“No, it’s addicting.”
My mouth falls open ever so slightly because if I didn’t know better, he is being serious. Maybe Grandma was right about the pigtail pulling.
The lock behind us clicks and we both spring in opposite directions.
Austin’s face appears in the doorway. “Dude, sorry! You two okay?”
“Fine,” Patton says quickly, pushing off the desk. “I can’t fathom how you put the door on backward.”
“It works, though, right?” Austin counters.
Moving hastily, I leave them to their arguing. Overheating, I don’t need to put my jacket back on as I head to the municipal building.
That evening,I’m in Grandma Joyce’s kitchen, which has become Ground Zero for the Great Brownie Battle.
After commenting on how I was locked in the office of the old fire house with Patton, Grandma Joyce thrusts a plate at me. “Try this batch. I added a touch of cinnamon.”
“Joyce, you can’t just add things willy-nilly,” Judy Waples protests from her position by the stove. “Brownies have a structure. A foundation.”
“So does a house, Judy, and they still renovate those.”
Speaking of … if these two continue this war, the walls might come tumbling down. I take a bite of Grandma Joyce’s brownie. It’s rich and fudgy, with unexpected spice from the cinnamon and a perfect hint of sea salt.
Judy hands me her version. Traditional and more cake-like, studded with walnuts. Also delicious, in a completely different way.
“Well?” they both demand.
“They’re both amazing,” I say diplomatically. “Really. I think we should have both at the festival. Variety is good.”
They exchange looks that suggest this is not the answer they wanted.
My grandmother says, “Fine. But mine will be labeled ‘delicious,’ and Judy’s will be ‘traditional.’”
Judy retorts, “Mine will be ‘classic,’ and yours will be ‘experimental.’”
“‘Experimental’ sounds like I’m running tests in a lab!”
I’m about to mediate further when the kitchen door opens and Patton walks in, tool belt on his hips, looking like he walked straight out of a home improvement show.
Both grandmas stop mid-argument.
“Patton!” Grandma Joyce actually bats her eyelashes. “What a lovely surprise. Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“I knocked, but I don’t think you could hear me. You said there was a problem with a flickering light.”
“I told you that, but—” I start.
He says, “Your grandmother called about an hour ago.”
“Did I? Oh, yes!” She splays her fingers as if only now recalling what was likely a very intentional phone call after learning we were locked in a room together, today of all days. “You’re such a dear to help.”
Judy Waples smooths her hair. “Patton, would you like a brownie? I have a fresh batch. They’re classic, traditional, some might say, and definitely delicious.”
“So do I,” Grandma Joyce interjects, practically elbowing Judy out of the way.
I watch in horrified fascination as both seventy-something women shamelessly compete for Patton’s attention, offering brownies, asking about his electrical expertise, and generally behaving like teenagers at a sock hop—I think they’re called.
Patton, to his credit, handles it with grace, accepting brownies from both and complimenting them equally. His eyes meet mine over the grandmas’ heads. There’s laughter in them.
