Harlan Mckee, 61, custom fly rod builder out of Andrews, North Carolina, hadn’t set foot in the county fire department’s annual summer beer tent in 12 years. The last time he’d gone, his wife had spent the whole night laughing at the jokes of the whitewater rafting outfitter she’d leave him for three months later, and he’d sworn off the whole mess of small-town public gatherings, holing up in his workshop sanding cedar blanks and tying flies for out-of-state clients who paid premium for his handiwork. The only reason he was there now was that his old hunting buddy’s 16-year-old son had been selling tickets for the fundraiser, and Harlan owed the kid a favor for feeding his border collie last month when he’d had to drive to Charlotte to drop off a $2,000 rod for a plastic surgeon.
He was leaning against a splintered pine post halfway between the beer stand and the pulled pork truck, sweating through the cuffs of his faded work flannel even as the June sun dipped below the tree line, when someone stumbled into him. The impact was soft first, a sharp elbow brushing his ribcage, then a warm hand curling around the hard line of his bicep to steady herself, a smatter of barbecue sauce landing on the knee of his canvas work pants. He looked down ready to snap, and the words died in his throat.
Elara Voss, the 58-year-old librarian who’d moved to the county six months prior, was blinking up at him, a smudge of sauce on the curve of her left cheek, her chestnut braid slung over one shoulder. Tied to the end of the braid was a beat-up size 12 elk hair caddis, the same pattern he tied by the dozen for testing his rods on the nearby Valley River. She was holding a half-eaten pulled pork sandwich in her other hand, grease glistening on her fingertips, and she laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the twang of the country cover band playing off to the side. “I am so sorry,” she said, dabbing at the sauce on his pants with a crumpled paper napkin, her knuckles brushing his thigh through the thin canvas. “Some kid on a scooter just cut right through the crowd, I didn’t see him coming.”
Harlan stared at the lure in her braid instead of answering, forgetting for a second that he was supposed to be annoyed. The smell of pine and wild blackberry hung off her, subtle, nothing like the heavy floral perfume his ex had worn, and the space between them shrank as someone squeezed past, her shoulder pressing flush to his for three full seconds before she stepped back. “That fly,” he said, nodding at the braid, “I tied that. Probably lost it last month when I was testing a new 4-weight down at the lower access.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and she plucked the lure out of her braid, holding it up to the string of fairy lights strung between the tent poles. “Found it on the trail last week,” she said, turning it over between her fingers. “Thought it was too pretty to throw away, had no idea what it was for. I’ve been trying to teach myself to fly fish, for the record. Only ever catch tree branches so far.”
He snorted, taking a sip of his IPA, the cold hops cutting through the thick humid air. “That’s because you’re using a caddis this time of year. Trout are hitting nymphs right now. Most of the old guys leaving lures on your library desk don’t know that, either.” He’d dropped off a stack of his ex’s old fly fishing books at the library three months prior, had only caught a glimpse of her over the front desk then, hadn’t bothered to say more than a mumbled thank you.
They talked for an hour, leaning against that pine post, the space between them shrinking little by little until their arms were brushing every time one of them moved, the roar of the crowd fading into background noise. She told him she’d moved to the mountains from Atlanta after her divorce, was sick of spending her weekends listening to her ex yell at college football games on the TV, had never spent more than 10 minutes outside without a book before she moved. He told her about the workshop behind his house, the 17-year-old border collie that slept on his workbench while he sanded rods, the way he’d avoided every public event in the county for 12 years because of his ex. She teased him for being a hermit, he teased her for hooking more oak trees than fish, and when a gust of wind blew a strand of her hair into her face, he reached out and tucked it behind her ear without thinking, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, the skin there soft and warm.
He almost pulled away, panicked, ready to mumble an apology and bolt for his truck, but she just smiled up at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold in the fairy light glow, and leaned into the touch for half a second. “You gonna teach me to cast right, or are you just gonna make fun of me all summer?” she asked, and for a second Harlan’s chest tightened, the old fear of getting burned again creeping up, the sharp, defensive disgust he’d carried for 12 years at the thought of letting anyone get that close warring with the warm thrum of desire low in his gut, the quiet thrill of talking to someone who didn’t care about his reputation as the best rod builder in the region, who just thought his flies were pretty.
“Wednesday, 7 a.m., lower river access,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “Bring waders if you got ‘em. If not, I’ve got an old pair that’ll fit you.”
She scribbled her phone number on a crumpled napkin, the paper smudged with barbecue sauce on the edges, and pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering on his for a beat longer than necessary. “Don’t be late,” she said, and then someone called her name from the other side of the tent, and she waved, turning to walk away, the lure bobbing in her braid as she went.
Harlan stood there for another 10 minutes, sipping his beer, the napkin folded tight in his front pocket, the faint smell of blackberry still clinging to his thumb where it had brushed her jaw. He walked to his truck as the band started playing a slow cover of a Johnny Cash song, crickets chirping loud in the trees lining the parking lot, and when he pulled out onto the main road, he rolled the window all the way down, let the warm mountain air blow in, and reached into his pocket to trace the edge of the sauce-smudged napkin with his index finger.
