Elwood Hargrove, 62, retired county wildlife rehabilitator, had only come to the Transylvania County Fair to support his grandson’s 4-H goat, and he’d planned to be back in his quiet creekside cabin by 7 p.m. He’d avoided the fair for seven straight years, ever since his wife Elaine’s stroke, and even now he kept his shoulders hunched, his flannel sleeves pulled down over the scar on his left forearm from a rescued bobcat, as if he could shrink small enough to escape the noise of fried dough vendors and screaming kids. The sky opened up mid-award ceremony, fat warm rain slamming into the fairgrounds so fast he had to duck into the nearest covered space, the draft beer tent strung with Christmas lights that flickered when the wind gusted.
He ordered a Yuengling, paid with crumpled cash, and planted himself in the far corner where no one would bother him, peanut shells crunching under his worn work boots. The tent was packed, everyone jostling for space away from the rain, and before he could react a woman carrying a plastic cup of sweet tea slammed into his side, the cold liquid sloshing over the rim to soak a two-inch spot on his flannel sleeve. She yelped an apology, dabbing at the wet spot with a crumpled paper napkin before he could step back, and he tensed up immediately, ready to brush her off and bolt for the rain instead of making small talk. Then he caught her scent: lemon Pledge and ripe peaches, the same mix Elaine used to have on her hands when she canned peaches every August, and he froze.
She was 58 or so, gray streaks pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of peach juice on her left wrist, a paper badge pinned to her chest that said JUDGE: CANNED GOODS. She teased him about the plastic goat pin stuck to his shirt, the one his grandson had shoved into his hand before the award ceremony, said she’d snuck into the goat show earlier and that his grandson’s billy had been the clear winner, no contest. He found himself laughing before he could stop himself, a rough rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. The tent swayed with the wind, and every time a group of teenagers squeezed past their shoulders brushed, the soft cotton of her own flannel shirt warm against his arm, and he kept catching her looking at him, not like he was a sad old widower everyone in town pitied, but like he was just a guy.
Part of him wanted to run. He’d spent eight years convincing himself that any new joy he let in was a betrayal, that he didn’t deserve to talk to a woman who smelled like peaches and teased him about his goat pin, that he’d just end up hurt all over again. He kept thinking of the empty rocking chair on his porch, the jars of Elaine’s canned peaches still lined up on his pantry shelf, and his throat felt tight. But another part of him, a part he’d thought died with Elaine, was curious, giddy even, like he was 16 again sneaking into the fair with a stolen six pack.
The rain slowed to a drizzle right as the loudspeaker blared that the fireworks would start in ten minutes, everyone pouring out of the tent towards the open field at the far end of the fairgrounds. She paused, her hand brushing his when she pointed to a stack of hay bales just outside the tent flap, out of the crowd, with a clear view of the sky. “Better view out here than fighting the teenagers for space,” she said, patting the hay bale next to her. He hesitated for three full seconds, his hand hovering over the pocket where he kept his car keys, before he sat down.
Their knees brushed through their jeans, and he could feel the warmth of her leg seep through the denim, sharp and bright against the cool post-rain air. She pulled a crumpled foil packet out of her purse, a slice of peach pie she’d snuck out after the canned goods judging, and split it between them with a plastic fork. The crust was flaky, the peaches so sweet they made his teeth ache, and he got a dollop of sticky filling on his thumb. She laughed, leaning in to dab it off with a napkin, her fingers lingering on his skin for half a second longer than necessary, and he didn’t pull away.
The first firework went off overhead, bright red, painting her face pink when she turned to look at him instead of the sky. He didn’t look away. He reached over, brushed a strand of hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ear, his calloused fingers grazing the soft skin of her cheek.
