Jax Crowe, 62, retired high-rise ironworker, had dragged himself to the small Asheville-area fire department chili cookoff only because he owed the chief a favor for helping him haul a 1978 Ford F-150 cab home six months prior. He’d spent the last three years holed up in his log cabin on the edge of Pisgah National Forest, fixing up vintage pickups and avoiding most small talk, still carrying a 17-year grudge against the woman he’d blamed for blowing up his marriage. He’d assumed he’d spend the afternoon manning the dessert table alone, picking at apple crisp and sneaking sips of spiked cider he’d stashed in his cooler, until the volunteer coordinator led someone over to him, and his jaw went tight.
Mara Hale was 60, his ex-wife’s former college roommate and the person he’d spent almost two decades convinced had ratted out his short, stupid midlife affair to his wife, ending a 22-year marriage before he’d even figured out how to apologize. She’d cut her auburn hair short since he’d last seen her, streaked with silver at the temples, and she was wearing a flannel shirt just like his, scuffed work boots on her feet, a tattoo of a sunflower peeking out from the cuff of her sleeve. She didn’t flinch when she saw him, just leaned against the folding table, crossed her arms, and raised one eyebrow. “Small world,” she said, and the sound of her voice was lower than he remembered, warm, like the honey he stirred into his coffee every morning.
He wanted to leave right then, grab his cooler and bolt for his truck, but the coordinator had already vanished into the crowd, and the line for dessert was already 10 people deep. They worked in silence for the first 20 minutes, passing out bowls of cobbler and crisp, only brushing hands once when they both reached for the same stack of plastic spoons. The contact was brief, just their knuckles grazing, but Jax felt a jolt go up his arm, hot and unexpected, and he pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot rivet. He could smell her, too, vanilla lotion mixed with wood smoke from the fire pit 20 feet away, and the faint, sweet scent of the peaches in the cobbler between them.
When the line died down, she leaned against the table, turned to face him, and cut straight to the point. “I didn’t tell her, you know,” she said, and Jax froze, his hand halfway to his cider can. “Your ex. She found the hotel receipt in your jacket pocket when she was doing laundry. I lied and said I’d seen you with the other woman, because she was so humiliated she didn’t want to admit she’d missed the signs for six months. Didn’t want her to look stupid.”
Jax felt all the anger he’d carried for 17 years fizzle out, like a soda can left open in the sun. He’d spent so long hating her, avoiding any mention of her name, turning down invites to parties he knew she’d be at, and he’d been mad at the wrong person the whole time. He leaned back against the table, his shoulder brushing hers, and he didn’t move away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, and she laughed, a low, throaty sound that made the back of his neck feel warm. “You never asked. You just stormed out of the divorce party and never spoke to any of us again.”
They talked for the rest of the cookoff, as the crowd thinned out, as the sun dipped below the mountains and the air turned crisp enough to see their breath. A kid running with a full bowl of chili tripped and spilled half of it on Jax’s boot, and Mara laughed so hard she snort-laughed, leaning into his arm to steady herself, and he didn’t mind the chili on his boot at all. When the cookoff ended, it was pouring rain, fat, cold drops that soaked through his flannel in 10 seconds flat, and Mara’s car was parked half a mile away at the community center, so he offered her a ride.
They ran through the rain to his truck, laughing, and stopped under the general store awning to catch their breath. Mara’s hair was stuck to her forehead, rain dripping off her nose, and she looked up at him, eyes bright, and said she’d always thought he was the most stubborn, most handsome son of a bitch she’d ever met. Jax leaned down and kissed her, slow, the rain tapping on the metal awning above them, the distant twang of a country band carrying through the rain.
He drove her back to his cabin, the wipers slapping back and forth across the windshield, heat blowing warm on their feet. He showed her the F-150 he was restoring in his garage, fresh navy blue paint on the hood, and she ran her finger along the fender, saying she’d always wanted to learn how to work on old trucks. Jax reached behind him, grabbed the extra pair of leather work gloves he kept on the workbench, and set them in her open palm.
