Tribute

arms around Matt’s leg, chattering in a toddlerese Cilla was incapable of interpreting. Matt, however, appeared to be fluent. “Let’s see the proof.”
    Eyes wide, the boy pulled up his shirt to expose his belly. Matt poked at it, nodding. “Okay then, go tell Grandma.”
    When the boy raced off again, Matt caught Cilla’s puzzled expression. “He said he finished his hot dog and could he have a big, giant piece of Grandma’s cake.”
    “I didn’t realize you were bilingual.”
    “I have many skills.” As if to prove it, he flipped a trio of burgers expertly. “Speaking of skills, Ford told me you ran some of the living room trim this morning.”
    “Yeah. It looks, if I must say—and I do—freaking awesome. Is that your shop?” She gestured with the beer to the cedar building at the rear of the property.
    “Yeah. Want to see?”
    “You know I do, but we’ll take the tour another time.”
    “Where are you going to put yours?”
    “Can’t decide. I’m debating between putting up something from scratch or refitting part of the existing barn. The barn option’s more practical.”
    “But it sure is fun to build from the ground up.”
    “I never have, so it’s tempting. How many square feet do you figure?” she continued, and fell into the comfortable, familiar rhythm of shoptalk.
    As evening drifted in, people began the short pilgrimage to the park. They crowded the quiet side street, carting lawn chairs, coolers, blankets, babies and toddlers. As they approached, the bright, brassy sound of horns welcomed them.
    “Sousa marches,” Ford said, “as advertised.” He shifted the pair of folding chairs he had under his arm while Cilla led Spock on a leash. “You having fun?”
    “Yes. Matt and Josie put on quite a cookout.”
    “You looked a little lost back there, just for a couple minutes.”
    “Did I?”
    “When we were chowing down. Before you got up to get a beer, and I lost you to Matt and Tool Time Talk.”
    “Probably too much pasta salad. I’m having a really good time. It’s my first annual Shenandoah Valley backyard July Fourth extravaganza. So far, it’s great.”
    The park spread beneath the mountains, and the mountains were hazed with heat so the air seemed to ripple over them like water. Hundreds of people scattered through the park, sprawling over its greens. Concession stands did a bustling business under the shade of their awnings, in offerings of country ham sandwiches, sloppy joes, funnel cakes, soft drinks. Cilla caught the scents of grease and sugar, grass and sunscreen.
    Over loudspeakers came a whine of static, then the echoey announcement that the pie-eating contest would begin in thirty minutes in front of the north pavilion.
    “I mentioned the pie-eating contest, right?”
    “Yes, and four-time champ Big John Porter.”
    “Disgusting. We don’t want to miss it. Let’s grab a square of grass, stake our claim.” Stopping, Ford began to scan. “We need to spread out some, save room for Matt and Josie and Sam. Oh hey, Brian’s already homesteaded. The girl he’s with is Missy.”
    “Yes, I met her.”
    “You met half the county this afternoon.” He slanted Cilla a look. “Nobody expects you to remember names.”
    “Missy Burke, insurance adjuster, divorced, no kids. Right now she’s talking to Tom and Dana Anderson, who own a small art gallery in the Village. And Shanna’s strolling over with Bill—nobody mentioned his last name—a photographer.”
    “I stand corrected.”
    “Schmoozing used to be a way of life.”
    They’d barely set up, exchanged more than a few words with their companions, before Ford dragged her off to the pie-eating contest.
    A field of twenty-five contestants sat at the ready, white plastic bibs tied around their necks. They ranged from kids to grandpas, with the smart money on Big—an easy two-fifty big—John Porter.
    At the signal, twenty-five faces dropped forward into crust and blueberry filling. A laugh burst straight out of her, drowned away in the shouts and cheers.
    “Well, God! That is disgusting.”
    “Yet entertaining. Man, he’s going to do it again! Big John!” Ford shouted, and began to chant it. The crowd picked up the rhythm, erupting with applause as Big John lifted his wide, purple-smeared face.
    “Undefeated,” Ford said when Porter was pronounced the winner. “The guy can’t be beat. He’s the Superman of pie-eaters. Okay, there’s the raffle in the south pavilion. Let’s go buy some