Rudy Galvan, 62, retired oil rig safety inspector, hasn’t dated a single person since his wife Mara died of ovarian cancer eight years prior. His biggest flaw? He’s so stubborn about honoring Mara’s memory he’s turned down every dinner invitation, every coffee offer, every quiet advance from women in his small Texas hill country town, convinced any new connection would be a betrayal. He’s at the annual town chili cookoff on a sweltering late September Saturday, manning his fold-out table, his brisket chili simmering in a dented cast iron pot, sipping a cold Shiner Bock he keeps tucked in a cooler full of ice at his feet. The air smells like cumin, hickory smoke, and the faint tang of cheap beer wafting from the beer garden 20 feet away, the hum of a Merle Haggard cover drifting from the stage at the far end of the park.
He’s wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead with the back of his calloused hand when he spots her. He doesn’t recognize her at first, not until she walks closer, grinning, silver streaks cutting through her wavy dark hair, sun freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, wearing cutoff denim shorts, a faded Willie Nelson tee, and scuffed work boots caked with potting soil. It’s Lila, Mara’s baby sister, the girl he last saw when she was 18, slinging a duffel bag over her shoulder to catch a bus to horticulture school in Oregon, yelling over her shoulder that she’d bring him back a jar of the state’s best weed when she visited next. She never did, he’d forgotten, until now.
She stops in front of his table, leans in to sniff the chili, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep, and he tenses like he’s been zapped with a live wire. He can smell coconut shampoo, the sharp green scent of basil, and a faint hint of citrus on her skin, and his throat goes dry. She teases him about still wearing that beat-up straw Stetson he’s had since he started working the rigs, says Mara always complained he’d rather lose a finger than replace that ratty hat. He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months, and hands her a paper cup of chili. When their fingers brush as she takes the cup, he feels a warm, buzzing tingle run up his arm, and he yanks his hand back like he’s embarrassed, which he is, because he’s not supposed to be noticing how soft her hands are, how her eyes crinkle at the corners when she takes a bite and moans, says it tastes exactly like the chili Mara used to bring to family Thanksgiving.
He spends the next two hours talking to her, leaning against the pole of his tent, ignoring the other people stopping by to sample his chili, because he can’t look away from her. She tells him she moved back to town two weeks prior, bought the old nursery on the edge of town, plans to fix it up and run native plant workshops for local kids. She mentions the town’s community garden is falling apart, needs new raised beds built, and asks if he’d help, since Mara always bragged about how good he was with carpentry, how he built their whole back deck by himself when they first bought their house. He’s about to say no, about to make up some excuse about having a fishing trip planned, but then she tilts her head, looks up at him through her lashes, and his resolve crumbles. He says yes before he can think better of it.
They meet at the garden three days later, late afternoon, when the sun is low enough that the oak trees cast long, golden shadows across the overgrown grass. He brings his circular saw, a stack of pressure treated lumber, and a cooler of beer, she brings a bag of nails, a tape measure, and a bag of barbecue potato chips. They work side by side for an hour, barely talking, the sound of the saw cutting through wood mixing with the chirp of crickets and the distant bark of a dog from a nearby house. She’s kneeling on the ground holding a length of lumber steady when she trips over a gnarled oak root, falls forward into his chest, and he catches her automatically, his hands wrapping around her waist, her palms flat against his shoulders. They’re inches apart, he can feel her warm breath fanning across his neck, and for a second he thinks he should push her away, that this is wrong, that Mara would hate him for this, but then she speaks, quiet, so only he can hear. “Mara called me two months before she died,” she says, her voice soft, no teasing left in it. “She told me if I ever moved back to town, I had to check on you. Said you’d turn into a hermit if someone didn’t drag you out of that house. Said she wanted you to be happy, even if it wasn’t with her.”
Something tight in his chest snaps, all that guilt he’s been carrying for eight years melting away like butter on a hot griddle. He doesn’t say anything, just brushes a stray strand of hair off her face, his thumb grazing her freckled cheek, and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for half a second. They finish building the last raised bed as the sun dips below the horizon, then drive to the dive bar two blocks from the garden, split a basket of crispy onion rings, drink beer, and talk until the bartender turns on the neon “last call” sign above the bar. When he pulls into her driveway later, she leans across the center console, kisses him soft on the corner of his mouth, and says she’ll see him Saturday morning to plant tomato seedlings in the new beds. He sits in his truck for five minutes after she goes inside, staring at the porch light she left on, a stupid, giddy grin on his face he hasn’t felt since he was 22 and first asked Mara out on a date. He turns the key in the ignition, pulls out of the driveway, and rolls the window down, letting the cool night air hit his face, already counting down the hours until Saturday.
