Second place went to a girl named Susanna with a peach cobbler that Mr. Aberthy called technically accomplished. First place, Mr. Abernathy said, consulting his paper with great ceremony for construction flavor and what this judge is going to call honest execution, Emily Brooks. Emily made a sound that was half gasp, half something else entirely. And Nathan, standing three people to Margaret's left, put both hands on his daughter's shoulders as she turned to look at him. And he said something to her that Margaret couldn't hear, quiet and private.
And Emily's face did something that made Margaret look away because it was too full to look at directly. She looked at the tent roof instead for a moment. Then Rose materialized beside her, slipping her hand into Margaret's with the easy confidence of a child who had decided trust was a reasonable policy and said quietly. She practiced six times. I know, Margaret said, which was not quite true, but felt true enough.
Rose tightened her small hand around Margaret's fingers, and they stood there while Emily went to collect her ribbon. And Margaret thought in a way she was not going to examine too closely this exact thing. This is the thing she had given up on. Not a man, not a ranch, not any particular shape of a future. Just this, a child's hand in hers, and a reason to be standing somewhere.
She breathed through it and held herself together. The main competition judging was not scheduled until 2:00, which left several hours of festival for Margaret to navigate, and she navigated them in the company of Nathan's daughters, more than she had anticipated. Emily had questions about everything about the other entries she'd seen in the competition tent, about which pies the judges would taste first, and whether order mattered, about whether Margaret had ever won a competition before. Margaret answered honestly, including the last one, which was, "No, she hadn't. She'd never entered one.
Then you might win today," Emily said with the certainty of a child who had not yet fully learned to weaponize probability. "I might not," Margaret said. "But you might," Emily said. Rose walking on the other side of Margaret said simply, "She will." Nathan was there in the way that felt increasingly like a habit that had become something more than a habit.
Near enough to hear the conversation far enough to give it space present in the complete way that he was always present without performance, without agenda. He bought hot cider from a vendor and handed one to each of the girls and one to Margaret before she could say she didn't need one. and she wrapped her hands around the cup and the warmth went through her palms and she was not going to make anything out of that. At noon something went wrong. She felt at first as a change in the air near the competition tent, a cluster of women talking with an urgency that wasn't festival urgency, something sharper and more purposeful. Then Patricia Haynes was at her elbow again and her face said what she hadn't yet said out loud.
"What happened?" Margaret said. Not a question. She could read a face. Harlon Fitch, Patricia said quietly.
He's the head judge. He's been talking to Clara Hutchkins for the last half hour. Patricia pressed her lips together. He's saying they may need to review the entry forms. There may be a residency question.