Ron Marquez, 62, spent 34 years building and maintaining backcountry trails for the National Park Service before retiring last spring to a cedar cabin 12 miles outside Eureka Springs, Arkansas. His most consistent personality flaw, one he’d freely cop to if anyone asked, was that he’d spent the two and a half decades since his divorce actively avoiding any interaction that could spawn small town gossip. He showed up to the weekly VFW fish fry every Friday, sat at the same scuffed Formica corner table, ate two pieces of fried catfish and a side of collard greens, drank three glasses of sweet tea, and left without lingering longer than 45 minutes. No one bothered him, and that was exactly how he liked it.
The room went quiet for half a beat the night Lila Carter walked in. 47, freshly moved to town to run the public library, recently divorced from the megachurch preacher who’d left her for a 22-year-old youth group intern three months prior, she was the only topic of local gossip for weeks. The church ladies clustered by the dessert table stared daggers at her, the group of retired farmers by the register snickered behind their paper plates, and none of the half-empty tables in the room had anyone willing to gesture her over. She hesitated by the door for 10 seconds, holding a paper plate in one hand and a can of root beer in the other, the frayed cuff of her flannel shirt brushing the leg of a folding chair, before she walked straight to Ron’s table.
He froze when she stopped in front of him, one eyebrow raised. “Mind if I sit? Every other spot in here’s got a ‘no fallen women’ sign taped to it, as far as I can tell.” Her voice was low, rough around the edges, like she smoked a pack a day and spent half her time yelling at rowdy teens for hiding graphic novels in the children’s section. He nodded before he could think better of it, pushing his stack of extra napkins across the table toward her. She slid into the seat across from him, so close their knees brushed under the table, and he didn’t pull his leg back. The scent of lavender hand lotion and pine-sol hit him, sharp and warm, and he had to fight the urge to lean in closer.
They talked about the weather first, then the library’s upcoming used book sale, then the terrible condition of the back roads leading up to Mount Magazine. She reached for the bottle of Frank’s RedHot on the table at the same time he did, their hands brushing, and he felt the rough callus on her index finger, the same kind he had from decades of swinging a sledgehammer to break up rock for trail beds. She held eye contact with him for three full seconds after their hands touched, a small, lopsided grin tugging at the corner of her mouth, before she grabbed the hot sauce and doused her catfish in it. He laughed when she made a face at how spicy it was, the sound louder than he’d intended, and he didn’t even glance around the room to see who was watching.
She told him she’d been hiking solo on the shorter trails around town for weeks, but hadn’t worked up the nerve to try the longer backcountry routes alone, and he found himself leaning in across the table, his elbows resting on the Formica, to tell her about the 3-mile trail he’d rehabbed on his own a month prior, the one that led to a rocky overlook with a view of the whole valley. He’d never invited anyone out to that trail before, had even lied to his old coworker when he’d asked about it, because he’d wanted to keep it to himself. But when she leaned in too, her hair falling forward over one shoulder, her knee pressing just a little harder against his under the table, he didn’t hesitate.
“Wanna see it next Saturday? I can bring water, some of that peach pie I bake on weekends. It’s an easy hike, no steep climbs. We can leave at 8, beat the heat.” The words were out before he could overthink them, before he could remember the 20 years he’d spent avoiding any situation that would make the town talk. She grinned, wide and bright, and reached across the table to tap the back of his hand once, her skin warm against his, before she stood up to leave. “I’ll bring the good cold brew. None of that instant garbage you probably keep in your cabin.”
He watched her walk out to her beat up forest green Subaru, the hem of her jeans frayed at the ankle, scuffed trail running shoes peeking out from under the cuffs, and didn’t even notice the group of retired farmers at the next table staring at him, snickering behind their hands. He picked up his glass of sweet tea, took a sip, and ran his thumb over the spot on the back of his hand where her finger had touched him, the faint tingle still lingering there. The neon VFW sign flickered above the door, casting pink light across the empty seat across from him, and he folded the extra napkin she’d left on the table into the pocket of his work flannel before he flagged down the waitress to order a slice of pecan pie to go.
