Margo smiled.
On my way.
She cleaned her brushes carefully, covered the canvas with a cloth, and changed out of her paintingsmock. The portrait could wait one more day. Right now, her family needed her to bear witness.
The Shack was buzzingwhen she arrived.
Not the frantic, overwhelmed buzzing of the crisis shift, but something better. Something that felt like anticipation.
Bernie had claimed his corner booth early, tablet out, clearly prepared to document the occasion. Joey was arranging the new menu board with the intensity of a museum curator. Anna stood behind the counter looking confident in a way that still surprised Margo—her scattered, artistic granddaughter, somehow transformed into someone steady.
And Meg.
Meg was in the kitchen.
Margo paused in the doorway, watching her granddaughter move through the space. Chopping herbs, stirring soup, tasting and adjusting with the instincts of someone who understood food at a cellular level.
“You’re staring,” Anna said, appearing at Margo’s elbow.
“No, I’m not.”
Anna nudged her toward the counter. “Come on. You get the first taste. Grandmother’s privilege.”
They’d set up a tasting station at the counter—smallplates arranged in a careful grid, each item labeled in Joey’s precise handwriting.
HONEY LEMON BUTTER (Meg’s recipe)
TOMATO BASIL SOUP (Meg’s recipe)
PESTO GRILLED CHEESE (Meg’s recipe)
STELLA’S ANZACS (Stella’s grandmother’s recipe)
Margo picked up a biscuit first. Took a bite.
The taste transported her—oats and coconut and golden syrup, flavors that spoke of somewhere else, someone else’s history woven into the Shack’s story.
“Fiona’s grandmother’s recipe,” she said.
“Stella made them this morning.” Anna was watching her face. “She was up at five. Said she wanted to get them right.”
“They’re perfect.”
“That’s what I said. She told me I was biased.”
“You are biased. They’re still perfect.”
Margo worked her way through the other items. The butter was extraordinary—floral and sweet without being cloying. The soup tasted light and bright. And the pesto grilled cheese?—
She set down her spoon.
“What?” Meg had emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, watching Margo’s reaction with barely concealed anxiety. “Is it too much? I can adjust the ratio?—”
“It’s not too much.”
“Then what?—”
“It’s you.” Margo met her granddaughter’s eyes. “This sandwich tastes like you. Like everything I tried to teach you, finally set free.”
