Earl Hagstrom, 62, spent three hours augering holes through 18 inches of lake ice that morning, his knuckles still sore from the torque of the power drill. He’d been coming to the county’s annual ice fishing contest for 21 years straight, only missing the 2011 event when he was recovering from knee surgery after dropping a 75-pound 1958 Evinrude he was restoring in his garage. He sat on a frayed canvas folding chair, sipping coffee spiked with a generous glug of peppermint schnapps, watching a group of teen boys race snowmobiles across the far edge of the ice, their whoops carrying sharp through the crisp January air.
He spotted her first when she was 50 yards out, tramping through the slushy ruts left by ATVs, a bright red puffer coat swallowing most of her frame, a knit pom-pom hat pulled low over her ears. He’d know that lopsided gait anywhere, the result of a broken ankle she’d gotten falling off his ATV at a family cookout in 2004. Lila. Mara’s younger half-sister. He’d not spoken to her in 12 years, not since the wake, when he’d heard her mutter to a cousin that no one ever pays attention to the small signs until it’s too late. He’d assumed she was talking about him, about how he’d missed Mara’s persistent fatigue, her frequent bloating, until the cancer was stage three. He’d frozen her out ever since, ignoring her Christmas cards, leaving her voicemails unanswered, avoiding the fabric shop she’d moved back to town to run six months prior.
She stopped a foot away from his chair, her boots planted firm in the slush, and held his gaze for three full beats before she smiled, that same lopsided grin she’d had since she was 20, when she’d snuck into his and Mara’s wedding reception afterparty and drank three of his homebrewed beers. She held up two thermoses, her wool-gloved fingers wrapped tight around the stainless steel. “Heard you were out here,” she said, her voice raised a little to cut through the wind. “Brought hot cocoa. Extra marshmallows. Figured you’d be sick of that spiked coffee you always drink.”
When he reached out to take the thermos, their gloves brushed. He felt the warmth of her hand even through the thick layers, a jolt that ran up his arm and settled low in his chest. He didn’t say thank you at first, just twisted the lid off, the sweet steam curling up into his face. He took a sip, rich and chocolatey, exactly how he liked it, even though he’d never told her that. “You remembered,” he said, finally, his voice gruffer than he intended.
She sat on the edge of his cooler, not too close, but close enough that he could smell lavender lotion mixed with the pine from the tree line she’d walked through to get to the lake. She cleared her throat, her cheeks pinker than they’d been from the cold. “I owe you an apology,” she said, and he froze mid-sip. “At the wake. That comment you heard. I was talking about my ex. He ignored the lump in my breast for six months, told me I was being dramatic. I wasn’t talking about you. I never would have. You were good to her. Better than most.” He stared at her for a long minute, the thermos warm in his hands, and felt 12 years of stupid, pointless anger melt away like slush on a warm sidewalk. He’d been holding onto that grudge like a security blanket, using it as an excuse to shut everyone out, to not have to feel anything that might make him miss Mara more than he already did.
They talked for an hour after that, him passing her strips of smoked venison jerky from his jacket pocket, her pulling a crumpled foil packet of pecan pie from her bag, the recipe she’d learned from Mara, the exact one he’d eaten every birthday for 28 years. The sun dipped lower, the wind picked up, and the tip of her nose turned bright red, so he nodded toward the small insulated shanty behind him. “C’mon in. Warm up for a minute.”
Inside, the propane heater hummed soft, and the ice cracked every few minutes with a low, resonant boom that rumbled through the wooden floor. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the narrow built-in bench, their legs almost touching. She tugged her coat off, revealing a faded green flannel that fit snug across her shoulders, a few strands of gray-streaked brown hair stuck to her forehead from the cold. She leaned forward to adjust the heater dial, her shoulder pressing firm against his, and he could feel the heat of her body through his own flannel shirt.
She turned to face him, their faces only a few inches apart, and her eyes were dark, no trace of the awkward kid he remembered from family gatherings. “I had a crush on you for years,” she said, quiet, like she was admitting something she’d been holding onto for decades. “I never would have said anything when Mara was alive. Never. But we’re both alone now. We’ve wasted enough time being stupid, haven’t we?” He didn’t answer with words. He reached up, brushed the stray hair off her forehead, his bare finger brushing her cold cheek. She leaned into the touch, then closed the gap between them, kissing him slow, soft, no urgency, like they’d got all the time in the world to figure this out. He kissed her back, the taste of hot cocoa and peppermint on her lips, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t feel guilty for being happy.
They pulled away after a minute, and he smiled, a real smile, not the half-hearted one he’d been giving people since Mara died. Outside, they heard the contest announcer blare over the loudspeaker that the winner was a 16 year old from the next town over, who caught a 22 inch walleye an hour prior. Neither of them moved to check their lines. He grabbed the thick wool blanket he kept folded in the corner of the shanty, wrapped it around both of their shoulders, pulling her a little closer so their sides were pressed tight together. The sunset painted the ice pink and orange through the small frosted window of the shanty. When his ice fishing alarm beeps a minute later, he reaches over and turns it off without checking the line.
