Roy Pritchard, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, leaned against the dented side of his 2008 Ford F-150, sipping lukewarm Pabst and pretending to care about the cornhole tournament unfolding across the street. A smudge of dark oak stain streaked his left forearm, leftover from the Adirondack chair he’d spent all morning refurbishing for the widow two doors down. He’d skipped the past three annual Maple Street block parties, but his sister had shown up at his workshop at 4 PM, shoved a six-pack in his hand, and threatened to leave his prized table saw out in the rain if he didn’t show.
The air hummed with the tinny twang of a local cover band playing Alan Jackson covers, thick with the smell of grilled brats and cut grass and the sickly sweet fumes of the snow cone stand by the fire station. He’d been avoiding small talk all night, ducking into the shadow of his truck whenever someone waved him over to a folding table, until he heard a soft yelp and a warm hand clamped around his forearm to steady herself.
She was barefoot, strappy sandals dangling from two fingers of her other hand, a paper plate heaped with peach cobbler tilted dangerously in her lap. She’d tripped over the cracked curb next to his truck, linen dress fluttering around her calves as she stumbled, and she laughed so hard when she righted herself the dimples in her cheeks popped. Roy tensed up at first, ready to pull away, until he caught the scent of lavender shampoo and cinnamon mixed with the sugar of the cobbler, drifting off her as she stood close enough their shoulders almost brushed.
He knew who she was: Clara Bennett, 58, the new county librarian who’d moved into the old yellow farmhouse on the edge of town three months prior. She’d stopped by his workshop twice already, leaving flyers for library events tucked under his door, and he’d hidden in the back both times, too stubborn to admit he hadn’t set foot in a library since he’d gotten a detention for carving a swear word into a study carrel his sophomore year, plus the familiar, sharp twist of guilt he felt whenever he even considered talking to a woman who wasn’t his dead wife.
“Sorry about that,” she said, still holding his arm, her thumb brushing the edge of the oak stain by accident. Her palm was calloused at the fingertips, he noticed, like she worked with her hands too, and there was a faint smudge of blue ink on her wrist from stamping book due dates. “These stupid sandals always break the second I step on grass.” She didn’t let go of his arm right away, and their eyes locked for a beat longer than polite, no awkward look away, no fake smile. He felt heat creep up the back of his neck, and he hated himself for it, hated that he was even noticing how the golden hour sun caught the strands of gray in her auburn hair, hated that he hadn’t felt this jittery around someone since he’d asked his wife Linda to prom in 1979.
He mumbled something about it being fine, wiped his free hand on his worn jeans, fully expecting her to make small talk and leave. Instead, she held up the plate of cobbler, gestured to the empty spot on his truck’s running board. “Heard you build custom birdhouses,” she said, sitting down cross-legged on the asphalt. “The library’s doing a kids’ workshop next month on native Ohio birds, and I need someone to teach them how to put together simple houses. The kids have been begging for a woodworking activity, and everyone says you’re the best around.”
Roy’s first instinct was to say no, to make up an excuse about being busy with custom orders, to go back to his quiet workshop where he didn’t have to feel like he was betraying Linda, who’d been gone 8 years next month. He’d turned down half a dozen similar invitations over the years, turned down dinners and coffee and even a blind date his cousin had tried to set him up on, convinced any new connection would be a slap in the face to the 34 years he’d had with her. But then Clara pushed a forkful of cobbler across the plate to him, and when he took a bite, it tasted exactly like the cobbler Linda used to make every Fourth of July, sweet and tangy with just enough cinnamon, and he froze.
He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either. He told her he’d think about it, and she grinned, like she knew she’d already won, tucked a flyer for the workshop into the pocket of his flannel shirt before she stood up to go find her friends. She left half the cobbler on the plate for him, and when he ate the last bite sitting on his porch an hour later, he remembered what Linda had said to him two days before she died, lying in the hospital bed, squeezing his hand so tight her nails dug into his skin. “Don’t you dare shut the world out when I’m gone, Roy Pritchard,” she’d said, voice rough from chemo. “I spent 34 years making sure you knew how to have fun. Don’t waste that.”
He was in his truck before he even thought about it, driving the 10 minutes into town to the library, which was open late on weeknights for after-school study hours. The bell above the door jingled when he walked in, and Clara looked up from the front desk where she was stamping due dates in a stack of picture books, like she’d been waiting for him. She didn’t say I told you so, just leaned back in her chair, smirking, as he walked up to the desk.
“I’ll do the workshop,” he said, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk, his voice gruffer than he meant it to be. “But only if you bring that peach cobbler to every single session. No exceptions.”
Clara laughed, reached across the desk, tapped the oak stain smudge that was still streaked across his forearm, her fingers lingering there for three full seconds, long enough for him to feel the warmth of her skin through the thin layer of dust and stain. “Deal,” she said, sliding a sign-up sheet across the desk to him, her hand brushing his when he picked up the pen.
He showed up to the library the next Saturday 45 minutes early, hauling a bin of pre-cut pine pieces and sandpaper and non-toxic glue for the kids. Clara was already there, sitting on the edge of the craft table, a Tupperware of cobbler and a mug of black coffee waiting for him, and when she leaned over to look at the birdhouse blueprints spread out in front of him, her knee brushed his, and he didn’t flinch away. A group of seven-year-olds burst through the door a minute later, yelling and waving paper drawings of bluebirds and cardinals, and one of them skidded to a stop in front of the table, looked between Roy and Clara, and asked if they were both going to be the teachers that day. She glanced at Roy, grinning, and nodded, popping a piece of cobbler into her mouth before she answered. He picked up the mug of black coffee she’d set out for him, took a slow sip, and let the warmth spread through his chest, no guilt, no hesitation, no urge to run back to his empty workshop.
