Arlo Hackett, 62, former minor league baseball scout for the Dayton Dragons farm system, had only agreed to enter the annual Mount Orab street fair peach pie contest because his 11-year-old granddaughter had begged him, wide-eyed, while they rolled out crust together in his kitchen two nights prior. He’d avoided every public event in town for two years, ever since his wife Maggie passed, convinced showing up without her would feel like walking around with one shoe off, like everyone would stare, like he was disrespecting the 39 years they’d spent together by enjoying anything alone. He wore his faded 2019 Midwest League championship cap, scuffed work boots, and a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, his hands still smudged with the pine sap he’d gotten trimming oak trees that morning, and hovered by the contest table like he expected someone to call him out for being there.
The air reeked of fried dough, salted fries, and cut clover, a cover band at the far end of the block grinding through a rough version of “Jack & Diane” loud enough that the plastic table under the pie pans hummed. He reached for a cold lemonade from the tub next to the table at the exact same time as the woman next to him, their knuckles brushing hard enough that he jolted a little, the cold condensation from the cups sticking to both their skin. “Sorry,” she said, laughing, pulling her hand back first, and when he looked over he recognized her immediately: Lena Voss, 58, ex-wife of his old general manager, the man he’d worked for 28 years before he retired. He’d only met her twice, both at holiday parties, when she was still married to the grumpy, cheating bastard who’d once made Arlo drive 400 miles in a snowstorm to scout a relief pitcher who blew out his elbow in the first inning. She wore a faded 1995 Tom Petty tour shirt, jeans cuffed at the ankle, work boots caked in garden mud, silver streaks threading through the chestnut hair she’d pulled back in a red bandana, freckles scattered across her nose from the summer sun. “I’ve been chasing sugar all day. Those garlic fries they’re selling by the Ferris wheel are so salty I think my tongue’s still swollen.”
Arlo grunted, surprised, and handed her the lemonade he’d grabbed. He’d always thought she was too bright, too sharp, for his old boss, who’d cheated on her twice with front office interns, a secret everyone in the organization knew but no one dared say out loud. He’d never spoken more than 10 words to her before, not wanting to cross any unspoken workplace lines, but now she leaned in closer to hear him over the band, her shoulder pressing warm and solid against his bicep, and she didn’t move away when he didn’t shift back. She asked him about his pie, and he found himself rambling, telling her about the peach trees he planted in his backyard after he retired, the recipe he’d perfected over 30 years of scouting trips, when he’d buy peaches from roadside stands in southern Indiana and keep them in a cooler on his passenger seat, eating them for breakfast, lunch, dinner, because they tasted better than any diner food he could find. She laughed, loud and unapologetic, and said she remembered those peaches, that her ex would hoard the ones Arlo brought into the office, never let anyone else have a single one, that she’d stolen one off his desk once and it was the best peach she’d ever eaten.
The conflict niggled at the back of his throat the whole time they talked: this was his old boss’s ex-wife, for Christ’s sake, and he was a widower who’d not so much as bought a woman a cup of coffee in two years, felt like he was cheating on Maggie even by standing this close to someone who wasn’t her, who laughed like that and looked at him like she actually cared what he had to say. He wanted to leave, wanted to grab his pie and go home and lock himself in the house like he always did, but he couldn’t make his feet move. She kept leaning in, her hand brushing his forearm when she gestured at the Ferris wheel, her eyes crinkling at the corners when he told her about the time he’d scouted a pitcher who threw a no-hitter then threw up on the third base line because he’d eaten 12 tacos before the game.
When the contest announcer called his name for second place, she cheered louder than anyone else in the crowd, grabbing his wrist to drag him up to the table to get his blue ribbon, her hand warm and calloused around his skin, and he didn’t pull away. He noticed the tiny rough opal ring on her index finger, the dirt under her nail edges from the raised beds she told him she ran behind her bookstore downtown. After he got the ribbon, he didn’t even think before he asked her if she wanted to split the contest pie, sit on the tailgate of his beat-up 2008 Ford F150 parked down the block, away from the noise. She said yes immediately, no hesitation, grinning like he’d just offered her front row tickets to a sold out show.
They sat on the tailgate 10 minutes later, passing a paper plate with two slices of peach pie back and forth, the band switching to slower, softer covers, the sun painting the sky pink and tangerine over the cornfields at the edge of town. She took a bite, moaned a little, and wiped a crumb off his chin with her thumb, the movement slow, deliberate, no apology, and he didn’t flinch. He told her he’d been scared to leave the house most days, that he thought doing anything fun without Maggie was a slap in the face to all the years she’d put up with him being gone on scouting trips, all the anniversaries he’d missed. She nodded, told him her ex had died of a heart attack last year, that she’d spent six months hiding in her bookstore, convinced she wasn’t allowed to be happy after 32 years of a marriage that had mostly made her miserable, until a regular brought her a bouquet of sunflowers and told her being alive meant you got to take the good parts when they came.
He reached over, brushed a stray strand of hair that had fallen out of her bandana behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek soft as a peach skin, and she leaned into the touch, no questions, no pressure. The pie was sweet and tart, the crust flaky, the air still warm even as the sun dipped lower, the sound of kids laughing on the Ferris wheel floating down the block. He took another bite of pie, and for the first time in two years, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to end.
