Ray Hawthorne, 58, retired high school woodshop teacher, has occupied the same vinyl booth at the VFW Friday fish fry for 37 months straight, ever since his second wife Linda lost her fight with breast cancer. He’s got a scar across his left palm from a table saw accident in 2014, a habit of twisting the silver wedding band he still wears on his right hand when he’s nervous, and a 22-year grudge against Mara Carter he’s never bothered to fact check. He’d always believed she ratted him out to the school board for selling custom cedar birdhouses out of his workshop during prep periods, the infraction that cost him his shot at department head the year his first wife asked for a divorce.
He spots her the second she pushes through the screen door, the late June sun gilding the gray streaks in her wavy auburn hair, a faded sunflower sundress brushing the tops of her scuffed white New Balances. He tenses, shoulders hunching, when her gaze locks on his booth. All the other tables are packed with veterans yelling over pool games and families passing baskets of hushpuppies across Formica tops, so he’s not surprised when she cuts through the crowd straight for him, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder printed with the local cat rescue’s logo.
“Ray Hawthorne. I’d know that permanent scowl in a crowd of a thousand.” She nods at the empty bench across from him, a silver hoop earring catching the light. “Mind if I crash? I drove three hours back from my mom’s physical therapy appointment and I’m too starved to drive another 20 minutes home to cook.”
He grunts, gestures at the seat, goes back to picking at his cod, the crispy batter flaking off onto the sticky tabletop. He hasn’t seen her in 18 years, not since his first wife moved to Florida with her new boyfriend. She orders a hard cider from the waitress passing by, kicks off her sneakers under the table, propped her bare feet on the crossbar of his booth leg. The heat from her ankle brushes his calf through his worn denim jeans, and he jerks his leg back like he’s been burned.
She snorts, taking a sip of her cider. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite. Not unless you ask nicely, anyway.”
He scowls, takes a long pull of his Pabst Blue Ribbon, the cold bitter taste cutting through the grease coating his tongue. “Heard you moved back to town. To take care of your mom.”
“Yep. Had to sell my apartment in Chicago, left my ex-husband and his fancy lawyer friends behind to do it. Worth every penny.” She leans forward, elbows on the table, and he catches the scent of lavender shampoo and fried dough off her shirt. “Heard you still sell those birdhouses at the farmers market. Good for you. Always thought you were crazy talented with wood.”
He tenses again, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Not like when I got in trouble for it, thanks to you.”
She blinks, then laughs so hard she snorts, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Wait, you thought that was me? Jesus, Ray. Your ex-wife told the principal. She was furious you dropped $200 on cedar instead of putting it toward the 10th anniversary cruise she’d been nagging you about for six months. I tried to talk her out of it. Said you’d worked your ass off for that extra cash. She never told you that?”
The beer goes down sour in his throat. He stares at her, the scar on her left cheek from the 1999 lake jet ski crash he’d pulled her out of, the laugh lines fanning out from her hazel eyes, and feels like an idiot. 22 years of avoiding her at grocery stores, of leaving family gatherings the second she walked in, of calling her a stuck-up snitch to anyone who would listen, and he’d been wrong the whole time.
“I didn’t know,” he says, quiet enough she has to lean in further to hear him over the Johnny Cash song blaring from the jukebox. Her shoulder presses to his bicep, warm and solid, and he doesn’t jerk away this time. “She said you turned me in. I never questioned it.”
“Figured.” She shrugs, nudges his arm with her elbow. “You always were the kind of guy who holds a grudge instead of asking questions. Too proud for your own good.”
They talk for another hour, the plates of food pushed to the side, his second beer empty, her third cider half gone. She tells him she converted the garage of her new cottage into an art studio, paints watercolors of local wildlife and makes cutting boards out of reclaimed barn wood she picks up from old farm properties around the county. He tells her about the custom Adirondack chairs he’s been building for the town park, how Linda used to tease him for spending more time in his workshop than in the house. When she passes him the bottle of hot sauce to douse the last of his hushpuppies, their fingers brush, and he feels the rough callus on her index finger, worn there from 30 years of holding paintbrushes for hours at a time.
“Hey,” she says, when the waitress drops off the check, and she pulls a crumpled 20 out of her tote before he can reach for his wallet. “You wanna come by the studio later? I’ve been messing around with wood finishes for the cutting boards, and I could use an expert opinion. No charge. I’ll even crack open a bottle of that bourbon you used to hide in your garage back in the day.”
He hesitates. Everyone in this town knows she was his first wife’s best friend. If anyone sees them leaving the VFW together, if anyone sees his truck parked in her driveway overnight, they’ll talk. They’ll say he’s disrespecting Linda’s memory, that he’s messing around with his ex’s friend like a teenager. He’s spent three years being the quiet, grieving widower everyone feels bad for, and part of him hates the idea of giving up that safe, uncomplicated reputation. But the other part of him, the part that’s been lonely for so long he forgot what it felt like to talk to someone who actually remembers the stupid, silly parts of his life before Linda got sick, thrums with something he hasn’t felt in years. Curiosity. Excitement. The quiet, sharp thrill of doing something he’s not supposed to.
He nods, twists the ring on his right hand once, then slips it into his jeans pocket before he stands up.
Her truck is a beat up 2007 Ford F150, same exact year as his, and he laughs when he sees the dent on the passenger door, same as the one on his from when he hit a deer last winter. The drive to her cottage is 10 minutes down a tree-lined back road, crickets chirping loud through the open windows, the sun dipping low enough to paint the sky pink and orange. She leads him through the front door, the screen slamming shut behind them, and the garage studio smells like linseed oil, lavender, and the lemon polish she uses on her finished boards.
She pulls a half finished walnut cutting board off the workbench, holds it out to him, and he runs his finger along the grain, pointing out a small spot by the handle where she sanded too hard, the wood softer there than the rest of the surface. She leans in next to him to see, their hips pressed tight together, and when she looks up at him, her hazel eyes dark in the low workshop light, he doesn’t hesitate. He leans down, kisses her slow, the callus on her index finger brushing his jaw when she cups his face, the taste of cider and sugar on her lips.
