Earl smiled sadly.
“She treated him like family.”
Nadine looked toward the old notebook.
Years later, Dax launched a bottled sauce called Whitfield Diamond Peach Reserve.
It became famous.
Coffee.
Peach molasses.
Post oak.
Low and long.
Nearly the same profile Lou Pruitt had served for decades.
Dax told television audiences the recipe came from his father’s ranch.
Nadine’s father remembered otherwise.
When Whitfield’s bottled sauce became popular, people began buying barbecue from supermarkets instead of making the long drive to Pruitt’s place.
The little restaurant was already struggling.
Within two years, it closed.
“What did Granny say?”
Earl’s face softened.
“She never said his name again.”
“Never?”
“She just kept cooking.”
Lou set the barrel pit in her own yard.
Every Sunday, anyone who drove up the road ate.
Construction workers.
Church families.
Truckers.
Children.
People with money.
People without.
“She cooked until we lost her,” Nadine said.
Wes looked at her.
“And now you’re here.”
Nadine touched the notebook.
“Now I’m here.”
Her phone rang.
Her daughter Maya’s face appeared on the screen.
“Mama, did you win?”
Nadine smiled.
“Not yet, sweetheart.”
“You better.”
“I’ll try.”
“You said Granny never lost a cook-off.”
Nadine laughed.
“Granny also cheated at dominoes.”
Maya gasped.
“She did not.”
“She absolutely did.”
After hanging up, Nadine noticed Wes staring toward the sponsor area.
“What?”
He pointed.
Briella was filming Dax near a giant Hartland Foods banner.
Even from a distance, Nadine could hear fragments.
Four million views.
Sunday announcement.
Ten million dollars.
Fourth title.
Earl lowered his voice.
“That man has more to lose than a trophy.”
Nadine looked toward Dax.
She thought about the line he had spoken without thinking.
You still pour too fast.
Her grandmother used to tell Nadine the same thing.
Exactly the same words.
Nadine closed the book.
For the first time, she no longer wanted simply to beat Dax Whitfield.
She wanted him to look into a camera and say Lou Pruitt’s name.
Sunday’s promotional livestream began before sunrise.
Dax stood beside a polished stainless-steel smoker worth more than Nadine’s pickup.
Briella checked comments on a tablet.
Numbers climbed quickly.
Four million views across platforms.
Hartland Foods executives were arriving at noon.
If Dax took his fourth championship, the sponsorship announcement would happen on the main stage.
One executive handed Briella a draft contract.
Ten million dollars over three years.
Dax signed bottles.
Smiled for photographs.
Then one of his assistants approached carrying screenshots.
“Problem.”
Briella looked.
The screenshots showed Nadine’s notebook.
A viewer had zoomed in during the earlier livestream.
On one page, handwritten in faded ink:
Coffee rub. Peach mop. Post oak. Low and long.
