Moe Pritchard, 58, retired high-voltage lineman with a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2017 line fault, had avoided the small Ohio town’s annual fireman’s carnival for three straight years. He’d told everyone it was too loud, too crowded, too full of memories of his wife Diane dragging him to the pie contest every July to enter her lard-crust apple. The only reason he showed up this year was his 7-year-old granddaughter had called him crying from her mom’s phone, begging him to ride the Ferris wheel with her because her dad had to work late. He’d caved before she finished the sentence, his only condition being he got to hide by the beer tent until she was done with the bounce house.
He was halfway through his second lukewarm draft, the acrid smell of charcoal and cotton candy sticking to the back of his throat, when he saw her. Clara Marlow, 56, owner of Main Street Pie Shop, widow of his old line partner Jake who’d fallen from a 40-foot pole during an ice storm four years prior. She was hauling a tray stacked high with peach pie slices, her denim overalls smudged with flour, silver strands escaping the messy braid slung over her shoulder, when her boot caught on a loose tent stake. Moe moved before he thought, one hand wrapping firm around her elbow to steady her, the other catching the edge of the tray before it tipped completely. Her free hand smacked against his chest to catch her balance, and he could feel the heat of her palm through the faded gray flannel he still wore even in 82-degree heat, the callus on her index finger digging just barely into his skin through the fabric.
They froze for three full seconds, eye contact locked. Moe hadn’t spoken to her in two years, not since the union memorial dinner where they’d sat at opposite ends of the same table and didn’t say a word to each other, both too guilty to acknowledge the quiet, unspoken thing that had hummed between them for decades, even when both their spouses were alive. He’d spent months hating himself for even noticing the way she laughed, for remembering she took her coffee black with one sugar, for the split second he’d thought about kissing her after Jake’s funeral before he’d turned and walked out before he could do something stupid.
“Sorry,” she said first, pulling her hand back like she’d touched a live wire, her cheeks flushed pink. She adjusted the tray in her hands, and he could smell lavender perfume mixed with sweet peach syrup, the same scent he’d caught whiffs of at work when Jake would bring in her leftover pie for the crew. “Didn’t see that stake. These carnival volunteers never hammer those things in right.” Moe grunted, letting go of her elbow slowly, his skin still tingling where he’d held her. He should walk away, he told himself. Find his granddaughter, take her on the Ferris wheel, go home, sit on his porch with a beer and watch the fireworks alone like he always did. If anyone saw them talking, the town gossip mill would run wild for months, everyone whispering about how the two widows were moving on too fast, how they’d disrespected Diane and Jake.
“I saved you a slice,” she said before he could turn to leave, nodding at the top slice on the tray, the crust crimped just the way he liked it, oozing warm peach filling. “Peach. Remembered you never liked Diane’s apple, said it was too tart.” Moe’s throat went dry. He’d never told anyone that, not even Diane. He’d eaten her apple pie every year for 32 years without complaining, had even lied and said it was his favorite. Only Jake had known, because Moe had complained about it once over lunch at a work site, and Jake had laughed and said Clara’s peach was the best in the state.
He nodded, against every better judgment screaming in his head. She led him to a rickety picnic table tucked behind the beer tent, out of sight of the main carnival crowd, and set the slice down in front of him with a plastic fork. They sat shoulder to shoulder, close enough that their knees brushed under the table every time one of them shifted. He didn’t move his leg away. She didn’t move hers. They didn’t talk for the first five minutes, just listened to the roar of the crowd and the tinny pop song blaring from the Tilt-a-Whirl speaker, Moe eating the pie slow, the sweet juice sticking to his fingers.
“I’ve felt guilty for months,” she said quietly, picking at a loose splinter on the table, when he finished the last bite. “For thinking about you. For wanting to call you. It feels like I’m cheating on Jake.” Moe nodded, because he’d felt the exact same way, like every time he thought about her he was betraying Diane, like he was a bad husband, a bad friend. “Me too,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. He reached across the table, paused for half a second, then wrapped his hand around hers. Her skin was warm, calloused from kneading dough at 4 a.m. every day, and she laced her fingers through his like they were meant to fit there.
The first firework went off above them then, painting the sky bright red, and neither of them pulled away. They watched the whole show sitting there, their hands still laced together, the distant sound of the crowd cheering mixing with the sharp crack of each explosion. When the last firework faded into the dark summer sky, Moe didn’t let go of her hand. He stood up, pulling her gently to her feet with him, and nodded toward the parking lot where his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150 was parked. He held the passenger door open for her, and she stepped up into the cab without hesitation.
