Cole Henderson, 58, retired lineworker for the Auglaize County electric co-op, leans against a splintered oak post at the annual Minster Fall Festival beer tent, cold draft sweating in his grip. He’s still mad the apple pie took first place over his peach entry an hour prior, but that’s the least of his gripes these past three years. He’s boycotted all school board functions, even the holiday craft fair his daughter used to run, ever since they fired her over a mask mandate dispute back in 2021. Widowed seven years, he lives alone in the same ranch he built with his wife back in ‘92, fixes neighbors’ generators for free on weekends, and only leaves the house after 6 PM for VFW fish fries or to pick up parts at the farm supply store. His biggest flaw, his sister likes to tell him, is he holds a grudge long after the person who wronged him has forgotten the fight.
A woman steps up to the bar two feet away, close enough he catches the scent of cinnamon and pine all-purpose cleaner over the fried oreo fumes drifting from the food booths. She’s in a well-worn red flannel, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, forearms freckled and dotted with a few small bleach stains, graying auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid. When she reaches across the bar for her seltzer, the hem of her flannel rides up an inch, showing a sliver of sun-tanned, freckled hip above the waistband of her jeans. She turns too fast, bumps his elbow, spills a mouthful of seltzer on the toe of his scuffed work boot. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” she says, laughing a scratchy, throaty laugh that makes his neck warm. She dabs at his boot with a crumpled napkin, her knuckles brushing the top of his foot for half a second, and when she looks up at him her hazel eyes have flecks of gold in them, crinkled at the corners from laughing. She holds out a hand. “Margaret Voss.”
The name hits him like a static shock. She’s the new school board president, the face of the group he’s ranted about to every patron at the VFW for six months straight. His jaw tightens, he almost drops his beer, almost turns and walks away without saying a word. But then she nods at the paper plate in his other hand, the half-eaten slice of peach pie the contest organizers gave him after the awards. “I tried that earlier. Best pie I’ve had since my grandma died back in ‘07. I drove all the way down to Kentucky last year to pick peaches just to try to replicate hers, and mine turned out like bland mush.”
He blinks, the sharp edge of his anger softening just a little. No one’s ever complimented his pie that much, not even his wife, who teased him for being fussier about crust than she was about her garden. He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just stares, and she shifts her weight, like she knows who he is, knows he hates her. “I voted to rehire Lila last week, by the way,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear over the country band playing on the stage 50 feet away. “The vote was 4-3. I was the swing. We were wrong. She’s the best art teacher this district’s ever had, and the kids adore her. I’ve been meaning to call you to say that, but I figured you’d hang up on me before I got two words out.”
The grudge he’s carried for three years feels like it melts right out of his chest, heavy and warm, leaving him a little lightheaded. He’s spent so long hating a faceless board he never stopped to think any of them might admit they were wrong. They talk for 45 minutes, leaning against that same post, the line dancers shuffling past them, kids running by with glow sticks slung around their wrists. She runs a house cleaning service on top of the board gig, she tells him, has three dogs, two of them rescues, lives on 10 acres just outside of town. She teases him about entering the pie contest every year even though he complains the judges are biased, he teases her about volunteering for a school board job that pays nothing and makes everyone in town mad at her half the time. When she laughs she leans in a little, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of his work shirt.
The first firework goes off, bright pink, lighting up the whole sky, and a group of kids dart between them, yelling, and she steps closer to him to avoid getting knocked over, her chest pressing against his arm for half a second, her hand brushing his when she reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He doesn’t even look at the fireworks, not even the ones that burst gold and blue across the sky, loud enough to vibrate in the soles of his boots. He’s just looking at her, the light from the fireworks painting her cheeks pink, and she looks up at him, smiles, like she’s been waiting for him to notice she’s not the villain he made her out to be.
By the time the last firework fades, the crowd is thinning out, the beer tent is packing up, and the air has turned crisp enough to make his nose run. He offers her a ride home, says her car is parked all the way across the fairgrounds, and she says yes. He opens the passenger door of his beat-up 2018 F-150 for her, and her hand rests on his forearm for two full seconds when she climbs up, calloused from scrubbing floors, warm through his shirt. She says she’d love to get his pie recipe sometime, maybe they can bake one together next weekend, if he’s not busy. He nods, fumbles with the keys when he gets in the driver’s seat, turns the ignition, and the old Johnny Cash station he always listens to crackles to life. She hums along to Folsom Prison Blues, tapping her boot against the dash, and he pulls out of the parking lot, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.
