Clay Bennett, 58, spent 32 years hanging high-voltage lines for the Tennessee Valley Authority before a torn ACL and a case of static-induced tinnitus pushed him into early retirement. His most glaring flaw, one every friend and former coworker had called him out on for decades, was that he held grudges like they were paid-up property deeds. For 11 years, top of that grudge list was Mara Hale, his ex-wife’s second cousin, the woman he’d always believed ratted him out for skipping his mother-in-law’s funeral to run a deep-sea fishing charter with three of his line crew buddies. That revelation had been the final blow to his 22-year marriage, and he’d avoided her at every small-town community event since, crossing the street to skip her woodworking booth at the farmers’ market, turning down invitations to cookouts he knew she’d attend.
The October Lions Club chili cookoff was no exception, until a fast-moving thunderstorm rolled in out of nowhere, dumping cold rain so hard the sky turned gray as ash. The crowd scrambled for cover under the metal pavilion awnings, and a teen carrying a stack of paper bowls slammed into Clay’s bad knee, sending him stumbling sideways into the foldable table where Mara sold homemade apple butter every fall. His hand shot out to catch a half-gallon jar tipping off the edge, and his palm crashed directly into hers, both of them curling around the cool glass at the same time. He flinched like he’d touched a live wire, but she just laughed, loud and warm over the drumming rain, calloused fingers brushing his knuckles as she pulled her hand back. “Easy there, lineman. I know you’re used to catching falling equipment, but my apple butter doesn’t bite.”
They were squished shoulder to shoulder now, the awning so crowded neither could move an inch without pressing into each other. Clay tensed, ready to mumble an apology and push his way through the crowd, but she leaned in close, her shoulder warm through his frayed flannel, breath fanning the side of his neck so he could smell cinnamon and pine cleaner on her. “For the record,” she said, loud enough only he could hear, “I never told Linda about that fishing trip. She found the charter receipt tucked in the toe of your work boot when she was doing laundry. I took the blame because she was already screaming at you, and I didn’t want her to know I’d helped you lie about where you were going in the first place.”
Clay went still, the half-full beer can in his hand going cold against his palm. He’d carried that anger for 11 years, had hated her for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to look at her without resentment. He turned his head, and their faces were only inches apart, her dark hair streaked with silver, freckles across her nose dotted with rain, her eyes steady on his, no smirk, no hesitation. He realized he’d never really looked at her before, not really, not when he’d been too busy being angry. The rain slowed to a drizzle, people starting to drift back out to their picnic tables, but neither of them moved.
She reached into the cooler under her table and pulled out a jar of hard cider, holding it out to him, their fingers brushing again when he took it. “I’m refinishing a 1978 Ford F-150 bench seat in my workshop out back,” she said, nodding toward the dirt road leading out of the park. “It’s heavy as hell, could use a second set of hands. Got more cider in the fridge, and a fresh pot of chili on the stove. Town will talk, sure. But I think we’re both old enough to not care what the local gossip column says.”
Clay hesitated for half a second, thinking about the empty trailer waiting for him at home, the stack of frozen dinners in his freezer, the 11 years he’d wasted hating the wrong person. He twisted the cap off the cider, took a long drink, the sweet, sharp fizz burning his throat a little. He nodded, and she grinned, slinging her canvas tool bag over her shoulder, brushing her arm against his as she stepped out from under the awning. He followed her, the cool rain hitting his face, the jar of apple butter she’d pressed into his free hand cold against his palm, and for the first time in over a decade, he didn’t feel like he was walking in the wrong direction.
