She took in the sight of the baking disaster in all its simultaneous charred and undercooked glory then noticed in dismay, “You . . . burned the pans.” Her eyes were wide and her lips were thin. I legit gulped. “You’re going to be the one to tell Mrs. Buzzard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I knew she was fighting down the urge to be perturbed in front of guests and I felt awash in embarrassment from every direction.

Which was when Aunt Esha stepped forward to hand Grandma Jo a cup of the hot chocolate.

“Here. Sip.” Her manner did not allow for debate.

At first Grandma Jo seemed thrown by the overt and obvious distraction. But she accepted the cup because Oklahoma manners were her default.

At Aunt Esha’s head bob, my grandmother took a tiny, tentative sip and I could tell it was only to be polite, particularly with guests. A second later, however, the taste seemed to reach the pleasure synapses in her brain as her hazel eyes widened.

“Oh, wow. What is that?”

“Not American hot chocolate,” Aunt Esha said smugly.

It was like watching Amelia Bedelia save the day with her lemon meringue pie as any degree of annoyance at finding the Christmas cookie calamity in her kitchen was instantly forgotten. My grandmother’s shoulders relaxed.

“This is amazing,” Grandma Jo said after a second, considerably longer sip.

Aunt Esha’s smile was entirely self-satisfied. “It is even better with a splash of bourbon.”

Grandma Jo broke into a big grin. “I have a bottle of Blanton’s.”

Aunt Esha flat-out clapped her hands like she was three years old. “Perfection!”

Grandma Jo turned to me. “Finley, you’ll clean this up?” It was absolutely not a question.

I nodded.

Arthur frowned. “Mashi? Are we not going to attempt a second batch?”

Aunt Esha shook her head. “Oh, I think one will suffice,” she said dryly. “And you have your Jammie Dodgers. They’re more than enough, aren’t they?”

“I suppose so—”

“Wonderful!”

Before the two older ladies left, I felt compelled to remind them, “Don’t forget the parade starts in a few hours.”

But my words were directed at their giggling, retreating figures and I wasn’t convinced they heard me.

I looked back to Arthur, who turned his attention to the charred cookies.

“Shall we toss it all, then?” he asked

It was a relief he seemed to be taking it well.

I nodded and that’s what we did, including the pans, spending the next fifteen minutes cleaning up the mess with hardly any communication between us. I was convinced he was mad at me.