Ray Voss, 62, retired northern Michigan high school woodshop teacher, balanced a lopsided paper bowl of five-alarm chili in one calloused hand, the other picking at a raw splinter on his left thumb earned sanding a custom Adirondack chair for the town park that morning. He’d shown up to the fire department’s annual end-of-summer cookoff only because his old football buddy begged him to bring extra jars of pickled okra he canned every August, planning to leave within an hour, avoid the half-dozen well-meaning attempts to set him up with the new town librarian everyone gossiped about. For four years, ever since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer, he’d told every friend the same line: he wasn’t looking for anything, not even casual conversation that leaned too friendly, convinced any interest in another woman was a betrayal of their 32 years together.
He turned to head for the empty picnic table at the field edge, and his shoulder slammed straight into someone carrying a plate of cornbread. Chili sloshed over his bowl’s rim, splattering dark red splotches across the knee of faded high-waisted jeans, and he fumbled for napkins tucked in his flannel shirt pocket, apologies tumbling out before he looked up. When he did, she was laughing, a warm, throaty sound cutting through the noise of screaming kids and a classic rock cover band tuning up, her dark hair streaked with gray pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of cornbread crumbs on her left cheek. “Relax,” she said, wiping at the spot with the back of her hand before he could get the napkin to her, “I bought these jeans for three bucks at the downtown thrift store. Chili stains make them look cooler, anyway.” He dabbed at the spot anyway, his fingers brushing the soft, worn denim of her knee for half a second, jolting back like he’d touched a hot planer, his face heating up. She smelled like jasmine and roasted green chiles, the kind Linda used to make every Christmas when her sister visited from Texas.
She stuck out her hand, and he shook it, his calluses scraping against her softer, ink-stained fingers—she had a tiny book tattoo on her wrist, he noticed. Marisol, she said, the new librarian, moved to town six months prior from Albuquerque, her daughter a sophomore at the community college 20 minutes away. She leaned in a little when he said he built custom woodwork, their shoulders brushing through their thin shirt fabric, and she held eye contact longer than most people did, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he admitted he still got splinters every week even after 30 years of woodworking. The cookoff noise faded to a hum in the background, and he forgot all about the cold chili in his hand, the throbbing splinter, the little voice in his head yelling he was doing something wrong, that Linda would be mad.
She tilted her head toward the lake shore, where the sun dipped low, painting the water streaks of tangerine and pale pink. “Wanna get away from all the noise? I’ve been dying to skip stones, and everyone around here acts like it’s a kids’ game.” He hesitated for three full seconds, the voice in his head screaming he was crossing a line, that he was a terrible husband for even considering it. Then he nodded, dumping his half-eaten chili in the trash by the field edge, following her down the gravel path to the water. Gravel crunched under their work boots, and she stopped halfway, bending to pick up a smooth, flat gray stone, flipping it between her fingers. She skipped it across the surface, hitting three solid skips before it sank, and pumped her fist like she’d won a prize. He laughed, a real laugh, the kind he hadn’t let out in months, and she handed him a stone she’d picked out for him, her fingers brushing his palm when she passed it over.
He told her about Linda, about the rule he’d made for himself, about how he’d spent every weekend for four years building park chairs because it was the only thing that didn’t make him feel like he was letting her down. She didn’t offer empty platitudes, just nodded, kicking a small rock into the water. “I made the same rule when my husband died in a construction accident three years ago,” she said, “till my daughter told me he spent his whole life trying to make me laugh, and I was wasting the last 30 years he wanted me to have moping around the house. Turns out she was right.” The knot in his chest loosened, all the guilt he’d carried for months melting away, no more fight between the disgust he’d always felt at the thought of wanting someone else and the quiet, warm pull he felt standing next to her.
He skipped the stone she’d given him, getting four skips before it sank, and she cheered loud enough that a group of kayakers a hundred yards out turned to wave. She leaned her head on his shoulder for half a second, the scent of jasmine wrapping around him, before pulling back, saying she had to get home to her old hound dog who hated being left alone too long. She asked if he wanted to come over next Saturday, look at measurements for the small kids’ bookshelf she needed built for the library, bring that pickled okra everyone kept raving about. He said yes, handing her his beat-up old flip phone to type her number in, her fingers brushing his again when she handed it back.
He walked back up the path to the cookoff, the splinter on his thumb still throbbing, his flip phone warm in his pocket where her number was saved. His buddy yelled across the field, asking if he’d finally stopped acting like a walking funeral statue, and Ray waved him off, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. He bent to pick up another flat stone, tucking it in his flannel pocket to bring with him next Saturday.
