A woman stepped out from behind the sponsor platform.

She was in her sixties.

Short gray hair.

Carrying an old videotape case.

Dax’s face changed.

“Bren?”

Brenda Sloan had been a regional television producer decades earlier.

She once produced a tiny local food program.

She looked at Nadine.

“I owe your grandmother an apology.”

Then at Dax.

“And you.”

Dax stepped backward.

“What are you doing?”

Brenda held up the tape.

“His first audition.”

Briella whispered:

“Oh no.”

Brenda continued.

“His own words.”

A screen behind the stage came alive.

The video quality was old.

Grainy.

A much younger Dax Whitfield appeared.

Skinny.

Long hair.

No expensive boots.

No television smile.

He stood outside Pruitt’s Pit.

Behind him was Lou.

Alive.

Laughing.

Young Dax looked into the camera.

“I came to Cedar Bend broke.”

The crowd became still.

“Miss Lou Pruitt let me wash dishes for meals.”

He smiled toward Lou.

“She taught me coffee in the rub, peach in the mop, post oak, low and long.”

Onstage, present-day Dax whispered:

“Turn it off.”

Nobody moved.

The young man on the recording continued.

“One day I’m going to put this flavor in a bottle.”

Lou laughed.

“You better put my name on it.”

Young Dax grinned.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The tape stopped.

Brenda looked at him.

“Yesterday you said you never set foot in Cedar Bend.”

Dax stared.

“I kept that tape in a drawer for years.”

“Why?”

“Because when your show became successful, you told me to destroy it.”

She looked toward Nadine.

“I was a coward.”

Nadine said nothing.

Brenda’s voice broke.

“I’m sorry.”

Nadine looked at the crowd.

Then at the tape.

“You played it today.”

She nodded.

“That counts.”

A Hartland Foods executive stepped toward Dax.

The ten-million-dollar contract in his hand was closed.

“We’re suspending negotiations.”

Briella whispered:

“Dax…”

The executive walked away.

Dax stared after him.

“Ten million…”

Briella answered quietly.

“Gone.”

Then the championship association director stepped onto the stage.

“And we are reviewing all three of your previous titles, Mr. Whitfield.”

For the first time, Dax Whitfield had nothing to say.

The announcer took the microphone.

“Your grand champion…”

He looked toward Nadine.

“Nadine Pruitt, Pit 41, cooking on a barrel she welded herself.”

The crowd erupted again.

Nadine lifted the trophy.

Then lowered it.

“This isn’t my win.”

She looked toward the photograph of Lou attached to Pit 41.

“It belongs to Lou Pruitt.”

The applause became louder.

“She fed everybody who came up her road.”

Maya tugged her jacket.

“Mama.”

“Yes?”

“Granny won.”

Nadine knelt.

“Granny won, sweetheart.”

Behind her, Dax Whitfield began crying.

Nobody expected that.

Least of all Nadine.

The fairgrounds were nearly empty when Dax approached Pit 41 that evening.