Ronan O’Malley, 52, minor league baseball scout with a scar splitting his left knuckle from replacing a transmission in his F-150 last winter, had avoided small town community events for three years straight, ever since his wife Elaina died. He hated the pitying side glances, the awkward “how you holding up” questions, the way people acted like he was made of glass. The only reason he was at the Vinton County Barbecue Festival in southern Ohio at all was because the 19-year-old left-handed pitcher he was scouting refused to talk contract anywhere but his grandma’s rib tent, per his mom’s rules.
The air reeked of hickory smoke, burnt sugar, and cheap citronella candles. A bluegrass band plucked out a slow Loretta Lynn cover half a football field away, the sound warbling over the hum of the crowd. He was leaning against a split rail fence waiting for the kid to finish serving a table when a paper plate slathered in rib sauce smacked him square in the chest, carried by a sharp gust of wind off the nearby lake.
A woman was jogging over before he could brush it off, cutoff jean shorts frayed at the hem, a faded Johnny Cash tee clinging to her shoulders, sun-streaked brown hair tied back with a red bandana, a smudge of sauce on the curve of her jaw. She was Maren Hale, 38, the ex-wife of the mayor who’d just lost his re-election bid two weeks prior, and half the vendors in the park were already staring, waiting to see if Ronan would acknowledge her. The whole town knew Cole Henderson still kept a petty blacklist of anyone who so much as said hello to Maren, pulling permits for vendors, blocking road repairs for homeowners, the kind of small town tyranny no one wanted to risk.
She stopped in front of him, close enough he could smell coconut shampoo and wood smoke tangled in her hair, and reached for the plate stuck to his scout jacket. Her calloused palm, rough from flipping ribs for 12 hours a day, brushed his scarred knuckle, and she held eye contact for a beat too long, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Sorry about that. Wind’s a bitch today.”
Ronan nodded, brushing the sauce stain off his jacket with the back of his hand, already aware Cole was glowering at them from the beer tent across the park. He should have walked away. He was there for work, didn’t need to get wrapped up in small town drama, didn’t need to give anyone a reason to run their mouths about him, didn’t need the quiet guilt nipping at his chest for even noticing how pretty she was, three years after Elaina died. But he didn’t move. “No harm done. Ribs smell good, by the way.”
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the festival. “You’re the scout here for Jesse, right? My cousin played ball with him in high school. I heard you drove six hours to see him pitch last week.” She leaned against the fence next to him, her shoulder pressing light against his bicep, and nodded toward Jesse’s grandma’s tent. “He’s got three more tables to work. You got time for a free side of smoked mac and cheese while you wait?”
The offer hung between them, loaded. He could feel Cole’s eyes burning into the side of his head. He could hear a group of old ladies at the next table whispering. But the mac and cheese smelled like sharp cheddar and bacon, and Maren’s shoulder was warm against his arm, and he hadn’t felt this light, this curious, in years. He said yes.
She brought him the mac ten minutes later, along with a cold can of local IPA, condensation soaking the label, and stood next to him while he ate, talking about how she’d grown up going to minor league games with her dad, how she’d wanted to play softball in college until she tore her ACL senior year. Every time she laughed, she leaned in a little closer, her knee brushing his, and he found himself telling her about Elaina, how she’d used to come on scouting trips with him, how she’d keep score and roast him for falling for pitchers who threw too hard and had no control.
By the time Jesse came over to talk contract, the sun was dipping low over the lake, painting the sky pink and orange. They locked down the offer in 20 minutes, Jesse’s grandma slipping Ronan an extra rack of ribs for the road as a thank you. Most of the crowd had cleared out, the bluegrass band packing up their gear, Cole gone with his group of cronies. Ronan walked past Maren’s tent on his way back to his truck, the ribs warm in a paper bag in his hand, and stopped when she waved him over.
She was wiping down her grill, grease streaked on her forearm, and nodded at two folding chairs set up behind the tent next to a cooler of beer. “You gonna make me eat all those leftover ribs by myself, or you gonna stay a while?”
He sat. Their knees pressed together when they passed a rib back and forth, no space between them now, no crowds staring, no guilt hovering quite so heavy. When a smudge of sauce stuck to his chin, she reached over and wiped it off with her thumb, her touch soft against his skin, and she didn’t pull away when he laced his fingers through hers for half a second, just squeezed back.
He told her he had to leave at 6 a.m. the next day to go meet a catcher prospect in Charleston, West Virginia, and asked her if she wanted to come. She laughed, said she had to run her tent for the rest of the festival, but she’d be in Charleston the next weekend for a softball tournament, pulled a crumpled napkin out of her pocket and scribbled her number on it, right over a dried barbecue sauce stain. He tucked it into the inner pocket of his scout jacket, the same pocket he kept Elaina’s old lucky baseball card in, and leaned in to kiss her quick, tasting smoke and cherry lip balm on her mouth.
He walked to his truck ten minutes later, the leftover ribs still warm on the passenger seat, and pulled out his phone to save her number before he even turned the key in the ignition.
