Elwood Pritchard, 62, retired Athens County surveyor, had only agreed to come to the annual county fair because his 10-year-old grandson had begged for three straight weeks, swearing the prize-winning Nubian goat he’d raised for 4-H would “blow his grandpa’s mind.” The kid had vanished 20 minutes after they walked through the gate, off with a group of friends to terrorize the cotton candy stand, leaving Elwood lingering by the fried pie booth, kicking at a loose patch of gravel in his scuffed work boots, already mentally cataloging the rust spots he needed to sand off his 1987 F-150 when he got home. He’d spent three years walling himself off from any kind of casual connection after his wife died of lung cancer, convinced even a 10-minute chat with a stranger was a betrayal of the 37 years they’d had together. He told anyone who asked he was “off the market,” “done with all that noise,” and had turned down three separate setups from his daughter’s friends with a gruff no thanks and a quick exit.
The impact hit his left forearm first, soft denim brushing the coarse hair there, then a cold splash of lemonade dripping down the side of his boot. He looked up, ready to brush off the apology and walk away, and froze. The woman in front of him was 58, maybe, silver-streaked auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid, worn flannel shirt open over a faded Johnny Cash tee, holding a half-empty lemon shake-up that had sloshed over the rim when she’d turned too fast to avoid a group of teens hauling a giant stuffed bear. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold, held his a beat longer than polite, no quick look away, no awkward fidgeting, just a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Maren Hale,” she said, wiping a stray drop of lemonade off the side of her jeans with one hand. “New county extension agent. I recognize your name, by the way. I’ve been digging through old survey records for the riparian buffer project on the Hocking, and your notes are the only ones that don’t read like a drunk toddler wrote them.”
He blinked, caught off guard. No one had mentioned his work in two years. The guilt flared first, sharp and hot, the little voice in his head that said he should mumble a no problem and bolt back to his truck. Then the smell hit him: lavender hand soap, cut grass, the faint sweet tang of the fried apple pie behind him. “Elwood,” he said, shifting his weight, not moving away when she stepped a little closer to avoid a guy pushing a stroller past. Their shoulders brushed for half a second, and he felt a tingle run up his neck he hadn’t felt since he was 19, asking his wife to prom. “You’re the one that sent that letter about the creek access on my west property, right?”
She laughed, loud and warm, the kind of laugh that didn’t sound forced, that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “That was me. I’ve been trying to track you down for a month. Everyone says you’re a ghost, only comes out for burgers on Thursdays.” She nodded at the pie stand behind him. “Let me buy you one. All the cinnamon ones are still warm. I’ve got about a hundred questions about the old logging roads on the west side, and I’d rather ask you than waste three weeks driving around getting lost.”
He hesitated, his hand drifting to the worn photo of his wife he kept folded in his wallet. For a second, he could hear her voice, teasing him for being a stubborn old mule who refused to have any fun after she was gone. “Yeah,” he said, surprising himself. “Sounds good.”
They sat on a splintered wooden bench by the horse arena, the warm grease from the pie soaking through the paper wrapper onto his palms, the distant roar of the demolition derby mixing with the jingle of the fair ride bells. Their knees brushed when a group of kids ran past, screaming, and he didn’t move his leg away. She patted his knee when he told her the story about the old farmer who’d chased him with a pitchfork for stepping on his corn while surveying a property line, her hand warm through the thin fabric of his work pants, and he didn’t flinch. He found himself talking more than he had in three years, telling her about the time he and his wife had snuck a flask of bourbon into the fair and gotten kicked out of the demolition derby for cheering too loud for the guy driving the beat-up Camaro. The guilt didn’t come this time. It felt like remembering her right, not hiding her away.
The sun dipped low as they talked, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the string lights strung across the fairgrounds flickering on one by one. She twisted the stem of her empty shake-up cup between her fingers, nervous, he realized, when she asked if he wanted to drive up to the overlook on Route 7 after the fair, bring a six pack of the local IPA, watch the sun set over the valley. She said she’d been wanting to go for months, but didn’t know the backroads well enough to avoid the potholes that would tear up her small sedan.
He froze for half a second, the old instinct to run flaring, then he looked at her, her cheeks pink from the cool October air, a smudge of cinnamon on the corner of her mouth, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I know a shortcut. No potholes.”
His grandson ran up then, face sticky with cotton candy, holding a stuffed snake he’d won at the ring toss, chattering about how his goat had won second place. Elwood handed him $10 for more candy, told him to catch a ride home with his mom, that he had somewhere to be. The kid whooped and ran off before he could finish talking.
Maren fell into step next to him as they walked toward the parking lot, their elbows brushing every few steps, neither of them pulling away. He could hear the fair rides whirring behind them, smell fried dough and wood smoke, feel the cool air stinging his cheeks, and for the first time in three years, he wasn’t thinking about all the things he’d lost. He held the door of his truck open for her, the faint smell of his wife’s old pine air freshener still clinging to the upholstery, and waited for her to climb in before he shut it.
