Theresa smiled at the audience. “Maplewood, an inclusive community that boasts itself as Vermont’s queerest town, was full of charm, community spirit, and secrets.”
“Secrets?” Lena’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rose. “Do tell.”
“I’ll do even better. I’ll show you.” They both turned toward a large screen.
A series of video clips filmed around Maplewood played on the screen with a voiceover from Theresa. It showed the covered bridge, the old paper mill, a nighttime shot of the lit tree in Maplewood City Park, and bundled people walking through fluffy snowflakes along Maple Street.
“Maplewood is the kind of town you expect to find in a Hallmark movie with its quaint downtown and love for community festivals. Many people born there choose to never leave and end up raising the next generations of Maplewoodians.”
The camera panned to Theresa standing outside of Sparky’s.
“We’re on national TV!” Dad yelled.
“Shh! I can’t hear what she’s saying,” Pop Pop chided.
Mickey’s shoulders bounced with silent laughter.
“This diner has been in the same family for generations. Named after its original proprietor, Sparky Flynn, Sparky’s Diner runs out of an old rail car.”
The footage shifted to shots inside the diner with the din of chatter in the background, then panned to an older man in a green hat that readTeam Sparky’sin block letters, who laughed at a table with three other guys.
“I’ve been coming to Sparky’s since I was a kid. Now I get to bring my grandkids here for pancakes on the weekends. I’m Team Sparky’s, all the way,” he said.
“You heard that right. Team Sparky’s. When there’s one team, there’s usually an opponent. In Maplewood, that’s Red’s Restaurant,” Theresa said.
“Boo, hiss,” Mom teased.
Mickey’s family laughed freely. Mickey and I shot each other what-alternate-universe-are-we-in looks.
“This is Red’s. Fittingly, it sits at the opposite end of Maple Street in downtown Maplewood.” The footage changed to Theresa sitting at the Red’s counter.
After Mickey shared meaningful smiles with his family, I rubbed my palm on his chest. This was so surreal.
I’d never actually been inside of Red’s. I’d seen photos, of course, and peeped in through the windows once or twice, but it was completely charming. Descriptions of it being shabby and outdated couldn’t be more wrong. I absolutely adored the retro vibe. Sure, it could use a bit of work, but only things that would keep it in that fantastic style.
“If history is to be believed, Sparky and Red were best friends who ran a food stall together to feed workers at the paper mill nearly a century ago. They planned to open a diner together, but as sometimes happens between best friends, there was a falling out.”
Theresa stood in the Sparky’s dining room, facing a pair of women. “Do you know what happened between Sparky and Red?”
One of the women glanced around like she was about to spill a secret. “I heard it was because Sparky decided to open the diner on his own, so Red did the same.”
“No, it’s because Red stole Sparky’s maple pie recipe,” the other woman said.
“I asked a lot of people about the feud’s origin, and the local historian at the Maplewood Paper Mill Museum and Historical Society suggested it had something to do with a disagreement over a contract clause when ironing out their diner partnership. What’s the fun in that? Most people speculated it had to do with one stealing the other’s pie recipe.” Camera footage showed pies in the cases at both diners and people at last night’s dinner, some in red and others in green, enjoying their slices.
Historic photos of my great-grandfathers came on screen.
“But I learned something else. Sparky and Red started a wonderful tradition. They made sure everyone in Maplewood had access to a warm meal on Christmas Eve. In honor of Maplewood’s seventy-fifth Holiday Hoopla festival, the town decided to honor them by hosting a community Christmas Eve dinner. There are nearly five hundred people here to celebrate the holiday together. Businesses all over town joined forces to cook enough food for an army with a menu inspired by the food Sparky and Red used to cook.”
As the footage showed happy families enjoying dinner last night, Mickey kissed my temple. I dropped my head on his shoulder and basked in the pride over what we’d accomplished.
“Sparky’s and Red’s children, grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren continued the tradition of feeding the people of Maplewood.” As Theresa spoke, the screen showed candid footage of our families. Then it switched to our dads and grandfathers standing behind the microphone. “Three generations of diner royalty attended the dinner last night. A dinner organized by the youngest of each family, Mickey from Red’s and Amos from Sparky’s.”
I gasped at the candid footage of Mickey and me standing close and laughing. It wasn’t Mickey dipping me into a kiss, but an intimate shot of us catching a moment outside the kitchen among the chaos last night.
“What started as a falling out between best friends three generations ago turned into a rivalry embraced by the people of Maplewood.” Clips of people wearing Team Red’s and Team Sparky’s gear played over Theresa’s voice. “But this is also a story about community, caring, and most of all, love.” As Theresa said the last part, footage of Mickey dipping me played to the sound of booming cheers.
“Are we kissing on national television?” Mickey sounded like he didn’t believe his own words.
