Rafe Marquez’s work boots kicked up sawdust and fried dough crumbs as he cut through the Santa Rosa County fairgrounds, the 1968 Evinrude he’d spent three months restoring already dropped off at the vintage marine display near the cattle barns. It was 82 degrees, thick with humidity, the creak of the Ferris wheel mixing with the roar of the tractor pull two fields over, and he’d only planned to stay long enough to grab a beer before heading back to his converted bait shed shop. Then he smelled the peach pie.
The booth was draped in red gingham, staffed by a woman with sun-streaked brown hair tied back in a bandana, wiping flour off her forearms as she handed a slice to a kid in a cowboy hat. Rafe recognized her immediately. Lena, married to Cole Henderson, the insurance adjuster who’d jacked his shop’s liability premium 42% three weeks prior, no explanation beyond “new risk assessment guidelines for waterfront businesses.” Rafe had chewed him out over the phone, told him to go to hell, and fully intended to switch carriers the second his policy was up for renewal. He should have turned and walked the other way. He didn’t.
He ordered a slice of peach, paid with a crumpled $10 bill, and when she leaned across the table to hand him the paper plate, her cotton blouse rode up just enough for him to spot the edge of a sunflower tattoo peeking over the waistband of her high-waisted jeans. Their fingers brushed when she passed him a plastic fork, and she held eye contact a beat too long, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Cole says you’re the most stubborn man he’s ever had to deal with,” she said, like it was a compliment, not a complaint.
Rafe grunted, took the plate, and settled on a splintered picnic bench 10 feet from the booth, figuring he’d eat fast and leave. The pie was perfect, sweet and tangy, the crust flaky enough to melt on his tongue, exactly like the ones his ex-wife used to make before she bailed for a Tampa real estate agent eight years prior. He kept glancing up at the booth without meaning to, catching Lena looking right back at him every time, like she was waiting for him to make a move. 20 minutes later, she walked over with a second slice, this one key lime, set it down in front of him without asking. “Peace offering,” she said, sliding onto the bench next to him, their knees pressing together under the table even though there was three feet of empty space on the other side. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and baked cinnamon, her shoulder warm where it brushed his oil-stained work shirt.
He told her Cole was a hack who couldn’t tell an outboard motor from a lawnmower, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was embarrassed. She told him she’d been married three years, had a four-year-old daughter who loved mermaids, hated Cole’s habit of leaving his smelly golf socks on the kitchen counter, and had been wanting to talk to Rafe ever since she’d found his shop’s website three months prior, scrolling through photos of his restored motors when Cole was passed out on the couch watching football. Rafe’s chest tightened. He’d spent eight years swearing off anything that even smelled like romantic trouble, convinced it wasn’t worth the hassle, that he was better off alone with his motors and his Conway Twitty records and his weekend fishing trips out on the Gulf. The logical part of his brain screamed that this was a terrible idea, that messing with the adjuster’s wife would only make his life harder, that he was too old for this kind of drama. The rest of him didn’t care.
The sky opened up all at once, fat cold raindrops pouring down so fast people started running for cover, screaming as the fairground speakers blared a storm warning. Lena grabbed his wrist, her fingers warm and firm, and pulled him under the awning of the closed 4-H rabbit exhibit shed, pressing up against him to stay out of the rain that was blowing sideways under the metal overhang. Her hair was stuck to the side of her neck, rain drops beading on her cheek, and when she tilted her chin up to look at him, he kissed her before he could talk himself out of it. She tasted like lime and cherry Kool-Aid, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt, and he could feel the raised ink of that sunflower tattoo under his palm when he rested his hand on her waist.
He pulled back after a minute, chest heaving, ready to apologize, to say he shouldn’t have done that, that he knew better. She shook her head before he could speak, pressing a slip of paper with her phone number scribbled on it into his hand. “I’m filing for divorce next week,” she said, her voice steady, no hesitation. “I already talked to my mom, she’s gonna watch the kid while I find a place of my own. You don’t have to call me if you don’t want to. But I hope you do.”
The rain slowed to a drizzle 10 minutes later, the sun peeking out over the pine trees at the edge of the fairgrounds. He walked her to her beat up Honda Civic, held the door open for her, and watched her pull out of the parking lot, waving out the window before she turned onto the main road. He climbed into his own pickup, set the crumpled slip of paper on the dash next to his half-empty cup of coffee, and turned the key in the ignition, the radio blaring Conway’s “Hello Darlin’” the second it turned over. He smiled, reaching for his phone to save her number before he forgot, his thumb brushing the smudged ink of her digits.
