Roland Voss, 62, has built custom fishing rods out of his cinder block garage outside Marshall, North Carolina for the last decade, after 32 years teaching industrial arts at the county high school. His left palm bears a pale, jagged scar from a 1989 table saw accident, and he’s spent the four years since his wife Linda died of breast cancer deliberately walling himself off from small town social chaos, turning down every VFW fish fry invite, every church potluck drop-off, every clumsy setup attempt from well-meaning neighbors. He only agreed to show up to the town’s annual fall harvest festival for 10 minutes max, to drop off three gallon bags of his famous hickory-smoked almonds for his niece’s bake sale booth, before hightailing it back to his workshop and the half-finished bass rod he was building for a client in Charlotte.
The air smells like fried apple pies, burnt sugar, and hickory smoke from the bonfire by the main stage when he walks up, chestnuts crunching under his scuffed work boots. He’s halfway through handing the almonds to his niece when a woman a few feet down the table fumbles a glass jar of raw wildflower honey, and he lunges to catch it before it hits the splintered folding table. His hand wraps around the cold glass at the same time hers does, and their knuckles brush; hers are chapped, rough from hauling stacks of library books in the crisp mountain air, and he catches a whiff of clove and cedar from her faded red flannel shirt before she pulls her hand back half an inch, laughing.
He recognizes her immediately: Elara Hale, 54, the new town librarian, who moved to town three months prior after walking out on her husband of 28 years, a megachurch pastor from Knoxville whose name Roland had seen on a dozen billboards on I-40 growing up. The town grapevine has been brutal about her, calling her selfish, ungrateful, a homewrecker even though Roland heard through a former student who worked at the Knoxville hospital that the pastor had been cheating on her with his 26-year-old secretary for three years. No one in town mentions that part, though; they just side-eye her at the grocery store, mutter when she wears jeans to the diner on Sundays.
She thanks him, her voice low and warm, the faint bluegrass set from the main stage humming in the background as she twists the lid on the honey jar tight. She leans in a little when she talks, her shoulder six inches from his, and he can smell the spiced apple cider she’s sipping from a disposable cup, can see the faint silvery scar slicing across her right wrist, the way her dark hair has streaks of gray at the temples, the crinkles at the corner of her hazel eyes when she smiles. She mentions she’s been trying to find someone to repair a 1972 fly rod her dad left her when he died last year, the reel seat cracked, the guides rusted through, and he opens his mouth before he can think twice, says he does that kind of repair work on the side, no charge if she brings a six pack of good IPA when she drops it off.
His first instinct right after is to lie, say he’s swamped for the next three months, make an excuse to leave, because he can feel half the bake sale booth staring at them, whispering, the same women who tried to set him up with their cousin twice removed last Christmas nudging each other behind their pie tins. The disgust at the idea of being the town’s latest gossip item curls tight in his chest, and he’s already shifting his weight to step back when she laughs, says she’s got a whole case of IPA left over from helping her brother move in last month, and mentions she’s got a rare vinyl pressing of John Prine’s 1973 Austin City Limits set that she’s been dying to play for someone who doesn’t think Prine is “too rowdy for church.”
He freezes. He’s got that exact same record on his shelf at home, the one he and Linda bought on their first date at a record store in Asheville in 1983. He hasn’t played it in four years, couldn’t stand the thought of hearing it without her. But Elara’s knee brushes his when a group of kids runs past the table chasing a stray dog, and she doesn’t move away, just keeps looking at him, her eyes steady, no pity, no awkward small town “I’m sorry for your loss” line he’s heard a thousand times. She asks if he wants to walk down to the creek behind the festival grounds for a minute, away from the noise, so she can show him a picture of the fly rod on her phone.
He says yes. They walk past the corn maze, past the hayride pickup point, the sound of the bluegrass band fading as they get closer to the water, the leaves rustling in the oak trees above them. No one’s down here, just the gurgle of the creek and the distant squawk of a blue jay in the treetops. She stops on the bank, pulls her phone out of her jeans pocket, and leans in to show him the photo of the beat-up fly rod propped against a stack of books on her apartment shelf, her shoulder pressing lightly against his this time, no gap between them. After a minute she tucks her phone back, turns to face him, and rests her hand lightly on his forearm, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his work shirt. She says she’s seen him dropping off wood scrap for the library’s kids’ craft program every month for the last two months, she didn’t approach him earlier because she heard he liked being left alone.
He admits he’s been hiding out for four years, sick of being the town’s widower pity project, sick of everyone acting like he can’t tie his own shoes without a wife to do it for him. She snorts, says she knows the feeling, that half the town acts like she’s a monster for leaving a man who was lying to her for years, that she’s been hiding out in the library after hours watching terrible 80s action movies and eating cold pizza by herself too. He pulls a business card for his rod building shop out of his wallet, scribbles his cell number on the back, and hands it to her; her fingers brush his when she takes it, tucking it into the breast pocket of her flannel, her thumb lingering on his knuckle for half a second longer than necessary. They agree she’ll come by his workshop Saturday at 10, bring the rod, the IPA, and the Prine record, and they’ll order tacos from the food truck down the road after they fix the rod.
She walks back to the festival first, waving over her shoulder as she rounds the corner of the corn maze. He stays on the creek bank for ten minutes, watching brown oak leaves skitter across the surface of the water, the cool fall wind stinging his cheeks, and realizes he doesn’t even care if the gossips at the bake sale saw them leave together.
