Roy Nakamura, 58, retired high school woodshop teacher, had dragged himself to the annual Yamhill County harvest fair only because his favorite former student begged him to judge the youth woodworking contest. He’d avoided town events for three years, ever since his wife Lori died of breast cancer, sick of the tight, pitying smiles and unsolicited meatloaf left on his porch. He’d planned to slip out right after handing out the first place ribbon, but the crisp October air smelled like fried dough and cut alfalfa, and the beer tent tucked between the 4-H goat pen and craft booths called his name.
He was reaching for a pint of hard cider when someone stepped back right into his path, and the full cup sloshed over the rim, splattering dark amber liquid across the sleeve of a plaid flannel shirt. He muttered an apology, fumbling for a stack of napkins on the bar, and looked up to meet Clara Hale’s eyes. He knew her immediately, even with the streak of silver cutting through her dark wavy hair, even with the faint smudge of clay under her left eye. She’d been married to the high school football coach for 22 years, until she left him two years prior, and the small town rumor mill had chewed her up and spit her out, claiming she’d run off with a 28-year-old farm hand. Roy had never bought it. He’d shared a pot of coffee with her once at a school staff breakfast 12 years back, and she’d talked for 20 minutes about the properties of different clay bodies, sharp and passionate, and he’d left thinking she was far too interesting to be stuck mending football jerseys for a man who thought Post Malone was a type of horse.
He dabbed at the wet spot on her sleeve without thinking, his calloused woodworker’s knuckles brushing the soft skin of her forearm, and he felt a jolt go up his spine that he hadn’t felt in years. She didn’t pull away. She just leaned in a little, close enough that he could smell pine resin and dark cherry on her breath, and laughed, low and warm, over the sound of the bluegrass band playing a slow waltz two tents over. “Still wearing those beat-up work boots, Nakamura?” she said, nodding at his scuffed leather boots, the ones with the crack in the toe he’d never bothered to fix. “I’d know those anywhere. You wore them every day you graded my kid’s pinewood derby car.”
He froze for a second, half embarrassed, half giddy, the old conflict flaring up loud in his head. Everyone in town would side-eye them if they talked too long. He was supposed to be the grieving widower, she was supposed to be the town pariah. He should mumble another apology, grab his cider, and head for his truck. But then she tilted her head, and the fairy lights strung above the bar caught the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, and he couldn’t make himself move.
He gestured to the empty bar stool next to her. “Least I can do is buy you a drink to make up for the cider. They’ve got that blackberry wine you used to bring to the staff holiday parties, right?” He waved the bartender over, and when he sat down, his knee brushed hers under the bar, and neither of them shifted away.
They talked for an hour, first about the woodworking contest, then about the pottery studio she’d opened up on 10 acres west of town, then about how stupid the town gossip was, how the “28-year-old farm hand” was actually her 22-year-old nephew who’d helped her move after she left the coach, who’d been cheating on her for five years. Roy told her about the custom dining table he was building for a couple in Portland, about how he still slept with Lori’s old fleece blanket on the couch, about how he’d been scared to talk to anyone new for fear he’d be betraying her memory.
She reached across the bar and put her hand over his, her fingers warm and slightly rough from working clay, and didn’t say anything for a minute. The band switched to a faster song, and a group of kids ran past the tent screaming, carrying bags of cotton candy. “Lori would have kicked your ass for hiding out in your workshop for three years,” she said finally, and he laughed so hard he snort-laughed, something he hadn’t done since he was a teenager.
He walked her to her truck when the fair started shutting down, the streetlights coming on soft and orange along the main road, and when they got to her beat-up old Subaru, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, her lips warm against his stubble. “You should come out to the studio sometime,” she said, pulling back, her hand lingering on his forearm. “I’ve got a wheel you can try. Clay’s a lot more forgiving than oak, I promise.”
He nodded, already planning to drive out there Saturday morning, already wondering if she’d let him help her build a new shelf for her glaze collection. He stood there and watched her drive away, the cool October wind stinging his cheeks, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel like going home to an empty house and a half-finished woodworking project. He turned toward the parking lot, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and decided to stop and pick up a slice of pumpkin pie on the way home, just because he felt like it.
