Clay Bennett, 58, retired TVA lineman with a scar snaking across his right bicep from a 2017 storm repair, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff, half-wishing he’d stayed home to watch the Alabama scrimmage. His jeans have a frayed hole at the left knee from patching his gutters the week prior, his work boots still crusted with a smudge of driveway sealer he’d been too lazy to scrub off. He’d lost his wife Sharon to breast cancer four years prior, and since then, he’d avoided most community events, too tired of the pitying looks and the repeated “you should get out more” lectures from his niece. She’d dragged him here tonight, though, saying the fire department was raising money for new smoke alarms for low-income seniors, and who was he to say no to that.
He spots Mia Carter across the tent before he can look away. She’s 52, runs the local animal rescue, and more importantly, she’s the ex-wife of his old line partner Jake, who left her six years back for a 28-year-old realtor in Nashville and hadn’t set foot in town since. Clay had avoided her on principle for years, stuck to some outdated unwritten code that said you didn’t so much as look at your buddy’s ex, even if the buddy was a deadbeat who’d ghosted everyone who’d ever cared about him. She’s laughing at a dumb joke the fire chief just told, her red flannel rolled up to the elbows, a smudge of chili con carne on the soft skin of her left wrist, a thin silver feather necklace catching the glow of the fairy lights strung above the tent. The air smells like cumin, charred hot dog buns, cut clover, and when she walks over to him, he catches a whiff of vanilla sandalwood perfume, the exact same kind Sharon used to wear on date nights, and his throat goes tight.
She stops 18 inches from his boots, the unspoken line between casual acquaintance and something warmer, and holds out a sweating plastic cup of sweet tea. “Figured you don’t drink beer no more on account of your blood pressure meds,” she says, and he blinks, surprised she remembers that detail from a work picnic eight years prior. He takes the cup, the cold plastic seeping through to his palm, and nods a thank you. The band at the far end of the fairground strikes up a scratchy cover of John Prine’s “Angel From Montgomery,” and a group of volunteer firefighters cheers in the background. She leans past him to grab a stack of napkins off the picnic table behind him, her hip brushing the side of his thigh for half a second too long, and when she pulls back, their eyes lock for three full beats, no awkward look-away, no forced smile. Her cheeks pink a little, and she swipes a stray strand of brown hair streaked with silver behind her ear.
He doesn’t know what to say, so he gestures to the chili smudge on her wrist, and she laughs, wiping at it with the back of her hand and smearing it worse. They drift away from the crowd as they talk, over to the edge of the fairground where the grass is longer, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out most of the noise from the cookoff. She tells him about the 12 golden retriever puppies the rescue had taken in last week, about the broken split-rail fence around the rescue’s pasture that she’d been trying to fix for months, about how she knew he was good with his hands from all the times he’d fixed Jake’s busted truck in the parking lot of the line shop. She offers to pay him in peach pie, says it’s her grandma’s recipe, the same kind Clay’s mom used to bake every Fourth of July when he was a kid.
He hesitates, that old stubborn loyalty flaring up first, Jake’s face flashing in his head, then Sharon’s, guilt coiling tight in his chest for even entertaining the idea of spending time alone with her. But then he remembers Jake didn’t even send a card when Sharon died, remembers Jake had called him once three years back asking for money and never followed up, remembers he hasn’t felt this light talking to someone in four years. He nods, says he’ll be at the rescue at 9 a.m. Saturday, tools in hand.
She leans in a little then, close enough that he can feel her breath on his cheek, and says she’s noticed him avoiding her all these years, she gets it, but she’s not going to apologize for liking the way he looks when he’s focused on a project, or the way he still tips 20% at the diner even when the service is bad, or the way he never talks down to anyone, even the new line kids who couldn’t tell a wrench from a screwdriver their first week on the job. He doesn’t say anything for a long second, then reaches out, brushes the smudged chili off her wrist with his calloused thumb, the rough pad of his finger dragging soft over her skin, and she shivers a little even though the air’s a warm 72 degrees.
He shows up at the rescue Saturday right on 9, tool belt slung over his shoulder, a six pack of root beer tucked under his other arm for when they take a break. She’s on the porch, barefoot, wearing faded cut offs and a worn Tom Petty tee, a plate of warm peach pie sitting on the porch rail next to two forks, the crust crumbly and golden, steam curling off the top. A fluffy golden retriever puppy trots out the front door before he can say hello, curls around his work boots, and chews on his laces. She laughs, the sound bright and loud, and sits down on the top porch step, patting the spot next to her. He sets his tools down, sits, their shoulders pressing firm together, no awkward distance, no unspoken rules hanging over them. He takes a bite of pie, and it tastes exactly like he remembered, sweet and tangy and warm. The puppy curls up on his boot, soft fur brushing his ankle, and she passes him a napkin when a drop of peach filling drips onto his jeans.
He takes another bite of pie, and for the first time in four years, he doesn’t feel guilty for looking forward to the rest of the day.
