Hollis Greer, 59, makes custom pool cues for semi-pro players across the Southeast out of a converted hay barn behind his house outside Athens, Tennessee. He’s rigid to a fault, eats the same egg and sausage biscuit for breakfast 6 days a week, hasn’t missed a farmers market Saturday in 7 years, and hasn’t set foot in the county fair’s beer garden since his wife, Linda, died of ovarian cancer 8 years prior. He hated line dancing back when she dragged him to it every weekend, and the thought of stepping into that sawdust-floored tent without her made his chest tight enough to skip the fair entirely, until his 16-year-old neighbor won first place in the 4H woodworking contest for a birdhouse he’d helped the kid carve. He showed up for the award ceremony, planned to slip out before the sun dipped below the bleachers, but the line for the exit ran right past the beer garden, and the cold draft lager on tap smelled too good to pass up after standing in the 82-degree heat for two hours.
He leans against the splintered wooden fence bordering the dance floor, plastic cup sweating in his grip, when a denim skirt brushes the bare skin just above his work boot’s collar. He looks down, then up, and meets Mara Carter’s eyes. She’s 38, runs the sourdough bakery downtown, was married to Linda’s younger cousin for 12 years before they divorced two years back, and every old head in the county has unofficially marked her off limits, out of some misplaced respect for Linda’s side of the family. Hollis has seen her every Saturday at the farmers market, her stall two down from his where he sells cutting boards and small turned bowls on the side, and he’s spent more time than he’d admit staring at the way the sun catches the gold streaks in her dark hair when she leans over to hand a customer a loaf of sourdough. He’s never said more than “howdy” to her. He’d told himself it was out of respect for the family line, if he was being honest, it was mostly fear he’d like talking to her too much.
She holds his gaze for three full beats, longer than polite, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She smells like jasmine perfume and fried apple pies, like she stopped at the concession stand right before walking past. “Didn’t think they let stick-in-the-mud woodworkers in here,” she says, leaning against the fence next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushes his bicep when she shifts her weight. The fabric of her flannel shirt is soft, worn thin at the elbow. He stumbles over his response for half a second, mumbles something about the 4H award, takes a too-big sip of beer that fizzes up his nose. She laughs, loud and bright, cutting through the twang of the country band tuning up on the small stage. He feels his face heat up, is grateful for the dim string lights strung across the tent ceiling hiding the flush on his cheeks.
The band kicks into a slow, swaying line dance number, the kind Linda used to drag him into even when he complained his knees hurt. Mara nods toward the dance floor, raising one eyebrow. “C’mon. I know you know how. Linda used to talk about how you’d step on her toes every time but she’d make you dance anyway.” The mention of Linda’s name makes his chest twinge, half fond, half guilty, like he’s doing something wrong just standing here talking to her. He tells her no, says he hasn’t danced since she died, that he’s probably forgotten how. She reaches out, rests her palm on his forearm, her skin warm, calloused from kneading 30 loaves of bread a day. “Just one. I’ll even let you step on my toes if you need to. No one’s watching.”
He looks out over the dance floor, at the sweaty, laughing couples tripping over their own feet, at the kid running through the crowd with a cotton candy bigger than his head, and for the first time in 8 years, the thought of dancing doesn’t feel like a betrayal. It feels like something Linda would tease him for, would call him an idiot for waiting so long to stop moping. He nods, sets his half-empty beer cup on the fence post next to him, and lets her pull him onto the floor.
They start out a foot apart, stiff, Hollis fumbling through the first few steps until he gets the rhythm back. He steps on her boot once, hard, and she snorts, leaning in so her shoulder presses to his chest, her breath tickling the edge of his ear. “Told you I didn’t mind,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice, feels the heat of her body seep through his flannel shirt. He lets his hand land on her waist, light at first, then firmer when she doesn’t pull away, pulls her half an inch closer so they’re moving in sync, no more awkward gaps between them. No one glances their way, no one cares, too busy wrapped up in their own fun.
When the song ends, he doesn’t let go of her waist. She looks up at him, her dark eyes shiny under the string lights, and bites her lower lip. “You wanna get a fried apple pie from the stand by the gate?” she asks, her voice quieter now, like she’s sharing a secret. “I was gonna head out after this. I also need a custom rolling pin for the bakery, if you wanna show me your shop later. No pressure.” He nods, laces his calloused, wood-stained fingers through hers, the rough edges of his old work scars scraping against her knuckles. They walk out of the beer garden together, the twang of the band fading behind them as they head toward the warm glow of the concession stand lights.
