Ray Voss, 58, retired power lineman, had avoided the town’s annual fire department cookout for three straight years. He’d spent 32 years scaling utility poles in thunder and ice, a herniated disc forcing early retirement six months after his wife Diane died, and after that, he’d mostly stuck to his porch, scuffed work boots, and the case of Pabst he restocked every Tuesday at the corner market. His old crew chief Mike banged on his door at 4 PM that day, told him if he didn’t come get a free pulled pork sandwich, he’d drag him down by the scruff of his flannel. Ray caved, mostly because he was tired of arguing.
The sun hung low over the southern Illinois town’s ball field, painting oak trees pink and gold, air thick with charcoal smoke and vinegar coleslaw, crickets chirping loud enough to cut through the firemen’s raucous jokes. Ray leaned against a gnarled oak at the edge of the beer garden, plastic cup of beer in one hand, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows even as sweat beaded at his hairline. He’d planned to leave in 10 minutes, tops, when a woman turning too fast to avoid a running kid slammed her elbow into his hand, sloshing half his beer down the front of his shirt.
She gasped, grabbing a handful of napkins from her paper plate of pulled pork, stepping so close Ray could smell jasmine and cut grass on her shirt—the same perfume Diane had worn every day of their 34-year marriage. “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she said, dabbing at the wet spot on his flannel before he could pull away, her knuckles brushing the faded lightning bolt tattoo on his forearm. She was 54, he guessed, soft around the edges, gray-streaked hair pulled back in a loose braid, a thin scar snaking along her left wrist from a childhood bike crash, same as Diane’s. Ray’s first instinct was to step back, mutter it’s fine, leave, go home and feel guilty for even noticing how warm her hand was when it brushed his skin.
Instead he stood still. She looked up at him, hazel eyes flecked with gold, and smirked, nodding at his soaked shirt. “You looked like you needed an excuse to take that thing off anyway. It’s 78 degrees out, only crazy people wear flannel in August.”
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. She introduced herself as Clara, the new part-time librarian, moved to town six months prior after her divorce, her kid just left for college in Chicago. Ray’s chest tightened when she said librarian. Diane had run the town’s tiny public library for 27 years, he’d brought her black coffee and a pecan roll from the downtown diner every morning before shifts, built the children’s reading nook oak bookshelves for their 20th anniversary. Talking to another woman who worked that same desk felt like betrayal, like he was cheating on a promise he’d made to Diane the day she died, that he’d never replace her, never let anyone else take her space.
He almost got up to leave when she sat him down at a half-empty picnic table off to the side, passed him a fresh beer she’d grabbed from the cooler. “I found your wife’s note, you know,” she said, like she could read the guilt written all over his face. “Taped to the back of the desk drawer. Said whoever took over her job better make sure the grumpy lineman who stops by for coffee gets an extra chocolate chip cookie, even if he acts like he doesn’t want it. Mentioned he wears flannel even when it’s hot enough to melt asphalt.”
Ray froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. He’d forgotten Diane wrote that, joked about it with her when she taped it there, after he’d complained about the new library volunteer who’d refused to give him a cookie once, said they were only for kids. The guilt that had sat heavy in his chest for four years softened, just a little, like ice thawing in spring sun. He’d hated himself for wanting to talk to this woman, for wanting to laugh at her jokes, for liking that she smelled like Diane’s perfume, but the sharp disgust he’d expected to feel wasn’t there. It just felt right, like he was supposed to be there, sitting across from her, the hum of the crowd around them.
The first firework went off a minute later, a bright red burst lighting up the dark sky, the crowd cheering loud enough to rattle the plastic plates on the table. Clara leaned in a little, her shoulder pressing against his, pointing up at a blue firework that burst into little star shapes across the sky. Her knee knocked his under the table, and she didn’t move it away. Ray didn’t pull his shoulder back. He thought of Diane, how she’d always teased him for being a stubborn old mule, how she’d told him a week before she died that if he spent the rest of his life moping on the porch instead of living, she’d come back and haunt him.
He pulled his flannel off, tossed it over the back of the bench, the tattoo of Diane’s name wrapped around a lightning bolt visible on his bicep. Clara glanced at it, smiled, didn’t say anything, just passed him a bag of peanut M&Ms she’d pulled out of her purse. He asked her if she wanted to get breakfast at the downtown diner the next morning, the one that made the pecan pancakes Diane used to drag him to every Sunday. She nodded, grinning, tapping her scuffed white sneaker against his boot under the table, said she’d been wanting to try that place since she moved to town, had heard the pecan pancakes were worth waiting for.
He lifted his beer to tap hers, the crackle of a firework popping loud in the distance, the faint jasmine scent still hanging in the warm air between them.
