Winnie: Can’t stop thinking about today. You did something amazing.
Me: We did. Couldn’t have done it without you.
And I mean it, but I’m terrified I’m about to lose it all. Fear like this is something new. I hate it. But I never hated her. Not even a little bit. And now … now, when it comes to Winnie, it’s quite the opposite.
33
WINNIE
Grandma Joyce hasher photo albums spread across the dining room table like a museum exhibit of Huckleberry Hill history.
“Look at this one,” she says, pointing to a faded photograph. “That’s the old town hall before Silver Sam drove into it in his ‘82 Chevy.”
“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 canonly 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 gobeyond 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.
