“Because it’s true. And you’ve been hiding in Luke’s kitchen making elaborate dinners for two when you could be—” Anna gestured expansively. “Saving the family business!”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I’m a dramatic person. It’s part of my charm.”
Meg looked at the onion base, still warm in the pan. At the basil Anna had abandoned on the cutting board. At her sister, practically vibrating with enthusiasm for an idea that was mostly Meg’s work.
“It’s a thought,” she said. “Hand me that basil. And actually chop it this time.”
“I can prep!”
“You’ve been staring at that basil for twenty minutes.”
“I was thinking about the basil. Creatively.”
“Chop the basil, Anna.”
“Fine.” Anna picked up the knife, holding it like it might bite her. “How small?”
“Chiffonade. Thin ribbons.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Stack the leaves, roll them tight, slice thin.”
Anna tried. The results were... uneven.
“That’s a chunk,” Meg said. “That’s several chunks.”
Meg took the knife gently from her sister’s hand. “Watch.”
She demonstrated—stack, roll, slice. The basil fell away in perfect green ribbons, fragrant and delicate.
“Okay, show-off,” Anna said. “Not all of us went to the Margo Turner School of Kitchen Excellence.”
“You could have. You chose paint.”
“Paint doesn’t require knife skills.”
They worked through the afternoon—Meg cooking, Anna providing enthusiastic commentary and occasional semi-useful prep work. The honey lemon butter came together easily, Meg adjusting the ratios from memory until it tasted right. A tomato basil soup followed, bright and fresh, the basil added at the last moment to preserve its color.
“What about something with pesto?” Anna suggested. “Your famous pesto?”
“The Shack doesn’t have pasta.”
“It could have bread. Focaccia. We already make the sourdough every day. Sourdough focaccia? With pesto drizzled on top.” Anna’s eyes went wide. “Or what if—okay, hear me out—what if there was a grilled cheese with pesto inside?”
Meg stopped stirring.
“Like, the regular grilled cheese, but with a layer of your pesto,” Anna continued. “It wouldn’t replace anything. It would just be... an option. For people who want something extra.”
“Joey would actually die.”
“Joey would eventually accept it. After the grieving period.”
But Meg was already thinking about it. Sourdough, butter, maybe mozzarella, and a thin layer of her pesto — not too much, just enough to add brightness. Meg didn’t answer. But she didn’t say no, either.
“So figure it out. That’s what you do.” Anna grabbed her shoulders. “Meg. Listen to me. You make the best pesto on the coast. Margo says so. Everyone says so. Why are you hoarding it?”
