Rayford Pritchard, 62, retired USPS rural route supervisor, only showed up to the town’s annual fall harvest festival because his 10-year-old grandson begged him to come watch the pinewood derby finals. He wore a faded navy USPS windbreaker frayed at the cuffs, scuffed work boots caked with pine straw, and carried a chipped ceramic coffee mug emblazoned with the logo of his grandson’s little league team, already irritated when he spotted Earl manning the chili cookoff booth near the entrance. He veered hard left toward the edge of the fairgrounds, not wanting to pick a fight in front of the kids, and stumbled straight into a booth strung with mason jar candles, the air thick with sandalwood and cedar, the exact scent his wife used to spray on their bed linens.
The woman behind the booth wiped her hands on her high-waisted jeans, her flannel sleeve riding up to show a tiny cardinal tattoo on her wrist, the same matching tattoo his wife had gotten with her when they were both 18. She held his gaze for three full beats before she smiled, slow and warm, and said he looked like he was running from Earl the same as she was. Ray froze, recognizing her as Maeve, Earl’s baby sister, the girl who used to wait on his mail route porch for popsicles he’d sneak her when her mom was working late shifts at the hospital, the one who moved to Charlotte straight out of high school 30 years prior and never came back until now. He tensed, ready to mumble an excuse and leave, until she held out the exact rare carburetor Earl had stolen from his 1972 F-100 18 years prior, the metal polished to a faint shine. She said she’d found it in Earl’s garage when she was cleaning out their late mom’s stuff earlier that summer, knew it was his, had been asking around for him ever since she moved back two months prior after her divorce.
When their fingers brushed as he took the carburetor from her, he felt a jolt hot enough to burn through the numbness he’d carried since his wife died, her skin soft, smelling like vanilla and the pine boughs stacked behind the booth. She leaned against the edge of the booth, her shoulder almost pressing to his, the faint twang of the bluegrass band playing the main stage tangled with the crackle of the cotton candy machine a few feet away, and said she’d heard he finally finished restoring the F-100 last spring, had heard it rumble through town when he drove to the VFW two weeks prior. Ray almost lied and said he still hated everyone in Earl’s family, but the sun was hitting her auburn hair at an angle that turned the strands gold, and she was laughing at the way he was fumbling the carburetor like a kid holding a stolen candy bar, and he realized he’d wasted 18 years being angry over a hunk of metal, missed out on more than he could count.
He bought two of the sandalwood candles, asked if she wanted to get a chili dog and catch the end of the bluegrass set after the festival closed, and she said only if he let her ride in the F-100 afterward, she’d always wanted to go for a drive in it back when they were kids. He tucked the carburetor under his arm, held the candles carefully so the wax didn’t slosh, and didn’t even glance in Earl’s direction when he walked back toward the pinewood derby track to find his grandson. She waved as he left, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and he caught himself smiling for the first time in longer than he could remember.
