Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Stella sat on Meg’s couch, trying not to fidget while Bea worked on her hair. The living room was full of nervous energy—everyone was almost dressed and ready, but that didn’t stop the usual Walsh family chaos.
Tyler stood by the window, checking his camera settings again. “Do I really need to bring this?”
“Yes,” Stella said. “Someone has to document our spectacular failure.”
“Hold still,” Bea murmured, twisting Stella’s curls into something that looked much better than usual. “You have great texture. Very paintable.”
“Did you just call my hair paintable?”
“It’s a compliment. Trust me.”
“We’re not going to fail spectacularly,” Bea continued, bobby pins between her teeth. “We’re going to fail gracefully.”
Across the room, Anna held up two different sandals. “These say ‘serious artist,’ but these say ‘approachable creative.’ Which vibe am I going for?”
“The one that doesn’t involve you falling off the stage,” Stella said.
“Done,” Bea announced, stepping back to look at Stella’s hair. “You look like you belong in a gallery.”
Stella touched the soft twist Bea had created. “Thanks. That’s actually really nice.”
Luke came from the kitchen with water glasses. “Hydration. In case anyone faints from nerves.”
“I’m not nervous,” Anna said, then appeared in the doorway with mascara on only one eye. “I’m... energetically uncertain.”
“Your artistic process is chaos with good results,” Stella reminded her. “We discussed this.”
“Right. Chaos with good results.” Anna disappeared back into the bathroom. “I can work with that.”
At the dining table, Meg was trying to untangle her necklace chain. “Has anyone seen my—”
“Here,” Luke said, already moving to help her.
“Thanks,” Meg said, her cheeks slightly pink. “I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’m not even performing.”
“We’re displaying,” Bea said, settling on the “approachable creative” sandals. “Very different energy.”
A car door slammed outside. Through the window, Stella could see Margo walking toward the front door, looking calm in navy blue and carrying herself like someone who was never late for anything.
“Margo’s here,” Tyler announced.
“Come in!” Meg called.
Margo entered, looked around at the controlled chaos, and smiled. “How is everyone feeling?”
“Terrified,” Bea said honestly.
“Energetically uncertain,” Anna called from the bathroom.
“Confused about why I agreed to this,” Tyler muttered.
“Ready,” Stella said, and was surprised to find she meant it.
“Good,” Margo said. “Because we’re going to have a lovely evening regardless of what happens.”
“Even if we lose spectacularly?” Bea asked.
“Especially then. Losing spectacularly makes for better stories.”
Anna emerged from the bathroom, finally with mascara on both eyes. “Okay. I think I’m as ready as I’m going to get.”
“You look beautiful,” Meg said. “We all do.”
“Group photo?” Tyler suggested, raising his camera.
“Absolutely not,” Stella said. “Save it for after we lose.”
“When we lose gracefully,” Bea said.
“Fine. When we lose gracefully.”
The Festival gala looked like someone had hung lights in every tree.
Stella stood with her family near the front, trying not to wrinkle her program.
Margo looked serene in her navy dress, Bea had managed to find something without paint on it, Anna wore the less dramatic sandals, and Tyler held his camera like he wished it came with an invisibility cloak.
“Look,” Bea whispered, “there’s Mrs. Walker.”
Mrs. Walker waved from across the crowd, giving them an encouraging thumbs up.
“Bernie’s working the crowd,” Tyler observed. Stella could see their favorite betting coordinator moving between groups with his tablet.
“Of course he is,” Stella said. “This is his Super Bowl.”
“And now,” the emcee said, “our finalists for the Spirit of Laguna Award...”
Stella felt her stomach drop as names were read. “Margo Turner—‘Coastline, Remembered.’ Anna Walsh—‘Cartography of Morning.’ Beatrice Walsh—‘Light Studies.’ Stella Walsh—‘The Shack Breathes.’”
Bernie, three rows back, fist-pumped like he’d just won the lottery. “Called it,” he stage-whispered. “Walsh dynasty.”
Tyler made a sound that might have been a groan. “This is my nightmare.”
Anna grabbed Stella’s hand, squeezing tight. “We’re all finalists. All of us.”
“I know,” Stella whispered back, feeling the weight of it. Her first submission, and she was standing next to three generations of Walsh women who’d been making art longer than she’d been alive.
The judges took longer than necessary. Bea waved at someone across the aisle. Anna fanned herself with the program. Meg’s hand found Luke’s. Margo sat very still, calm in the middle of everything.
“What if we have to give speeches?” Bea whispered.
“Then you talk about light and Anna talks about morning and I pretend I know what I’m doing,” Stella replied.
“What does Margo talk about?”
“Everything,” Stella said. “She’s Margo.”
A judge returned to the mic. “This year’s Spirit of Laguna goes to...”
The pause felt endless.
“Elena Martínez, for ‘Seafoam at Dawn.’”
Applause filled the tent. A young woman in a flowy dress burst into tears, looking radiant and startled as the ribbon was placed in her hands.
For a moment the Walshes sat stunned, like they’d all been holding their breath.
Bea’s eyebrows lifted. “Not... us?”
Anna made a face that was half grimace, half grin. “Well. That’s interesting.”
Stella found herself smiling too. The girl onstage looked so happy she was practically glowing. She deserved to glow.
Margo chuckled. “Look at her. She’s luminous.”
“Thank goodness,” Tyler muttered, taking one photo. “Now I don’t have to pick sides.”
Bernie popped up, already typing on his phone. “I told you—never bet on family.”
“You never once said that, Bernie,” Margo said. “You’ve been betting on this family for decades.”
Bernie’s cheeks went pink, and everyone started laughing.
Meg leaned into Luke. “I think I forgot how to breathe.”
“You did,” he said, grinning. “I was about to fan you with the program.”
Someone suggested ice cream. No one argued.