Elias Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, spent the first 10 minutes of the county summer barbecue wiping sweat off the back of his neck and pretending he didn’t notice the new librarian hovering by the grill. He’d moved to the tiny Ohio town 12 years prior with his wife Linda, who died of ovarian cancer eight years back, and hadn’t so much as flirted with anyone since. His oldest daughter liked to tease that his biggest flaw was choosing to mope in his workshop rather than admit he might be lonely.
The air reeked of charcoal and cherry smoke, brats sizzling so loud he could barely hear Johnny Cash playing over crackling portable speakers. Kids screamed as they chased each other with water guns, retirees yelled over a cornhole game 10 feet away. He flipped a row of sausages with rusted tongs, beer sweating through its camo koozie in his other hand, when a shoulder bumped his arm hard enough he almost dropped the tongs.
It was Mara Carter, 58, who’d moved to town six months prior to run the tiny public library, the same woman he’d dropped off hand-carved animal bookmarks for back in April. She steadied herself with a hand on his bicep, palm warm through the thin cotton of his worn Carhartt shirt, and laughed so hard her silver hoop earrings swung. “Whoa, sorry, I was staring at the pineapple skewers and not where I was going.” She smelled like lavender body wash and sweet charred fruit, auburn hair streaked with gray pulled back in a messy ponytail, a faded Dolly Parton tee peeking out under an unbuttoned linen shirt tied at her waist.
He mumbled an apology, stepping back just far enough to be polite, but not far enough to miss the gold flecks in her hazel eyes when the sun hit them. She held up a crumpled paper plate stacked with chips and a dill pickle, nodding at the grill. “I was gonna ask if you could slip me an extra brat. The line on the other side is 10 people deep, and I don’t feel like fighting Mrs. Henderson for the last one.”
He obliged, sliding a charred, juicy brat onto her plate. Their fingers brushed when she took it, and he jolted like he’d touched a live wire. Guilt coiled tight in his chest before he could process the spark—he hadn’t felt that kind of pull with anyone since he met Linda at a 1983 college football game. Part of him wanted to grab his beer and hide in his truck for the rest of the afternoon. The other part couldn’t look away from the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear when she smiled, the faint smudge of barbecue sauce on her lip.
She didn’t leave like he expected. She leaned against the picnic table next to the grill, close enough their shoulders almost touched when he shifted his weight, and told him she’d found a 1960s oak card catalog in the library basement the week prior: beat up, drawers stuck, water damage along the bottom edge. “I’ve been asking everyone who knows wood if they’d help me restore it. Everyone says you’re the guy.” She tilted her head, sun catching the tiny silver stud in her left nostril. “I’ll pay you in peach pie from the Main Street diner. Baker uses fresh orchard peaches, crust so flaky it melts in your mouth.”
The guilt sharpened. For eight years he’d told himself he didn’t deserve nice things, didn’t deserve to spend time with a woman who laughed at his bad jokes and smelled like lavender, that any of that would betray Linda’s memory. He opened his mouth to say no, to make an excuse about fixing his grandson’s bike, when she leaned in closer so he could hear her over the crowd cheering for the cornhole champion. “I know you lost your wife. The prior librarian mentioned it. I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m just asking for help with a piece of old wood. And pie. No strings attached.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened. He’d spent so long assuming everyone would judge him for wanting to move on, he forgot no one held that against him but himself. He reached for a napkin off the stack next to him, wiped the barbecue sauce smudge off her lip with his thumb, soft enough he almost thought he imagined the way she shivered a little. She didn’t pull away, held his gaze steady, no teasing grin, no awkward look away, for three full seconds.
“Bring the catalog to my workshop Saturday morning at 9,” he said, tossing the used napkin in the trash. “I’ve got extra sandpaper, and coffee strong enough to strip paint. You better bring two slices of that pie. I’ve got a sweet tooth.”
She laughed, bright and loud, and squeezed his wrist lightly before stepping back, plate balanced in her other hand. “Two slices. I’ll even bring extra whipped cream. Don’t be late.”
He watched her walk back to her table by the oak tree, waving at a group of kids who ran up to show off their water guns, and took a long sip of his beer. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky pink and orange, and the Cash track switched to a Dolly Parton song he hadn’t heard in years.
