Rico Marquez, 52, has built his Fort Worth custom saddle making business on being unflappable. He carves tooled leather for 10 hours a day, only takes calls from ranchers with order requests, and hasn’t attended the annual Tarrant County Barbecue Festival in eight years, not since his ex-wife Lila sat with him at the brisket tent and said she was moving to Austin with a real estate agent she’d met online. His neighbor all but forced a ticket into his hand three days prior, saying the shop’s constant leather tool whir was driving his dog nuts and Rico needed to get some sun.
He’s 15 minutes in, already planning his escape, when a full cup of peach iced tea sloshes over the toe of his scuffed work boots. He looks up, ready to bite whoever was rushing, and meets Clara Bennett’s eyes. She’s Lila’s younger cousin, the one who used to drop by his old shop to beg for scrap leather to reinforce her beehive frames back when he was married, the one he never let himself look at for too long because it felt like cheating even when his marriage was already cold as a January well.
She laughs, bright and loud over the twang of the bluegrass band playing the main stage, and grabs a handful of napkins from the table beside her, leaning in so close he can smell clover honey and citrus lip balm on her skin. Her shoulder brushes his bicep as she bends to dab at the tea on his boots, and he freezes, his hands hovering mid-air unsure if he should pull away or help. She’s 48, runs a honey stand at the weekly farmers market, he knows that much from the flyers taped up at the feed store he stops at every Saturday. She’s wearing faded denim overalls and a white tank top dotted with bee stings on her collarbone, and she keeps glancing at the thin, silvery scar curling across his left knuckle, the one he got last winter when a carving knife slipped on a saddle for a Weatherford rancher.
He wants to leave. He can see a handful of old acquaintances staring from the next tent over, probably already texting Lila that he’s here with her cousin. The voice in his head is loud, screaming that this is wrong, that small town gossip will ruin the reputation he’s spent a decade building, that he’s better off going home to his hound dog and his half-finished saddle and the quiet he’s grown addicted to. But then she asks him about the scar, not about Lila, not about the divorce, and he finds himself talking, telling her about the rancher who’d brought in a six pack of Shiner Bock and stayed to swap stories until 10 PM, how he’d gotten distracted and slipped with the knife. She laughs again, and her elbow nudges his ribs, and he realizes he hasn’t laughed with anyone who isn’t a gruff old rancher complaining about hay prices in years.
The rain hits without warning, fat cold drops splattering against the hot asphalt, and the entire festival erupts into chaos as people run for cover. She grabs his wrist, her palm warm and calloused from lifting honeycomb frames, and pulls him toward her beat up silver Ford F-150 parked at the edge of the field. They climb into the truck bed, yank a frayed wool blanket she keeps stacked in the corner over their heads, and huddle close as the rain hammers against the metal roof, drowning out the sound of the band and the shouting crowds. It’s dark under the blanket, their shoulders pressed tight together, their knees almost touching, and he can hear her breathing fast, shallow, next to his ear.
She leans in first, her lips brushing his cheek before she kisses him, slow and soft, and he doesn’t pull away. The voice in his head goes quiet for the first time in eight years. He doesn’t care about the gossip, doesn’t care about Lila, doesn’t care about the stupid rule he made for himself to never let anyone get close again. He kisses her back, his hand coming up to rest gently on her hip, and she tastes like peach iced tea and the mint gum she’s chewing.
The rain stops 20 minutes later, the sun breaking through the clouds and painting the field pink and gold. They climb out of the truck bed, their hair messy, the blanket draped over Rico’s arm. She asks him if he can make her a custom leather strap for her new set of beehive frames, says she’ll pay him in three jars of wildflower honey and a free brisket sandwich next time he stops by the farmers market. He says yes, no charge, and writes his cell phone number on the back of a saddle order receipt he has crumpled in his pocket.
He walks back to his own truck a few rows over, his boots still sticky with dried peach tea, and passes a group of old high school friends who wave and holler teasing remarks at him. He doesn’t flip them off like he usually would. He unlocks his truck door, tosses the unused brisket sample ticket he’d stuffed in his pocket that morning onto the passenger seat, and grins so wide his cheeks ache.
