Elio Ruiz, 52, retired citrus grove manager, wandered the Polk County fairgrounds with a half-empty sweet tea in one calloused hand, the cuff of his worn denim jacket frayed where the branch of a Valencia orange tree had caught it two weeks prior. He’d driven out that morning to watch his 11-year-old grandniece show her 4-H pig, which had taken third place, and she’d left an hour earlier with her parents for a celebratory dinner at the Texas Roadhouse off I-4. He’d lingered, not ready to go home to the empty cinder block house at the edge of his remaining 12 acres of grove, the silence there so thick some nights he turned on the irrigation system just to hear the sound of running water.
He’d been avoiding the homemade jam booth for 45 minutes, knew Mara was running it, had seen her bright red bandana tied over her dark curls when he’d first walked past the food stalls. She was Linda’s first cousin, his ex-wife’s family, the kind of line you didn’t cross in a small town where everyone knew everyone’s business, where Linda still ran the local hair salon and complained to anyone who would listen that Elio was a stubborn idiot who’d turned down a seven-figure offer for his grove just to spite her. The last time he’d seen Mara was at the divorce finalization hearing two years prior, when she’d slipped him a jar of her blackberry jam in the parking lot, no note, just a small smile before she walked away.
A kid no older than seven ran past him, cotton candy stuck in one fist, and slammed into his side hard enough that the sweet tea sloshed over the rim of the cup, soaking the front of his gray work shirt. He cursed under his breath, swiping at the sticky wet spot with the back of his hand, and a familiar laugh cut through the whir of the Ferris wheel and the tinny country music blaring from the fair stage.
“Y’always were a magnet for chaos, Ruiz,” Mara called, leaning over the edge of the jam booth, her forearms dusted with fine peach fuzz from sorting fruit that morning. She was wearing faded denim overalls over a thin white tank top, the top two buttons of the overalls undone, a tiny silver citrus-slice charm glinting at the base of her throat. She held up a pack of wet wipes, waggling it. “C’mere. I got you.”
He hesitated for three full seconds, aware of the couple selling fried Oreos two stalls over glancing their way, aware of the gossip that would spread faster than wildfire if anyone saw them talking for more than 10 seconds. But the tea was sticky, dripping down his stomach, and he’d thought about that blackberry jam every week for two years, so he walked over.
The smell of cooked peaches, wild blackberries, and sugar hit him before he reached the booth, warm and thick, clinging to the humid summer air. He leaned against the rough wooden edge, and she passed him the wet wipe, their fingers brushing for half a beat. Her nails were chipped with pale purple polish, and he spotted the tiny scar on her left wrist, the one she’d gotten when she was 14 and fell out of the treehouse in his parents’ grove, back when he was dating Linda and thought he’d spend the rest of his life picking oranges and coming home to a hot meal.
“Told you at the hearing that I had a new jam recipe I wanted you to try,” she said, turning to rummage behind the booth, and he watched the way her overalls pulled tight across her shoulders, the small of her back exposed where the fabric rode up a little. She turned back with a tiny wooden spoon, held it out to him, the pale green jam glistening on the end. “Key lime habanero. Just got the limes from that farm down in Highlands County.”
He leaned in, not taking the spoon from her, and tasted it. The sweet, tart lime hit first, then a slow, warm burn from the habanero that spread across his tongue, and he made a face that made her laugh again, loud and unselfconscious. He’d forgotten what it felt like to make someone laugh like that, no agenda, no resentment waiting under the surface.
“Good, right?” she said, leaning forward a little more, her shoulder brushing his, and he could smell coconut shampoo on her hair, mixed with the jam sugar. “I’ve been saving the first jar for you. Figured you’d appreciate the burn.” She paused, her dark eyes steady on his, no shyness now. “Fair closes at 10. I’m heading to that old fishing dock on the edge of your grove after I tear down the booth. You should come. Bring the saltines you keep in your truck, I know you still do.”
He almost said no. Almost told her he didn’t want the drama, didn’t want Linda blowing up his phone, didn’t want the old ladies at the Methodist church talking about him over potluck. But he looked at her, at the way her cheeks were pink from the heat, at the scar on her wrist he’d helped wrap when they were kids, at the way she was looking at him like he wasn’t just the stubborn guy who wouldn’t sell his grove, like he was someone worth waiting two years to talk to. So he said yes.
He left the fair 20 minutes later, stopped at the gas station to buy a six pack of the cheap lager he liked, and drove to the dock, the jar of key lime habanero jam sitting on the passenger seat next to him. The sun had set by the time he got there, the sky streaked purple and orange, crickets chirping loud in the grove behind him. Mara was sitting on the edge of the dock, her boots off, feet dangling over the dark water, a cooler next to her. He sat down next to her, their knees pressing together through their jeans, and passed her a cold beer. She took it, her fingers wrapping around his for a second longer than necessary, and popped the top. He reached out, brushing a stray curl that had fallen out of her bandana off her face, her skin warm and soft under his thumb. Somewhere behind the oak tree line, the fair’s closing fireworks exploded in bursts of red and gold, painting the surface of the water in shifting, bright streaks.
