Clay Hargrove, 58, retired park ranger, spent 32 years patrolling the Great Smoky Mountains’ backcountry before hanging up his wide-brimmed hat last spring. His biggest flaw, the one his late wife Ellen used to tease him about nonstop, was his stubborn refusal to give anyone he deemed “an authority figure” a fair shot. He’d skipped every community cookout, town hall, and neighborly potluck since Ellen passed four years prior, writing off late-in-life socializing as “a sad race to see who can complain about their knees first.” He only showed up to the annual fire department cookout because his next door neighbor Marnie, a retired 7th grade teacher, showed up on his porch at 3 PM with a plate of fudge brownies and a threat to leave a bag of her cat’s used litter on his welcome mat if he bailed again.
The July air hung thick enough to stir into iced tea, the scent of charred brats and charcoal wrapping around the fire station parking lot, a cover band cranking Travis Tritt deep cuts from a dented flatbed stage. Clay hovered by the industrial beer cooler for 20 minutes, half a can of Pabst sweating through the crumpled paper napkin wrapped around it, when he turned to avoid a kid chasing a golden retriever and elbowed a woman square in the chest. Her plastic cup of sweet tea sloshed over the rim, staining the cuff of her cream linen blazer, and Clay froze, ready for the snappish lecture he’d come to expect from anyone who wore a blazer to an event where half the crowd was in cutoff denim and steel-toe work boots. It was Mara Hale, 49, the town’s new mayor, elected six months prior on a platform of fixing potholed backroads and expanding the senior center. Clay had written her off before she even took office, ranted to Marnie more than once that she was just another suit who’d promise everything and deliver jack shit.
Then she laughed, a rough, throaty sound that cut over the music, and swiped at the tea stain with the back of her hand. “Thank Christ,” she said, nodding at the blazer. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to take this thing off for two hours. Everyone keeps stopping me to ask about zoning permits for backyard chicken coops.” He grabbed a handful of napkins from the stack by the cooler, and when he reached out to dab at the wet spot on her sleeve, his knuckles brushed the soft, sun-warmed skin of her upper arm. She smelled like jasmine and freshly cut hay, no heavy, cloying perfume, and when he glanced up, she was holding eye contact, no tight fake politician smile, just a crooked little smirk.
They ended up leaning against the side of the cooler for 45 minutes, the crowd milling around them, kids screaming as they bounced off the inflatable obstacle course, the band switching to a slow Alan Jackson track. She leaned in when he talked, her shoulder brushing his every time someone squeezed past, no empty pleasantries, no questions about who he was going to vote for in the next county election, just genuine curiosity about his time as a ranger. He told her about the three days he’d spent searching for a 12-year-old who’d wandered off the Alum Cave Trail, found him huddled under a rhododendron bush eating a pack of gummy bears he’d stuffed in his pocket before the hike. She didn’t check her phone once, didn’t glance over his shoulder to see if someone more important was nearby. Clay fought the quiet buzz in his chest, told himself he was being an idiot, that she was just being nice for the cameras, that politicians didn’t hang around retired rangers unless they wanted a photo op for the local paper. But when she stepped closer, her arm pressing fully against his, and said she’d always wanted to hike Alum Cave but had never had anyone who knew the trail to go with, he couldn’t find a reason to lie and say he was busy.
She said she was sick of shaking hands and answering questions about sewer line upgrades, asked if he wanted to drive up to the west overlook, the one he’d mentioned that had a clear view of the whole valley at sunset. He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the gossip that would spread if anyone saw the mayor leaving the cookout with him, thinking about how he’d promised himself he’d never let anyone get close again after Ellen died, thinking about how stupid it was to be attracted to a woman whose job he’d resented for most of his adult life. Then he nodded, grabbed his keys out of his jeans pocket, and they snuck out the side of the parking lot, no one noticing, the music fading behind them as they walked to his beat-up 2012 F150, the vinyl seats still hot from sitting in the sun all day.
The drive up the mountain took 15 minutes, the windows rolled down, warm air rushing through the cab, her hand resting on the center console between them, her pinky finger brushing his every time he hit a pothole. They pulled into the overlook parking lot, empty save for a single motorcycle parked by the edge, and climbed onto the hood of the truck, the metal still warm enough to seep through the fabric of his work jeans. She pulled two cans of lime hard seltzer out of her purse, tossed one to him, and said she’d stashed them that morning because she knew the cookout would only have cheap beer and overly sweet tea. He took a sip, the sharp fizz of the lime cutting through the humidity, and watched the sun dip below the mountain line, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the lights of the town starting to blink on far below them. She shifted closer, her leg pressing fully against his, and tilted her head up to look at him, the last of the sun gilding the edges of her light brown hair. He reached over, brushed a stray rhododendron leaf off the shoulder of her plain white t-shirt, his fingers lingering on the soft cotton for a beat longer than necessary.
