Bernie reached for the sandwich. Cut it in half with the decisive motion of a man who had eaten approximately ten thousand grilled cheeses in his lifetime. Lifted one half. Bit.
Chewed.
Closed his eyes.
“Bernie,” Joey whispered. “You’re killing us.”
Bernie held up a finger. Chewed some more. Swallowed. Opened his eyes.
“Fifty years,” he said. “Fifty years I’ve been eating grilled cheese at this counter. Margo’s grilled cheese. The same recipe, the same taste, the same comfort.” He looked at Meg. “This is different.”
Meg’s stomach dropped. “I know. I can adjust the?—”
“This is different,” Bernie continued, “and it’s also perfect. Not better than Margo’s. Not a replacement. But perfect in its own way.” He took another bite. “This is you. This is Meg Walsh, putting herself into a sandwich. And I’ll be damned if it isn’t exactly what this place needs.”
Meg felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked them back.
“Try it,” Bernie said to the others. “All of you. Tell me I’m wrong.”
They tried it. Joey made the same religious sound Bernie had made for the butter. Tyler nodded slowly, something like pride in his expression. Stella was already posting photos. Anna was openly crying.
“It’s the pesto,” Anna managed. “Best on the coast. I’ve been saying for years.”
“And after a year in Florence, I can confirm it’s better than any I had there,” Bea added.
“Well, the basil does come from Margo’s garden.Maybe that helps?” Meg said, her cheeks heating a little.
Everyone turned to Margo.
She hadn’t moved from her booth. Hadn’t said a word. Meg realized she’d been holding her breath.
“Well?” Bernie asked. “Verdict?”
Margo rose slowly, walked to the tasting station, and picked up the remaining half of the pesto grilled cheese. She examined it. Took a bite. Chewed. Considered.
The Shack was silent.
“It’s not messing with my grilled cheese,” she said finally. “It’s making your own.”
Meg exhaled.
“That’s approval,” Joey translated for no one in particular. “That’s definitely approval. I’m writing that down.”
“Don’t laminate it,” Stella said.
“Too late. Already planning the font.”
Margo set down the sandwich and looked at Meg, the way she used to when Meg was twelve and learning to cook in this very kitchen.
“This is what I asked for,” she said quietly. “You three, figuring it out together. Finding your own version.” She touched Meg’s arm. “I’m proud of you.”
Meg couldn’t speak.Just nodded.
They spentthe next hour planning.
Joey made lists—ingredient costs, portion sizes, pricing strategies. Tyler offered to photograph the new items for the menu board. Stella volunteered to run social media. Bernie appointed himself “official taste consultant” and demanded a permanent discount, for the thousandth time.
Margo watched from her booth, adding a comment here and there, but mostly just letting them run with it. This was what Margo had wanted. What she’d challenged them to do.
