Rafe Sorenson, 53, has spent the last 24 years driving 30,000 miles a year across the Midwest scouting left-handed pitchers for the Cedar Rapids Kernels, and he’s stubborn enough to still hold a 30-year grudge against the only girl who ever got him to skip a summer league game. His old coach used to say that stubbornness would make him a great scout and a terrible husband, and for 30 years, he’d proven the man half right. He’s at the Warren County Fair to watch a 19-year-old kid from Des Moines throw 92-mile-per-hour fastballs, his work boots caked with infield dust, a sunburn peeling across the bridge of his nose, when the smell of cinnamon and ripe peaches yanks him straight back to 1990.
He follows the scent to the 4-H pie contest booth, and his boots lock to the gravel before he can turn around. Clara Bennett is behind the counter, wiping peach syrup off a plastic serving spoon, silver streaks threading through the auburn hair he used to braid when they’d cut class to park by the reservoir. She’s got a smudge of flour on her left jaw, her denim shirt rolled up to elbows dotted with freckles he still remembers tracing with his thumb when they were 17.
She looks up, and the spoon hangs mid-air for three full seconds. Rafe’s first instinct is to mumble an excuse and bolt, the same way he has every time he’s spotted her at the grocery store or the high school alumni game for the last three decades. But she sets the spoon down, nods at the empty spot at the counter across from her, and he finds himself walking over before he can talk himself out of it.
The counter is narrow enough that their elbows are barely two inches apart when he leans against it. He can smell lavender hand lotion mixed with the sweet, heavy steam of fresh-baked pie, and the sound of the country cover band playing off by the grandstand fades to a low hum for a second. She slides a paper plate with a slice of peach pie across the counter, and their fingers brush when he grabs it. The jolt runs all the way up his arm to his shoulder, and he almost drops the plate.
He’s been telling himself for 30 years that she bailed on their plan to pack up his old Ford F-150 and move to Fort Lauderdale the week after graduation, that she never cared enough to even tell him she was staying. He takes a bite of pie, the crust flaky, the peaches warm and sweet, exactly the way she used to make them when they’d sneak into her parents’ kitchen after curfew. He doesn’t want to ask, but the words come out before he can stop them: why didn’t you at least call?
Her smile fades a little, and she leans in, her voice low enough that only he can hear it over the kids screaming on the tilt-a-whirl. “I left a letter in your truck’s glove compartment the night before you were supposed to leave. My mom had her first stroke that afternoon, I couldn’t leave her. I never heard back from you, so I figured you’d decided you didn’t want to bring a girl with a sick mom along for your big baseball adventure.”
Rafe’s throat goes tight. He sold that truck two days after graduation, so mad he didn’t even bother to empty the glove compartment before he handed the keys over. He’d spent 30 years blaming her, when the only person at fault was his own stupid, hurt pride. He sets his fork down, and his knee brushes hers under the counter. She doesn’t move away.
The sun dips below the fairgrounds’ oak trees, painting the sky pink and orange, and the string lights strung above the booth flicker on. The crowd around the pie booth thins out, most people heading to the grandstand for the demolition derby, and Clara’s knee stays pressed to his, warm through the worn denim of their jeans. She reaches out, swipes a smudge of peach filling off his lower lip with her thumb, and holds it there for a beat, her eyes soft, no trace of the anger he’d been expecting for decades.
He tells her he sold the truck without checking the glove compartment, that he was so hurt he never even asked any of their friends what had happened, that he’d seen her at a dozen scouting games over the years, always sitting in the back of the stands, but he’d been too much of a coward to go say hi. She laughs, soft and warm, not mean, and shakes her head. “I went to every game you scouted within 100 miles. I just didn’t want to get turned down again.”
He asks if she’s got plans after the fair closes. She says she’s got a cooler of cold peach iced tea on her back porch, and a stack of newspaper clippings of his scouting reports she’s been saving for 20 years, if he wants to come see them. He grins, tosses his empty paper plate in the trash can next to the booth, and shakes his head at how much time they wasted over a stupid missed letter.
When she turns to lock up the glass pie display, he rests his hand lightly on the small of her back, and she leans into the touch, her shoulders soft under his palm.
