Elias Voss, 62, retired Tennessee Valley Authority lineman, has held himself to one unbreakable rule since his wife Linda died of breast cancer eight years prior: no romantic connections, no exceptions. He turned down half a dozen dinner invitations from women at his old Tennessee church and the local VFW, convinced any new relationship would be a slap to the 32 years he and Linda shared. He moved to Apalachicola, Florida, last spring, sick of ice that made his scarred, pole-climbing joints ache, bought a tiny cinder block cottage half a mile from the gulf, and spends most days sanding rust off his 1972 F150 and manning the fryer at the VFW’s weekly Friday fish fry.
The fryer’s grease pops and sputters behind him as he wipes his hands on grease-stained khakis, the smell of catfish and cornmeal sticking to every thread of his faded flannel shirt. The post is packed, kids darting between tables with fistfuls of hushpuppies, the jukebox spitting old George Strait tracks loud enough to drown out the hum of conversation. He’s just about to grab a plate for himself when he sees her by the condiment table, fumbling with a jar of dill tartar sauce that slips out of her grip and hits the linoleum with a plastic thud, no break.
They both bend to grab it at the same time, the top of his head bumping hers hard enough to make him huff a laugh. When he looks up, he recognizes her immediately: Mara Hale, Linda’s cousin’s ex-wife, maid of honor at their wedding 31 years prior, the woman who’d gotten so drunk on champagne at the reception she’d climbed on the bandstand and sang “Jolene” off-key for ten minutes. He smells lavender shampoo and the faint sweet tang of sweet tea on her breath when she laughs, rubbing the spot on her forehead where they bumped. Her hand brushes his when he passes her the jar, her palm calloused at the heel the same way his is, a dark osprey tattoo wrapping around her left wrist, silver streaks cutting through her dark curly hair, crinkles fanning around her hazel eyes when she smiles.
He hasn’t seen her since a family reunion 12 years back, right before she left her husband. She says she moved to town three months prior, took the head librarian job at the tiny local branch, brought her 17-year-old son down so he could finish high school by the water, tired of Nashville’s traffic and constant noise. He mumbles a hello, half frozen, because he’d always thought she was too bright, too loud, too much for the quiet, reserved family he’d married into. But she doesn’t let him walk away, leaning against the table so her shoulder is a few inches from his, asking what he’s doing down here, if Linda’s with him.
The question hits him like a fist to the chest, and he tells her Linda passed eight years ago, fast, no warning. Her face softens, and she rests her hand on his forearm for a beat, no pity in her eyes, just quiet understanding. She says she’s sorry, that Linda was always the kindest one in the family, the only person who sent her a Christmas card the first year after her divorce.
He offers her a seat at his empty table, and she follows, sliding into the plastic chair across from him, her knee brushing his under the table when she crosses her legs. They talk for an hour, picking at cold hushpuppies, her leaning in every time he tells a story about working lines during the 2009 ice storm, her eyes locked on his like he’s saying something far more interesting than the time he spent 12 hours up a pole in 10-degree weather. Every time their hands brush reaching for the sweet tea pitcher, his skin prickles, a warm hum in his chest he hasn’t felt since Linda was alive. Half of him screams that this is wrong, that Mara’s family, that people back home would talk, that he’s betraying the wife he lost. The other half screams louder, telling him he hasn’t felt this alive in close to a decade, that Linda would’ve called him an idiot for moping alone for eight years.
When the post starts clearing out, she tucks a strand of curly hair behind her ear and says she parked by the boat ramp, asks if he wouldn’t mind walking her there, the streetlights out that way and she’s still jumpy about alligators that wander up from the marsh. He nods before he can overthink it. The air outside is warm, thick with salt and marsh grass, crickets chirping loud in the brush along the sidewalk. She walks close enough that her arm brushes his every few steps, no apology when it happens.
They stop next to her beat-up Subaru Outback, a peeling “Read Banned Books” sticker on the back bumper, and she turns to him, leaning against the door. She says she always thought he was the good one, the kind of guy who showed up when you needed him, that she’d had a crush on him back at the wedding even if he was too busy staring at Linda to notice. He feels his face heat up, and before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches out, brushes a strand of hair off her face, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She doesn’t pull away, just tilts her chin up a little, her eyes flicking from his eyes to his mouth.
He kisses her slow, salt air sticking to her skin, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, she tastes like mint gum and the peach cobbler they’d shared for dessert. When they pull back, she smiles, says she’s running a used book sale at the library Saturday morning, if he’s got nothing going on, they can get fish tacos from the food truck down the street after. He tells her he’ll be there at 10. He watches her pull out of the parking lot, taillights fading down the road, and stands there for a minute, wind off the gulf tangling his hair. He doesn’t feel guilty, not like he thought he would. He pulls his old flip phone out of his pocket, fumbles with the buttons to set a reminder for 9:45 a.m. Saturday, then shoves his hands in his pockets and turns toward his own truck, gravel crunching under his work boots.
