Rudy Galvan, 62, retired Austin Energy transmission lineman, leaned against the bed of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150 and twisted the cap off a Shiner Bock. The October Hill Country sun hung low enough to gild the tops of the live oaks, and the air reeked of hickory smoke, charred brisket, and the sweet, vinegary tang of pickled okra he’d jarred two weeks prior using his late wife Elena’s recipe. He’d entered the small town cookoff every year since she died 8 years prior, never told anyone he only did it because it was the one event they’d never missed in 34 years of marriage. His flaw was simple: he’d shut himself off from any attention from women entirely, convinced even a casual cup of coffee would be a betrayal of the life they’d built.
He was wiping grease off his hands on the leg of his frayed work jeans when she walked up. Mid-40s, dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, jeans and a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt that didn’t match the polished silver wedding band on her left hand. He recognized her immediately as Clara, the new county judge’s wife, the one everyone in town had been whispering about for months, the one who’d left a career as a Big Bend park ranger to move here for her husband’s campaign.
“Yours is the last booth I haven’t sampled,” she said, nodding at the smoker puffing smoke behind him. Her voice was low, rough around the edges, like she spent half her time yelling over wind and campfires. She leaned in a little too close when she spoke, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he caught a whiff of coconut shampoo and cedar, the exact same scent Elena’s favorite lotion used to have.
He grunted, cut her a thick slice of brisket, handed it over on a crumpled paper plate. Her fingernail grazed his knuckle when she took it, and he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. He knew better than to talk to her. Everyone knew the judge spent more time schmoozing with real estate developers than he did with his wife, but small town gossip traveled faster than a summer thunderstorm, and he had no interest in being the subject of it.
She took a bite, closed her eyes, and made a soft, appreciative noise that made the back of his neck heat up. “That’s the best thing I’ve tasted since I moved here,” she said, wiping sauce off her chin with the back of her hand. She nodded at the jar of okra on the folding table next to the smoker. “Can I try one? My grandma used to make pickled okra exactly like that.”
He handed her a spear. Their knees brushed when she stepped closer to grab it, and he could feel the warmth of her leg through the thin denim of his jeans. He told himself he should tell her to go find her husband, that he didn’t have time to chat, but he found himself talking instead, telling her about how Elena had spent 10 years perfecting the okra recipe, how he still burned half his batches when he was distracted. She laughed, loud and unselfconscious, and rested her hand on his forearm for three full seconds when he joked about burning a whole brisket his first year competing.
The conflict hummed under his skin the whole time they talked. Half of him wanted to step back, to put 10 feet of space between them, disgusted with himself for noticing how the sun caught the gold flecks in her brown eyes, for liking the way she asked questions about his old lineman job like she actually cared about the time he climbed a 50 foot pole in the middle of an ice storm to restore power to a nursing home. The other half of him wanted to lean in, to see what her hand would feel like tangled in his, to stop feeling like a ghost floating through his own life.
The emcee’s voice blared over the loudspeaker then, calling his name for first place in the brisket category. The small crowd around his booth cheered, and before he could react, Clara wrapped her arms around his neck in a quick, tight hug. Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth when she pulled back, intentional but subtle, no one else close enough to see. He froze, his hands hovering over her waist for a beat, before he patted her back gently and turned to walk up to the stage.
When he came back 10 minutes later, $500 check in one hand and cheap plastic trophy in the other, she was gone. He spotted her across the fairgrounds a second later, standing next to her husband, who was gesturing wildly at a group of men in tailored suits, not even looking at her. She glanced over, caught his eye, and winked, before turning back to the conversation like nothing had happened.
He looked down at the tailgate of his truck, and saw a crumpled white napkin tucked under his half-empty beer can. Her phone number was scrawled across it in bright pink ink, with a short note underneath: No pressure. Just thought you might want someone to share that brisket with sometime.
He stared at it for a long minute, his thumb brushing the smudged ink. He’d spent 8 years waiting for the guilt he thought he’d feel if he ever even considered talking to another woman, but it never came. All he felt was a faint, warm buzz in his chest he hadn’t felt since Elena was alive. He tucked the napkin into the inside pocket of his worn denim jacket, right next to the faded photo of Elena he kept there, picked up the trophy, and headed over to the peach cobbler food truck he’d walked past a dozen times that day without a second glance.
