Cole Harding, 58, retired TVA lineman, had avoided the Maple Grove Chili Cookoff for 12 straight years. The last time he’d set foot on the fairgrounds, his ex-wife Diane had left with Ron, the local feed store owner who’d taken first place that year, his trophy held high like a prize he’d won along with Cole’s marriage. His buddy Jimmy had begged him to judge the amateur category this fall, said it was long past time he stopped letting a bad breakup run his life, so Cole showed up in the faded gray flannel he’d worn for 15 years, steel-toe boots he still couldn’t bear to throw out, the thin scar across his left eyebrow from the 2018 line storm still pale against his sun-tanned skin. His hands were still calloused from 35 years climbing 70-foot poles in thunder and ice, a soft paunch around his middle he blamed on too many frozen pizza dinners and weekend fishing trips with no one to cook for. The air smelled like cumin, smoked pork, and cheap lager from the beer tent, peanut shells crunching under his boots, the bluegrass band on the main stage blasting a rough cover of Folsom Prison Blues so loud his chest vibrated with every chord.
They handed out awards from last place up, and when second place was called, Mara walked up. He knew who she was, Ron’s 42-year-old daughter, ran the small engine repair shop out on Route 12, her beat-up silver F-150 with the “Wrench Wench” sticker on the back bumper parked half the time outside the diner downtown. She’d pulled sun-streaked brown hair back in a red bandana, freckles dusted across her nose, a faint slashing scar across her left jaw from a 4-wheeler wreck when she was 16, wearing worn Carhartt overalls over a plain white tee, work boots caked in farm mud. When he handed her the wooden plaque, their fingers brushed. Her hands were calloused too, rough from turning wrench handles 10 hours a day, warm, and she smelled like chili powder, cinnamon, and citrus shampoo, the kind that didn’t reek of the artificial floral chemicals Diane used to douse herself in. She held eye contact for three full beats, longer than polite, a lazy smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, and said, “Heard you haven’t set foot at this thing since my dad ran off with your ex.”
Cole’s first instinct was to snap, yank his hand back, tell her to mind her own damn business. But she laughed, low and rough, no malice in it, and leaned against the folding table next to him, her shoulder brushing his bicep as someone squeezed past behind her. “For what it’s worth, I told him he was a dumbass. You fixed my grandma’s power for free when the ice storm hit in ‘09, sat with her for two hours while the heater kicked back on so she wouldn’t be scared, never even sent a bill. Never forgot that.” He blinked, no retort ready, so he took a long sip of his lager, the bitter fizz burning the back of his throat. They talked for 20 minutes, her telling him about the 1972 John Deere she’d spent three months restoring last summer, him telling her about the time he’d climbed a pole in a near-blizzard to get 12 houses their power back on Christmas Eve. She shifted her weight so her hip was pressed to his, licking her bottom lip when he described the way the wind had howled so loud he could barely hear his radio, and he could feel the heat off her skin through his flannel, a little voice in his head screaming that this was wrong, that everyone in town was watching, that he’d hated Ron for 12 years, that this was exactly the kind of messy drama he’d spent the last decade running from.
A kid with a face caked in blue cotton candy ran past, slamming into Mara’s back, and she stumbled forward, her hand landing flat on his chest right over his heart. She didn’t yank it away right away, looking up at him, her hazel eyes dark in the late afternoon gold light, the smirk still playing at her mouth. “You wanna get out of here?” she said, nodding toward the parking lot. “Got a bottle of 10-year bourbon back at my place, and the rest of my chili is on the stove, way better than the tiny sample you tried earlier. No crowds, no gossips, no bluegrass band murdering Johnny Cash.” He hesitated for 10 full seconds, thinking about the snide comments the church ladies would make at next month’s bake sale, about the time he’d flipped Ron off in the grocery store parking lot last spring, about all the rules he’d made for himself after Diane left: no drama, no messy family ties, no attachments that could crack the quiet, boring life he’d built for himself.
He looked down at her hand, still resting on his chest, felt the rough callus on her index finger brush the edge of his flannel pocket, caught another whiff of that citrus shampoo, heard a kid scream in the distance as he won a giant stuffed bear at the ring toss. “Yeah,” he said. She grinned, lacing her fingers through his for half a second before she pulled away to lead him toward her truck. The drive to her place was 10 minutes down back roads lined with oak trees turning bright red and gold, her hand resting on the center console six inches from his, and he shifted his own hand over until his knuckles brushed hers, her not pulling away. Her place was a small white farm house, a weathered porch swing hanging from the eave, two hound dogs greeting them at the door, tails wagging so hard their whole bodies shook. She poured two glasses of bourbon, handed him one, and led him out to the swing, sitting down next to him and leaning into his side when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She tilted her face up to kiss him slow, tasting like bourbon, cinnamon, and the mint gum she’d been chewing, crickets chirping loud in the woods behind the house, a half moon peeking out from behind the clouds, and Cole didn’t think about Ron, or Diane, or what anyone in town would say tomorrow. He lifted his hand to trace the faint scar on her jaw, his calloused thumb brushing soft over her warm skin.
