Manny Rocha, 62, retired citrus packing plant foreman from Lake Wales, had only shown up to the county fall festival because his 12-year-old granddaughter begged him to enter his smoked brisket in the annual barbecue contest. He’d landed third place, the cheap blue ribbon folded into the pocket of his oil-stained work flannel, and he’d been lingering by the edge of the food court for 20 minutes trying to avoid the crowd of neighbors who kept stopping to clap him on the back and ask when he’d open a food truck. He’d worn his wedding ring every day for 42 years, even the 8 since Linda died, and he’d long perfected the gruff, unapproachable scowl that kept people from pushing him to date, to get out more, to “stop letting his life rot on the vine” as his sister put it.
The air hummed with the twang of a bluegrass band playing off in the main field, and the smell of fried Oreos and pine from the stacked hay bales mixed with the leftover pork smoke clinging to his sleeves. He spotted the pie booth tucked between a kettle corn stand and a face painting table, the handwritten sign promising bourbon peach pie, and decided he’d grab a slice for his granddaughter, who’d run off with her friends to ride the rickety Ferris wheel an hour prior.
The woman behind the booth was wiping crumbs off the counter with a ragged dish towel, flour dusted on her left cheek, a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt stretched over her shoulders, a thin silver scar snaking up her right wrist from wrist to elbow. She looked up when he stepped close, holding his gaze for a beat longer than most strangers did, her smile tugging higher on the left side of her mouth. “What can I get you?” Her voice was low, rough around the edges, like she smoked a pack a day and spent half her time yelling over kids’ chatter.
He nodded at the pan of peach pie, crumble topping glistening with sugar. “One slice of that, to go.” When she reached to grab a paper plate, her hand brushed his where it rested on the edge of the plywood counter, and he felt a jolt shoot up his arm, hot and sharp, like grabbing a bare live wire back when he was 20 and wiring the packing plant’s new cooler. He pulled his hand back fast, his chest tightening with guilt, the ghost of Linda’s rosewater perfume suddenly sharp in his nose. Linda had hated peach pie, said it was cloying, too sweet, like eating candy for dinner, and he hadn’t so much as looked at a slice since their first year of marriage.
The woman didn’t comment on the flinch, just slid the slice across the counter, her elbow knocking his forearm as she pointed out the extra crumble on the edge of his piece. “Added a splash of 10-year-old bourbon to the filling. Cuts the sweetness. Most people love it.” She smelled like vanilla and cedar, not rosewater, and when she leaned in a little closer, he could see flecks of amber in her dark brown eyes. He fumbled for his wallet, paid, and was halfway to turning to leave when his granddaughter texted, all caps, saying she was going to a friend’s house after the festival, he didn’t need to pick her up till 9.
He hesitated, then leaned back against the booth, holding the pie slice loosely in his hand. “You make these yourself?” She nodded, wiping her hands on her jeans, and told him her name was Lorna, 58, an art teacher from Cleveland, housesitting for her sister who was undergoing chemo for breast cancer, taking care of her 12 goats and selling pie at local festivals for extra cash. He told her about the packing plant, about working 12-hour days during citrus season, about Linda, about the brisket contest, and he was surprised by how easy it was to talk to her, how she didn’t give him that sad, pitying look when he mentioned Linda was gone.
At one point, she tilted her head, nodding at the pie in his hand. “You gonna eat that, or just hold it for decoration?” He laughed, a rough, rusty sound, he hadn’t laughed that easy in years. He admitted he hadn’t eaten peach pie since he was 22, because his wife hated it. She didn’t push, didn’t tell him he needed to move on, just cut a tiny sliver with a plastic fork, held it out across the counter. “No pressure. Just try it. If you hate it, I’ll give you your three dollars back, no questions asked.”
He hesitated for a long second, the guilt coiling tight in his gut, then leaned forward and took the bite. The peaches were ripe, the bourbon warm and smoky, the crumble crunchy with brown sugar, and it was nothing like the sickly sweet slice he’d had on his first date with Linda, the one that made her make a face and swear off peaches for life. He swallowed, and when he looked up, she was grinning, her knee brushing his under the edge of the booth, and she didn’t pull away. He didn’t either.
The line for the booth died down as the sun started to set, painting the sky pink and orange over the orange groves at the edge of the fairgrounds. They shared the rest of the pie slice, sitting on a bale of hay tucked between the booth and a row of port-a-potties, far enough from the crowd that no one they knew would spot them easy. When a crumb of crust stuck to the edge of his chin, she reached over and wiped it off with her thumb, the callus on the pad of her finger rough against his skin, and he didn’t flinch.
He asked her if she wanted to go get a beer at the dive bar down the road, the one with the jukebox that only played 70s country, no new stuff, no pop. She nodded, standing up, brushing hay off her jeans, and held out her hand to pull him up. He took it, calloused palm fitting against hers like it was made to, and didn’t once glance over his shoulder to check if anyone he knows is watching.
