“I’m sure it’s nothing. Old taste buds. Probably need my tongue recalibrated.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Should be.”
The afternoon dragged. Two more tables came in. One left without ordering — “Just looking for thebathroom, sorry.” The other ordered waters and a single order of fries to split.
By two o’clock, Meg was wiping down already-clean counters just to have something to do. Mrs. Patterson and her family were gathering their things, the boxed-up half sandwich tucked under her daughter’s arm.
Joey appeared at Meg’s elbow, voice low.
“Hey. I made muffins this morning. Stress baking.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “They’re just going to go stale. Is it okay if I give away what’s left?”
“Of course.”
Joey grabbed a small paper bag from the back and caught Mrs. Patterson at the door.
“Mrs. Patterson? I’ve been experimenting with some baking. Would the kids like a muffin for the road? On the house.”
The five-year-old’s eyes went wide. Mrs. Patterson smiled. “That’s very kind, Joey. What do you say, kids?”
“Yes please!”
Joey handed out the muffins — golden-topped, studded with blueberries. The kids bit into them immediately, still standing in the doorway.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Patterson said. She’d taken one too, despite the boxed sandwich in her daughter’s hands. Despite saying she was full. She took a bite, and her whole face changed. “Joey, these are lovely.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
They left with crumbs on their fingers and smiles on their faces. The door swung shut behind them.
Meg stood very still.
Mrs. Patterson had boxed half her grilled cheese. Said she was full. And then eaten an entire muffin without hesitation.
Bernie was watching from his corner booth. His coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth.
Their eyes met.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.
But they’d both seen it.
Joey returned to the counter, oblivious, already worrying about tomorrow’s prep schedule. Meg wiped down the same spot she’d wiped ten minutes ago.
The shells gleamed overhead in the late afternoon breeze.
Something was wrong. She could feel it now — not just slow sales or summer slump, but something deeper. Something about the food itself. The thing the Shack was built on.
But she didn’t know what to do about it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The kitchen smelled like caramelized onions and garlic.
Meg moved between the stove and the counter with the ease of long practice, stirring the onions with one hand while mincing garlic with the other. The rhythm was automatic — heat check, stir, chop, taste. She’d been cooking like this since college, since before that really, since Margo first put a wooden spoon in her hand and told her to trust her instincts.
“I don’t understand how you do that,” Anna said from the kitchen table, where she was supposed to be chopping basil but had mostly been watching. “The multitasking. I’d burn everything.”
