Chapter 33 Winnie
WINNIE
Grandma Joyce has her photo albums spread across the dining room table like a museum exhibit of Huckleberry Hill history.
“He what?”
“Early on in his cider production, hence Buttercup.”
It’s funny, but so not funny.
I lean closer, studying the grainy image of a building that looks nothing like the modern glass complex where I work now. “Wild.”
She flips the page. “This is from the Fourth of July parade, must be the late nineties or so.” It takes me a moment to realize she means the 1990s, not the 1890s.
“Ah, and Halloween. The fire department always gave out the big candy bars.”
I squint at the old fire house—the one that’s now a bakery.
Standing in front of it in full dress uniform is a man who can only be Patton’s father.
Same strong jaw, same serious expression.
Beside him, a woman with kind eyes holds the hand of a little boy, who is maybe five years old, with messy brown hair and a gap-toothed smile.
Patton. My heart melts.
He wears a tiny firefighter costume, complete with a plastic helmet that’s too big for his head.
He’s looking up at his father with pure adoration and respect.
Awe even. On his other side is a stout man, who appears to be built of brick or some other industrial material. He’s older with a ruddy face.
“That’s Forbes Cross,” Grandma Joyce says softly, pointing at Patton’s dad. “Good man. Died too young.”
“I wonder if Patton has ever seen this photo?”
She traces the edge of it with one finger.
“And that’s Captain Kendrick. Every woman from here to Carson City wanted to dance with him at the Fireman’s Ball.
He lost his wife young. Patton lost him.
He was never quite the same after. Grew up too fast, took on too much responsibility.
But he turned out good. The kind of man I’d be honored to welcome into the family. ”
“Grandma!”
She winks at me.
I memorize every detail of the photo, from the way young Patton grips his father’s hand to the pride radiating from Forbes. The legacy now rests on Patton’s shoulders through the bakery and the crew and everything he’s built to honor his beloved captain.
“Can I take a picture of this?” I ask.
“Of course, or you can have it if you want to give it to him.”
I carefully remove it from the album, imagining Patton’s face when I show him. Maybe I’ll frame it for the bakery. A reminder that he’s honoring his father and captain in ways that go beyond fighting fires.
I continue to leaf through the album when my phone buzzes with a text.
Patton: Still at home?
Me: Yes. My grandmother is showing me embarrassing photos of Huckleberry Hill residents.
Patton: Please tell me I’m not in any of them.
I send him the eyes emoji.
Patton: Should I prepare for epic embarrassment?
Me: You were a very cute five-year-old firefighter.
Patton: Cute? Not brawny or brave? I’m going to need you to delete that.
Me: Never. This is leverage.
Patton: For what?
Me: I’ll let you know when I need to cash it in.
I’m grinning at my phone when Grandma Joyce clears her throat. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
“What? No. I mean—” I give up. “Yes.”
“Thought so. You get that same look your mother used to get when your father would call her from overseas before he moved here.” She pats my hand. “But until your phone beeped, you looked worried.”
Because I’m keeping secrets. Because there’s a bet I never should have made. Because my family’s restaurant is circling the drain, I can’t fix it, and I’m terrified of disappointing everyone.
“Tired.” It’s not a lie.
I can tell she doesn’t believe me by the way her eyebrows raise.
“Go to bed early, get some rest. Whatever is on your mind will still be there in the morning.” My grandmother is an early-to-bed, early-to-rise person.
However, instead of going to sleep, I remain in Grandma’s kitchen, torn between packing the suitcase in the back of my closet, then taking a long drive out of town, and … baking.
I’m like Gretel, wandering through the woods, following a breadcrumb trail. Instead of leading to a cottage belonging to a wicked witch, in this fairytale, I’m comfy and cozy in my beloved grandmother’s home.
The unknown lurks outside and looks remarkably handsome. But what if one day he realizes that I’m just another person who needs saving and he’s been loving me out of duty rather than desire?
Glimpsing a photo of my grandparents on their wedding day, I’m reminded that’s not what love is.
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself the oven will take the chill out of the air. At this elevation, we’re between seasons. Winter hasn’t entirely released its icy grip as spring tries to stake its claim.
I find both Grandma Joyce’s and Judy’s brownie recipes and set them on the counter side by side. I devise a plan to put their battle to bed once and for all—and yes, I’m well aware that I should also be fast asleep.
Judy’s salted caramel version is on the left. My grandmother’s cream cheese swirl is on the right. I make both simultaneously because I can’t lie in bed with my thoughts playing on a loop.
The restaurant closure looms in my mind like a storm cloud. Fab’s calls, his desperate tone. My bank account is laughably inadequate. My parents, blissfully unaware that their daughter has been secretly trying—and failing—to save them.
I decide to make a third batch and add mint chips—an homage to the peppermint cocoa Patton made me. At least I can control brownie recipes, even if I can’t control anything else in my life.
After I set the oven timer, I start to clean up.
“Vincenza Sorrentino, what on earth are you doing?” Grandma Joyce stands in the doorway in her bathrobe, hair in curlers, looking thoroughly alarmed.
I jump, nearly dropping a mixing bowl as I bring it to the sink. “Testing recipes, um, for the Fireman’s Ball dessert station.”
She moves closer, peering at the counter. Her eyes narrow. “Is that Judy’s recipe?”
“And yours. I’m making both.”
“You’re making her recipe?” The betrayal in her voice would be funny if I weren’t so exhausted. “Under my roof?”
“Grandma—”
“I thought we had an understanding, young lady.”
“It’s brownies, not treason.”
She huffs but doesn’t leave, hovering as I slide both pans into the oven. I try to make my case and also tell her about the mint chocolate chip brownies in the third pan. Thankfully, the timer goes off before she kicks me out of the house.
Grandma Joyce circles the counter like a shark as the brownies cool. “Judy’s look … adequate.”
Puffing my cheeks, I flash her a look of exasperation.
“What? I’m being generous.”
The doorbell rings.
It’s after nine at night.
We look at each other.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask.
“At this hour? Absolutely not.”
But when we open the door, Judy Waples holds a covered casserole dish. “Saw the light on over here at this hour, so I brought—”
My grandmother stiffens. “We don’t need charity from—”
“Grandma, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
They stare at each other like two gunslingers at high noon.
Not sure what’s in the casserole dish, I grab it before things escalate, and it ends up across the room. “Thank you, Judy. That’s very thoughtful. Would you like to come in?”
“I would.”
“Wonderful!” I practically yank her inside before Grandma can protest.
Now we’re all standing in the kitchen—three women, two brownie battle recipes, and approximately forty years of accumulated rivalry.
I cut into both batches, plating samples with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. “Sit. Both of you. Taste these and tell me honestly which is better. They were baked by yours truly.”
They sit at opposite ends of the table like reluctant peace negotiators from warring nations.
Each tries the other’s batch of brownies.
The silence stretches so long that I consider taking extreme measures and contacting the market to ban them from buying chocolate.
Finally, Judy speaks. “Yours are lighter than I remember.”
Joyce, grudgingly says, “Yours have better texture than last time.”
I hold my breath.
“Did you change your recipe?” Judy asks.
“Added a pinch of cayenne. You know, for a kick.” Joyce’s voice is careful. “After all, you said I’m a spicy lady.”
I almost laugh.
Judy admits, “You told me I’m salty, but I’ve been using your sea salt trick. Makes them less cloying.”
I blink. “You’ve been borrowing from each other?”
They both look guilty.
“Maybe,” Joyce mumbles.
“Since the church bake sale incident,” Judy adds.
“You’ve been in a fake feud?” Laughter spills out of me from exhaustion and absurdity and sheer disbelief.
“Our feud isn’t fake,” they say in perfect unison.
Then they look at each other … and almost smile.
“Ladies—” I start.
As if being reprimanded, Judy says, “Your brownies are good, Joyce. Always have been.”
My grandmother takes a long moment before responding. “So are yours, Judy. Very good.” Then she reaches across the table with her hand extended to shake.
Judy hesitates for only a second before taking her hand.
“Friends?” my grandmother asks.
“Friendly rivals,” Judy counters.
“I can live with that.”
They smile as if they’ve always been friends and just added the rivalry to make things more interesting. Spicy? Salty? I drop my head into my hands, finally ready for bed.
But then they immediately start arguing about whose recipe should go first on the dessert table at the Fireman’s Ball. However, it’s different now—more playful instead of pointed. The decades-long cold war has thawed into something almost warm.
I snap a photo of them mid-argument and text it to Patton.
Me: Mission impossible accomplished. The Golden Grandmas called a truce.
Patton: Did spring freeze over?
Me: Maybe a little. They’re arguing about nuts now.
Patton: That’s progress, right?
Me: For them? It’s a miracle.
Patton: Is the credit yours?
Me: We can thank my late-night brownie-baking escapes. I added mint chips. I’ll bring you one tomorrow.
Patton: Looking forward to it. Get some sleep. Sweet dreams.