Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The lunch rush wasn’t rushing.
Seven.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this quiet,” she said to Joey, who was reorganizing the napkin station for the third time.
“No.” He straightened a stack with surgical precision. “It’s weird. Yesterday was slow too. And Thursday. And Wednesday.”
“Wednesday Stella mentioned.”
“Did she mention that I had to reorganize the entire walk-in because there was literally nothing else to do?”
“She mentioned.”
Joey moved to the straws, adjusting their angle in the dispenser. His nervous energy was practically visible. “It’s probably just a fluke. Summer slump. People on vacation. Mercury in retrograde.”
“You believe in Mercury retrograde?”
“I believe in explanations that aren’t ‘the Shack is dying.’” He looked up. “Sorry. That was dramatic.”
“A little.”
“I’m stressed.”
“I noticed.”
The door opened—finally—and Mrs. Patterson walked in with her daughter and two grandchildren. Regulars. Meg felt her shoulders relax slightly.
“Afternoon!” Joey called, his customer-service voice clicking on. “Booth or counter?”
“Booth, please. The usual spot.”
They settled into the window booth, the one with the view of the beach. The grandkids immediately started coloring on the paper placemats. Normal. This was normal.
Meg took their order herself — four grilled cheeses, two with tomato, one plain for the picky five-year-old, and Mrs. Patterson’s usual with extra pickles on the side.
“Coming right up.”
She moved to the grill, grateful to have something to do.
The cheese was pre-sliced, the bread ready, the butter soft.
She’d done this a hundred times now. Maybe a thousand.
The Shack had that effect — it absorbed you into its rhythms until you couldn’t remember not knowing how to flip a sandwich at exactly the right moment.
The sizzle was satisfying. The smell of butter and bread filled the kitchen. This, at least, was right.
She plated the sandwiches, added the pickle spears, carried everything to the booth.
“Here we go. Four grilled cheeses, extra pickles.”
Mrs. Patterson smiled. “Thank you, dear. How’s your grandmother?”
“Painting. She’s been in her studio every day this week.”
“Good for her. She deserves the rest.” Mrs. Patterson cut her sandwich in half, the cheese stretching in that perfect way. She took a bite.
And paused.
Meg watched her face do something complicated — not quite a frown, not quite confusion. Just... something.
“Everything okay?”
“Oh, yes. Fine.” Mrs. Patterson set down the sandwich. “It’s just...”
“Just?”
“Nothing. It’s good.” She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s good.”
But she didn’t finish the sentence she’d started. And she only ate half the sandwich before asking for a box.
Meg tried not to read into it. People didn’t always finish their food. It didn’t mean anything.
Bernie caught her eye from his corner booth. He raised an eyebrow.
She brought him his coffee refill, even though he hadn’t asked.
“Slow day,” she said.
“Slow week.” Bernie wrapped his hands around the mug. “You notice Patterson?”
“I noticed she didn’t finish.”
“Third regular this week who didn’t finish.” Bernie sipped his coffee. “Used to be people would lick the plate. Now they’re asking for boxes.”
“Maybe people are eating less.”
“Maybe.” Bernie didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe something’s different.”
“Different how?”
He shrugged, his old shoulders rising and falling. “Can’t put my finger on it. But I’ve been eating these grilled cheeses for fifty years. I know when something’s off.”
“Is it off?”
Bernie looked at her for a long moment. Then he smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“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 the bathroom, 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.