Meg zipped the cooler bag and checked her phone. Nine-fifteen. They’d agreed to meet at the Shack before the lunch rush—or what passed for a lunch rush these days—to do a proper tasting. Joey had been texting since six AM with increasingly elaborate suggestions for “presentation optimization.”
“Ready?” Anna grabbed her bag. “I called ahead. Bernie’s already there. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell her I’ve been fasting since yesterday in preparation.’”
“He has not been fasting.”
“Not a chance.” Anna held the door open. “But the enthusiasm is real.”
They drove to the Shack with the windows down, salt air rushing through the car. Meg felt something she hadn’t felt in a while — nervous excitement. The good kind. The kind that felt full of promise.
“You’re going to be great,” Anna said, reading her expression. “You know that, right?”
“Margo already gave the green light at Sunday dinner. But that was focaccia and pesto on bread.” Meg glanced at the cooler in the back seat. “This is different.”
“She said experiment.”
“She also said don’t mess with her grilled cheese.” Meg drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m not entirely sure this doesn’t count as messing.”
“Only one way to find out.”
The Shack parking lot was nearly empty — just Bernie’s ancient Buick, Joey’s bike, Tyler’s truck, and Margo’s little green Honda.
“She’s here,” Meg said.
“Of course she’s here. You think she’d miss this?” Anna poked her arm. “Stop overthinking.”
“I don’t overthink.”
“Okay, sure.” Anna was laughing now, the sound bright and easy. Meg found herself smiling despite the nerves.
“Alright,” she admitted. “Maybe I overthink a little.”
“A little. But that’s why you’re good at this. You think about every detail. Every flavor. Every way something could go wrong.” Anna squeezed her shoulder. “And then you make it perfect anyway.”
Joey had outdone himself.
The corner booth had been transformed into whathe called a “tasting station”—white tablecloth, actual cloth napkins folded into elaborate shapes, small plates arranged in a precise grid, and a hand-lettered sign that read WALSH FAMILY TEST KITCHEN: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
“Joey,” Meg said. “This is a lot.”
“This is appropriate. We’re making history here. Potential menu additions for the first time in my lifetime. That deserves ceremony.” He adjusted a napkin that was already perfectly placed.
Margo sat in her usual booth by the window, coffee cup in hand, watching the proceedings with quiet amusement.
“This is very fancy,” she said. “For a Tuesday.”
“It’s a historic occasion,” Joey said. “I made a sign.”
“I see that.”
“You’re here to taste?” Meg said, trying to sound confident.
“I’m here to make sure nobody messes with my grilled cheese.” But she was smiling. “Don’t mind me. I’m just observing.”
Bernie was already seated at the tasting station, wearing what appeared to be his “good” Hawaiian shirt—the one with slightly fewer stains, but he tucked a napkin into the top of his shirt anyway. Tyler sat across from him, looking tired but present. Stella slid into the booth beside her father, phone out, ready to document.
“For posterity,” she said. “And Instagram. If anything’s good enough for Instagram.”
“Everything’s going to be good enough for Instagram,” Anna announced, settling in next to Bernie. “My big sister is a genius.”
