Roland Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, leaned his shoulder against the cold cinder block of the small town fire station bay and sipped spiked root beer from a crinkly plastic cup. He’d entered his go-to venison chili in the annual cookoff for 19 years running, had taken first place seven times, but these days he mostly showed up to avoid the quiet of his empty house, not for the cheap tin trophies. Eight years out from his wife Elaine’s sudden stroke, he’d fallen into a rigid rhythm of avoiding any interaction that felt like it might lead to something more, scared he’d be betraying her memory just by enjoying someone else’s company. Most of the town knew better than to push, had stopped trying to set him up with every divorced or widowed woman within a 20 mile radius, so he’d thought he was safe hiding in the corner.
He spotted Marnie across the bay first, laughing so hard at a dumb joke the fire chief was telling that her head tipped back, a smudge of chili powder dusting the curve of her left cheek. She’d moved to town six months prior to run the tiny public library part time, had made a point of stopping by every senior center craft fair he volunteered at to ask about the custom cutting boards and bookshelves he sold, and he’d dodged her every time. She was 58, sharp, wore flannel shirts and scuffed work boots most days, had a tiny oak tree tattoo curling up her right wrist he’d only caught glimpses of when she reached for a novel at the grocery store checkout.
She caught him staring, waved, and wove through the crowd of families and volunteer firefighters before he could duck behind the cooler of sodas. She stopped so close when she reached him that he could smell cedar hand lotion mixed with the cinnamon spiced cider she was holding, over the thick, savory hum of 40 chili pots simmering on propane burners. “I was starting to think you’d never let me talk to you long enough to ask a favor,” she said, tilting her head like she was amused by how obviously he’d been avoiding her. She reached out to tap his forearm to emphasize her point, her fingers warm even through the thick canvas of his work flannel, and he flinched before he could stop himself, his first instinct to pull away.
She didn’t take it personally, just grinned, and told him she wanted to redo the library’s picture book nooks, had heard he didn’t take paid commissions anymore but would beg if she had to. The internal war kicked up fast, half of him screaming that he had no business spending one-on-one time with a woman who looked at him like that, the other half tired of spending every night sanding reclaimed barn wood alone in his workshop, listening to old Johnny Cash records. He opened his mouth to say he was too busy, and then she shifted her weight, her boot brushing his, and he forgot what he was going to say.
The fire chief’s voice blared over the loudspeaker then, announcing the cookoff winners. Third place went to Marnie’s vegetarian white chili, second to Roland’s venison, first to a 16 year old Boy Scout who’d smoked his pork for 12 hours over apple wood. Marnie cheered so loud when they called her name that she spilled half her cider down the front of his shirt, the warm, spiced liquid seeping through the fabric to settle cold against his chest. She yelped, grabbed a handful of paper napkins off the nearest table, and started dabbing at the wet spot, her knuckles brushing the edge of the dog tags he wore under his shirt, the ones with Elaine’s name engraved on the back.
He caught her wrist gently, his calloused fingers wrapping around the soft skin just above her oak tree tattoo, and told her it was fine, he had a dozen identical flannels in the closet at home, most already stained with wood glue or polyurethane. The words were out before he could overthink them: “If you want to come back to my shop after this, I’ve got a folder full of shelf designs I drew up for the senior center a couple years back. I’ll even throw in a cold beer, if you don’t mind drinking out of a mason jar.”
She smirked, slipped her wrist out of his hold to tuck a strand of graying blonde hair behind her ear, and told him she’d only go if he let her help sand the test pieces, that she’d worked for a carpenter all through college and still had a decent eye for grain. They grabbed their trophies off the folding table by the door, the crisp October air stinging their cheeks when they stepped out of the heated bay, and Roland held the passenger door of his beat up 2008 F150 open for her. She leaned in close when she passed him, the cedar lotion hitting his nose again, and said she’d been waving at him at the grocery store for three months straight and he’d never once waved back. He laughed, shut the door behind her, and walked around to the driver’s side, his boots crunching over scattered red maple leaves in the parking lot.
