Earl Hagerty, 62, retired highway paving foreman, shifts his weight on the gravel picnic bench, paper plate of fried catfish and crispy hushpuppies digging into his calloused palm. Grease seeps through the edge of the plate, leaving a translucent splotch on the thigh of his faded denim work jeans. The air smells like burnt wood, vinegar coleslaw, and the faint chlorine of the fire station’s pool off to the side, the whole town turned out for the first fish fry since they fought the county health department and won, bureaucrats backing off after 400 people signed a petition saying the weekly gathering was more essential than any nitpicky temperature check rule for the deep fryer.
He’d just finished razzing the fire chief about hiding an extra case of beer in the back of his squad truck when the woman carrying a foil tray of peach cobbler stumbles, her linen sleeve catching on the splintered edge of the table next to him. Earl moves before he thinks, his left arm wrapping around her elbow to steady her, the old scar on his forearm from a 1998 asphalt spill brushing the soft skin of her wrist. She smells like jasmine and fried okra, a faint smudge of dark potting soil streaked just above her knuckle, and when she laughs, he recognizes her immediately. Marnie Cole, Lila’s second cousin, the kid he’d last seen at Lila’s funeral 8 years prior, wearing a too-big black dress and crying so hard she could barely stand. Now she’s 54, sun streaks in her honey blonde hair, laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes, and she’s standing so close her shoulder brushes his bicep when a group of kids dart past chasing a stray dog.
He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, face heating up. He’s avoided even looking at other women for 8 years, convinced any flicker of interest was a betrayal of the 32 years he spent with Lila, that his kids would think he was replacing her, that the gossips at the grocery store would cluck their tongues. It’s easier to stick to his routine: wake up at 6, feed his coonhound Blue, tinker with his vintage CB radio collection in the garage, drive to his grandkids’ soccer games on weekends, show up to the fish fry every Friday alone.
Marnie doesn’t seem to notice his awkwardness. She sets the cobbler tray down on the table, leans against the edge so she’s facing him, and taps the scar on his forearm with one finger. “I remember that. You got it paving I-75 outside Macon, came to the family cookout that summer with your arm wrapped in gauze and ate three helpings of Lila’s potato salad even when the doctor told you not to eat anything greasy.”
He blinks, surprised she remembers that. It was 27 years ago, Marnie was barely out of high school then, off to study horticulture in Florida. They’d barely spoken 10 words to each other back then. He mumbles something about being too stubborn to listen to doctors, and she laughs again, that low, warm sound that makes the back of his neck tingle. She says she moved back to town last month, bought the old nursery on the edge of Main Street, fixed it up, sells native wildflowers and vegetable starts now. She mentions she found a beat-up 1970s CB radio in her grandma’s attic when she was cleaning out the house, doesn’t know how to fix it, asks if he’d be willing to take a look.
His first instinct is to say no. To make up an excuse about being busy, about having to take Blue to the vet, about not having time for side projects. But then a breeze blows, and he catches that jasmine scent again, and she’s holding his gaze, no awkwardness, no pity, just a quiet, curious smile, and he can’t bring himself to lie. He says he can look at it, no charge, just bring it by his house whenever.
She asks if he wants to walk down to the creek behind the station for a minute, get away from the noise of the crowd, and he almost bails right there. His brain is screaming that this is wrong, that she’s family, that people will talk, that Lila would roll over in her grave if she saw him flirting with her cousin. But then she brushes a crumb of hushpuppy off the front of his flannel shirt, her fingers lingering on his chest for half a second, calloused from hauling potted plants and digging in dirt, and he nods before he can overthink it.
The dirt path down to the creek is soft under his boots, crickets chirping in the brush, the distant sound of the fish fry’s bluegrass band fading behind them. She stops at the bank, sits down on a half-rotted oak log, and pats the spot next to her. He sits, leaving a few inches of space between them at first, but when she leans in to point out a patch of native milkweed growing at the edge of the water, their knees brush, and he doesn’t move away. She says she used to sneak down here with Lila when they were teens, steal beer out of her dad’s cooler, talk about what they wanted to do when they grew up. “Lila always said you were the best thing that ever happened to her,” she says, soft, not looking at him, picking at a splinter on the log. “She told me once, if anything ever happened to her, she didn’t want you to mope around the rest of your life. She wanted you to find someone who made you laugh, who’d eat that terrible potato salad you make, who’d put up with your stupid CB radio collection.”
Earl feels his throat tighten. He’s spent 8 years convinced he was honoring Lila by being alone, but now it feels like he’s been wasting the time she would have wanted him to enjoy. He looks over at Marnie, and she’s watching him, her face soft, and she leans in slow, gives him plenty of time to pull back if he wants. He doesn’t. The kiss is soft, tastes like peach cobbler and sweet tea, her calloused palm cupping his cheek, and for the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel guilty for feeling happy.
They sit on that log for an hour, talking about the nursery, his grandkids, the CB radio she’s bringing over, the way the county threw a fit when the town voted to keep the fish fry running. She scribbles her phone number on a crumpled napkin she pulls out of her purse, the ink smudged a little where her potting soil-stained finger touched it, and hands it to him. He walks her to her beat-up pickup truck, watches her wave as she pulls out of the parking lot, the taillights fading down the road.
He tucks the napkin into the pocket of his work jeans, turns toward his own truck, and doesn’t feel guilty for the first time in eight years.
