Cole Henderson leans against the bed of his dented 2012 F-150, paper plate of five-alarm chili in one hand, frosty Shiner Bock in the other. At 58, the retired Oncor lineman still carries the broad, stooped shoulders of someone who spent 35 years climbing power poles in 100 degree Texas heat, a faint white scar snaking across his left cheek from a 2007 ice storm that took out three counties’ power for a week. His biggest flaw, the one Lila used to nag him about nonstop, is that he holds grudges like they’re prize hogs, too stubborn to ask for context once he’s decided he’s wronged. He’s been at the annual fire department chili cookoff for 45 minutes, and he’s already turned down three offers to enter his own brisket recipe, two invitations to join a weekly bowling league, and one very forward advance from the widow who runs the downtown bakery.
The crisp October air smells like burnt mesquite, sweet cotton candy, and the sharp, vinegary tang of 20 different chili batches simmering in dented cast iron pots. A local country cover band blares Alan Jackson from a makeshift stage by the fire station bay, kids dart between folding chairs chasing each other with glow sticks, and Cole’s already counting down the minutes until he can go home to his quiet ranch house, his old hound dog, and the John Wayne marathon he recorded the night before. He turns to toss a crumpled napkin in the bed of the truck, and his shoulder bumps someone hard enough that he sloshes beer down the front of his faded navy flannel.
He’s halfway to an apology when he sees her.
Mara Carter is 48 now, Lila’s little sister, the woman he hasn’t spoken more than three words to since Lila’s funeral three years prior, the woman he’s resented for 22 years because he thought she skipped their 2001 wedding to party in Cabo with some random boyfriend. She’s an inch shorter than she was the last time he saw her, streaks of silver threading through her wavy chestnut hair, a tiny sunflower tattoo peeking out from the rolled cuff of her frayed denim jacket. She smells like jasmine and vanilla, the same perfume Lila used to wear, but softer, sweeter, like she mixes it with something else. She’s close enough that the scuffed toe of her cowboy boot brushes his work boot, and when she looks up at him, hazel eyes flecked with gold, he feels his throat go tight. He’d forgotten about the tiny scar above her left eyebrow, the one she got when she snuck out to ride his four wheeler when she was 16 and crashed into a barbed wire fence.
She holds up a Tupperware sealed with neon pink plastic wrap, and she grins, the same lopsided grin Lila used to give him when she was about to admit she’d messed something up. “Found your favorite peanut butter fudge recipe in Lila’s old recipe box when I was cleaning out Mom’s attic last month. Figured you’d still have a sweet tooth even if you’re still a grump.”
He takes the Tupperware, his fingers brushing hers for half a second, and he’s immediately furious at himself for noticing how soft her skin is, for noticing that her laugh is throaty, not high and bright like Lila’s, for noticing that the flannel shirt she’s wearing under her jacket is the exact one he left at Lila’s parents’ house the Christmas after they got married. It feels wrong, dirty almost, to be looking at his late wife’s little sister like that, like he’s betraying the 32 years he had with Lila. He wants to tell her to leave, to take the fudge and go, but he cracks open the Tupperware instead, takes a bite, and it tastes exactly like the fudge Lila used to make for his birthday every year, sweet, salty, just a little crumbly.
They end up sitting on the tailgate of his truck, the crowd thinning as the night gets colder, the band switching to slow George Strait deep cuts. She tells him she runs the town’s no-kill animal shelter now, has three rescue pit bulls that sleep in her bed, that she’s never gotten married, never had kids. He tells her about the 1972 John Deere tractor he’s been fixing up in his barn, about the way his hound dog steals socks off the laundry line, about how he still sets out an extra coffee mug every morning out of habit, even though Lila’s gone.
Halfway through a story about a golden retriever that chewed through three of her shelter’s office chairs, she pauses, and she leans in close enough that he can feel her breath on his cheek, loud enough that he can hear her over the music. “I never told you why I missed your wedding, did I?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “I was 26, pregnant with my boyfriend’s kid. He bailed two days before the wedding. I had a miscarriage that night, couldn’t get out of bed, was so embarrassed I didn’t want to ruin Lila’s day by telling anyone. I’ve felt guilty about it every single day since.”
Cole goes quiet for a long minute, staring at the half-empty beer bottle in his hand. He feels stupid, 22 years of anger melting like butter on a hot skillet, stupid for never asking, stupid for holding a grudge against a girl who was hurting too bad to ask for help. He feels her hand brush his, tentative at first, then firmer when he doesn’t pull away, her palm calloused from hauling dog crates and trimming hooves for the shelter’s farm animals, warm. He’s still fighting that stupid, gnawing guilt, the voice in his head saying this is wrong, this is taboo, you shouldn’t want this, but then she brushes a chili crumb off the front of his flannel, her fingers lingering on his chest for a beat too long, and the voice goes quiet.
He tells her he’s sorry for being an ass for 22 years, that he wishes she’d told him, that Lila would have understood, would have driven across the state to be with her if she’d known. She nods, and he sees a tear slide down her cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb, his skin brushing her cheek, and she doesn’t flinch.
The band stops playing a few minutes later, the last of the crowd packing up folding chairs and coolers, the sky dark enough that he can see every star in the west Texas sky. He asks her if she wants to go get pie at the 24 hour diner on the edge of town, the same one they used to stop at after Lila’s high school soccer games, the one that serves pecan pie so sweet it makes your teeth hurt. She grins, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she says yes.
He tosses their empty paper plates and beer bottles in the trash can by the truck, holds out his hand to help her jump down from the tailgate. Her hand fits perfectly in his, calloused and warm, and when he closes the passenger door behind her and rounds the front of the truck, he catches her looking at him through the window, and for the first time in three years, he doesn’t feel guilty for smiling.
