Cole Hewitt, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service firefighter turned part-time custom woodworker, leaned against the splintered plywood bar of the small town’s summer street fair beer tent, swiping sweat from his brow with the back of a calloused hand. He’d spent the morning sanding a walnut mantle for a couple in Coeur d’Alene, dust still caught in the gray stubble along his jaw, and he’d only stopped by for one cold IPA before heading home to fire up the grill. The sun hung low over the pine tree line, painting the crowd in soft gold, the air thick with the smell of fried onion rings and charcoal. He’d always hated crowds, but this was the first fair the town had pulled off without COVID restrictions in three years, and his old crew had badgered him into showing up.
He spotted her before she saw him. Lila Marlow, 42, his next-door neighbor of 15 years, the woman he’d not spoken a full sentence to in 12, laughing as she wiped peach seltzer from her chin. She’d cut her hair since he’d last paid attention, shoulder length now, sun streaks through the dark brown, wearing a cutoff plaid flannel tied at her waist over a thin white tank, scuffed cowboy boots caked in dust from the fairgrounds. His jaw tightened. He blamed her for his nephew’s five-year prison sentence back in 2011, for the fact the kid had missed his own mom’s funeral while locked up for a drunk driving crash Cole still swore he hadn’t caused. He turned to leave, but the refill line was 10 deep, blocking the exit, and he was trapped.
She spotted him before he could slip through a gap in the crowd. He watched her smile fade for half a second, then brighten again as she wove through the group of teens standing between them, stopping so close he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet tang of her seltzer when she spoke. “Cole. I’ve been looking for you. Saw your woodworking booth at the county fair last month. That live oak bed frame you had on display? I want one for the new house I just bought after the divorce.” Her voice was lower than he remembered, a little rough from smoking, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners when she grinned like she knew he was seconds from telling her to go to hell.
He opened his mouth to do exactly that, irritation flaring hot in his chest, when she reached past him to set her empty seltzer can on the bar behind him, her forearm brushing his. He felt the spark of it up his arm, sharp and unexpected, and his words died in his throat. He noticed the thin, silvery scar snaking up her left wrist then, a leftover from the crash he’d spent 12 years resenting her for. “I know you hate me,” she said, quieter now, so only he could hear over the George Strait cover playing from the stage at the end of the street. “I get it. But I didn’t have a choice back then. The other driver’s dad was the county sheriff, he threatened to take my kid away if I didn’t testify like they told me to. I visited Jase twice a year the whole time he was locked up. Brought him your woodworking catalog once, told him you were doing good. He never told you, did he?”
Cole froze, the half-finished beer in his hand suddenly heavy. He’d spent 12 years carrying that anger, letting it fester, turning down every chance his sister had given him to hear the full story. Disgust curled in his stomach first, at himself, at how much time he’d wasted being mad at the wrong person, and then something else, warmer, sharper, when he looked up and saw her watching him, her lips slightly parted, waiting for him to say something. A kid running with a cotton candy cone slammed into her back a second later, and she stumbled forward, his hand shooting out to catch her by the waist before she could hit the ground. Her skin was warm through the thin fabric of her tank, the curve of her hip soft under his palm, and neither of them moved for three full beats, the noise of the fair fading out to a low hum around them.
She steadied herself, but didn’t step back, her shoulder brushing his chest when she righted herself. “I’ll pay you double your usual rate,” she said, her voice a little softer than before, her eyes darting from his mouth up to his eyes, then back down again. “No questions asked. I just want your work. No one else does grain that clean.” She pulled a crumpled napkin out of her jeans pocket, scribbled her cell number on it in sparkly purple pen, and pressed it into his open palm, her fingers lingering on his for a beat longer than necessary.
He nodded, unable to find the words for a second, tucking the napkin into the breast pocket of his worn work flannel. “I’ll come by tomorrow. 9 a.m. Bring a tape measure, and a sketch of what you want.”
She smiled, bright and unapologetic, backing away toward the group of her friends waiting by the funnel cake stand. “I’ll have coffee on. Extra cream, like you take it. I pay attention, Cole.” She winked, turning to walk away, and he stood there watching her go for a long minute, the cold beer in his hand now warm, the sweat on his neck cooling in the evening breeze. He hadn’t felt that light, sharp buzz of anticipation in his chest since his wife left him eight years prior, hadn’t let himself want anything more than a finished wood project and a cold beer at the end of the day in longer than he could remember. He finished the last of his beer, set the empty bottle on the bar, and turned toward the exit, already mentally running through the stack of live oak he had stacked behind his garage, calculating how much he’d need for the headboard.
