Cole Hargrove, 58, retired wildlife biologist, only showed up to the Madison County Fair because his next door neighbor had bullied him into entering a jar of his late wife’s blackberry jam in the canned goods contest. He’d planned to drop it off, grab a fried apple pie, and hightail it back to his cabin before anyone he recognized could corner him into small talk about how “he’s been holding up” or the latest rumor about the new county extension agent. He hated small talk, hated the way the entire town treated him like a wounded bird ever since Ellen died six years prior.
The line for the pie stand moved slow, the air thick with the smell of fried dough, cotton candy, and pine drifting down from the surrounding mountains. He shifted his weight from one work boot to the other, staring at the crumpled fair schedule in his hand, when a group of kids chasing a runaway cotton candy cone darted around his legs. He turned too fast to avoid knocking one over, his elbow catching the plastic cup of sweet tea in the hand of the woman standing next to him. It sloshed over the rim, soaking the front of his faded Carhartt jacket and the knee of her work jeans.