Moe Pritchard, 62, spent 32 years patrolling the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge before retiring three years prior, and his biggest flaw was that he’d spent every day since his wife Elara’s 2015 death turning down any invitation that didn’t involve his grandkids or fixing up his 1998 Ford F-150. He’d convinced himself any small joy not tied to the life he’d built with her was a betrayal, even something as harmless as a beer with the guys at the bait shop down the road. His 10-year-old granddaughter had begged him to enter his smoked catfish dip in the annual Swamp Cabbage Festival contest, though, so he’d dragged himself into Folkston that Saturday, boots caked with red clay, flannel shirt unbuttoned over a faded refuge uniform tee, crock pot slung over one shoulder.
The community center parking lot smelled like fried alligator, boiled peanuts, and pine sap that sweated out of the surrounding oak trees in the 82-degree humidity. The tin roof of the building rattled every time a lifted truck rolled past, blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd loud enough to rattle the paper plates stacked on the judging table. Moe set his crock down next to a vat of Brunswick stew and a tray of pecan pralines, and when he looked up, he locked eyes with the woman at the head of the table. She was 58, silver streaks threading through the chestnut braid slung over her shoulder, denim shirt rolled up to her elbows, a smudge of barbecue sauce on the soft curve of her left wrist. He recognized her immediately: Lila, Elara’s second cousin, the woman he’d shared one awkward, charged dance with at his wedding reception 37 years prior, before they’d both pulled away like they’d touched a hot stove, never speaking of it again.
She leaned across the table when he said his name, elbow brushing the top of his hand for half a second, and he could smell citronella candle and coconut sunscreen on her skin. “I knew that was you,” she said, voice low and rough, like she spent half her time yelling over garden tillers. She’d taken the county extension agent job three months prior, she explained, had asked around about him half a dozen times but never worked up the nerve to knock on his cabin door. She tasted his dip a minute later, closing her eyes for a beat before she swallowed, a soft, quiet hum slipping out of her that made the back of Moe’s neck feel hot. “Tastes just like the batch you brought to the rehearsal dinner,” she said, and he was shocked she remembered that detail, something even Elara had forgotten by their first anniversary.
A group of teen boys darted past the table, chasing each other with cups of sweet tea, and Lila stepped sideways to avoid getting knocked into, her palm resting flat on Moe’s forearm for three full seconds. He could feel the callus on the heel of her hand, from turning soil in the community gardens she ran, and the rough fabric of his flannel caught on the edge of her silver hoop earring when she leaned in to point out his granddaughter waving from the cotton candy stand. He was torn so sharp he almost ached: half of him felt sick, like he was sneaking around behind Elara’s back, crossing a line he’d promised himself he’d never touch, and the other half felt lighter than he had in 8 years, like he was 25 again, hiding a six pack behind the church before the wedding, giddy with the thrill of something he wasn’t supposed to want.
He won first place, of course. Lila handed him the blue satin ribbon, and when her fingers let go of the fabric, they brushed the knuckles of his hand, soft and warm, and she held eye contact for two beats longer than she should have, the corner of her mouth ticking up in a half smile he remembered clear as day from the wedding. “I got a cooler of cold peach tea in my truck,” she said, nodding toward the dirt parking lot, “and I found a little spot down by the Satilla River last week that’s supposed to have the best firefly view in the county. You got plans tonight, or you got to rush home to feed your hound dog?” Moe thought of the photo of Elara taped to his fridge, the note she’d scribbled on the back of a grocery list the week before she died, telling him to stop being so stubborn and find something that made him grin, even if it wasn’t what he thought he was supposed to want.
He tucked the blue ribbon into the breast pocket of his flannel, adjusted the crock pot strap on his shoulder, and nodded. They walked out to her silver Toyota Tacoma together, his shoulder brushing hers every other step, the noise of the festival fading behind them as crickets started humming in the oak trees lining the road. She opened the passenger door for him, and when he leaned in to climb up, he caught a whiff of cold peach tea and coconut sunscreen drifting out of the cab, and he didn’t even feel guilty when he smiled.
