joey mid-napkin-fold, but his face was turned toward a table of kids making a mess, wearing this expression of pure horror mixed with resignation.
Tyler laughed. “His napkin trauma, documented for posterity.”
“Gets better.” Stella scrolled forward. “This is Margo.”
The photo caught Margo at the grill, spatula raised, but her head turned toward the dining room with this look of quiet amusement. Like she was watching a show only she could see.
“She knows everything that’s happening at every table,” Stella said. “But she never lets on. I love that about her.”
“These are really good, Stella. Like, really good.”
“There’s more.” She showed him another series—Anna arriving late with paint in her hair, completely unaware that she was tracking blue footprints across the floor. Bea explaining something with wild hand gestures while a customer sat there looking politely confused.
“This one’s my favorite,” Stella said, stopping on an image of the whole dining room during the lunch rush. Everyone in motion—Margo at the grill, Joey delivering plates, customers eating and talking—but somehow composed like a painting.
“That’s incredible composition. How did you get everyone in frame like that?”
“Waited about twenty minutes for the right moment. Everyone kept almost lining up perfectly, then someone would move.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“I was on break. Had time to kill.”
Tyler studied the photo more carefully. There was something about the way she’d captured it—the organized chaos that was the Beach Shack on a busy day, but making it look like everyone knew exactly what they were doing.
“You’ve got a real eye for this,” he said. “These tell stories.”
“That’s what I’m going for. I like watching how families work. Who does what, who shows up when, who handles what.”
“Sounds very observational.”
“Very nosy, you mean.”
“I was being polite.” Tyler grinned. “But honestly, this is the kind of stuff that wins photography competitions. Candid moments, real life, actual emotion.”
“I’m not thinking about competitions yet. Just enjoying learning.”
“Good approach.” Tyler scrolled back through the Beach Shack series. “You should keep doing this. Document the family business. Summer at the Shack. Bernie’s betting empire, Joey’s napkin perfectionism, Anna’s creative chaos.”
“Don’t forget Patricia’s pottery persecution complex.”
“How could I forget?” Tyler handed her camera back. “Seriously though, bring this camera. I want to see what you capture at the Festival.”
“Different subject matter.”
“Same eye. Same timing.” Tyler closed his laptop. “Plus, I could actually use the help. Two photographers see more than one.”
“That’s not how math works.”
“That’s exactly how photography works.”
Stella put her camera away carefully. “What time?”
“Pick you up at three-thirty? That’ll give you time to finish at the Shack and grab your camera.”
“Deal.”
“And bring extra memory cards. There’s a lot to document.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Forty-seven pottery booths. And that’s just pottery.”
Stella laughed. “This is going to be interesting.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Outside, the sky darkened and the stars began to twinkle. Tyler watched Stella organize her camera bag with the same careful attention she brought to everything else. But this time, it was for something she was genuinely excited about.
“Thanks for showing me your photos,” he said.
“Thanks for not calling them ‘cute’ or ‘nice for a beginner.’”
“They’re not cute. They’re good. There’s a difference.”
“I know,” Stella said. “That’s why I showed them to you.”
Tyler smiled. This was going to be fun.