Meg’s expression wobbled. “Margo?—”
Margo gestured at the plates, the menu board, the kitchen where Meg had finally claimed her space. “This is exactly what the Shack needed. Not me, doing the same thing I’ve always done. You. Bringing something new.”
“The original grilled cheese is still on the menu. I didn’t want to?—”
“Of course it’s still on the menu. That’s the foundation. But foundations are meant to be built on.” Margo took another bite of the pesto grilled cheese. “This is building.”
Bernie appeared at the counter, empty plate in hand. “I need more of the butter. And possibly the soup. And definitely another biscuit.” He paused. “Please.”
“See?” Anna grinned. “Critical acclaim.”
“Bernie would eat napkins if we put enough butter on them,” Meg said.
“That’s not the point. The point is—” Bernie set down his plate, suddenly serious. “The point is this tastes like the Shack should taste now. Not exactly what Margo makes. Not trying to be what Margo makes. But part of the same story.” He nodded at Meg. “You found it. Whatever ‘it’ is. You found it.”
Meg’s eyes were bright. She turned away, suddenly very interested in adjusting the soup pot.
The door opened. Stella walked in, backpack over her shoulder, camera around her neck, looking like she belonged. Because she did.
“How are they?” she asked immediately, eyes going to the Anzac display. “Did anyone try them yet? Are they okay?”
“They’re perfect,” Margo said. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
“Really?”
“Really. Come here.”
Stella crossed to the counter, and Margo pulled her into a hug. The girl still stiffened slightly at first—old habit, old armor—but then relaxed into it.
“You did good,” Margo murmured.
“It’s just biscuits.”
“It’s never just biscuits. It’s never just food. You know that by now.”
Stella pulled back, smiling. “Yeah. I’m starting to figure that out.”
The lunch rush started — a real rush this time, not the sad trickle of recent weeks. Word had spread about the new items. People came in asking about the butter, the soup, “that pesto thing Bernie posted about on Facebook.”
“Bernie has Facebook?” Stella asked.
“Bernie has opinions,” Joey said, rushing past with plates. “And a surprising number of followers.”
Margo settled into her usual booth and watched her family work.
Anna at the register, handling customers with an ease that still surprised everyone, including herself. Tyler arriving mid-rush, grabbing an apron, slipping into the kitchen to help plate orders. Meg calling out tickets, checking every dish before it left, making sure each plate met her standards. Bea serving customers and keeing Joey calm.
And Stella, moving between tables, refilling waters, clearing plates, stopping occasionally to snap a photo of the chaos.
This was what she’d wanted. What she’d hoped for, when she’d told them she wanted to step back. Not to abandon the Shack, but to see if they could carry it without her.
They could.
They were.
Bernie slid into the booth across from her, fresh coffee in hand.
“You look satisfied,” he said.
