Cole Hewitt, 58, retired TVA lineman, had been dragged to the county fire department’s annual cook-off by his former crew buddy Earl, against his better judgment. He’d spent the last three years holed up in the ranch he’d built with his late wife Linda, fixing fence, tinkering with his 1987 Ford F-150, turning down every half-hearted set-up his kids and neighbors pushed his way. Grief, he’d decided, was easier than the awkwardness of dating, of explaining why he still kept Linda’s mug on the kitchen counter, why he walked a little slower on the left side of the sidewalk because she’d always hated walking next to the road. He was leaning against a splintered pine picnic table, holding a sweating can of PBR, half-listening to Earl rant about new county zoning laws, when he spotted her.
Lila Mae Carter, Linda’s youngest cousin. He hadn’t seen her since Linda’s 40th birthday, when she’d snuck three beers out of his cooler and crashed the adult bonfire, bragging about her upcoming vet school acceptance. Back then she’d been lanky, pigtailed, covered in acne, the kind of kid you’d slip a dollar to to run get ice from the garage. Now she was 42, leaning against the food truck counter, laughing so hard she snort-laughed at a rookie firefighter’s terrible joke, wearing a cutoff gray flannel over a plain white tank, work boots caked in cow manure, a smudge of motor oil on the edge of her jaw. She’d moved back to the county three months prior to take over the old small-animal clinic on Main Street, he’d heard, but he’d avoided running into her on purpose. Too many reminders of Linda, too much risk of feeling like he was betraying the life he’d built.
She spotted him before he could duck behind Earl. Waved, bright, and started walking over, weaving through the crowd of families and off-duty cops and local farmers. She stood close enough when she stopped that he could smell the pine soap she used to wash her work clothes, mixed with the faint sweet tang of cherry limeade and beer, no fancy perfume, no overdone makeup, just her. “Cole Hewitt,” she said, grinning, and reached out to tap the faded TVA patch on his jacket sleeve. “You still wear this old thing? I swear you had it when I was 12.” He huffed a laugh, and when she reached for the beer in his hand, the same way she’d done when she was a kid sneaking sips, her knuckles brushed his. The contact sent a jolt up his arm he hadn’t felt since Linda kissed him for the first time in the back of that same 1987 Ford, senior year of high school. He froze for half a second, guilty, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. She took a long sip, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and didn’t comment on his reaction.
They talked for 45 minutes, Earl drifting off to hit on the lady running the pie table, leaving the two of them alone. She asked about the F-150, remembered he’d been rebuilding the engine when she was in high school. He asked about the clinic, listened while she ranted about a farmer who’d let his goat get stuck in a barbed wire fence for three days before calling her. The guilt niggled at the back of his throat the whole time, the quiet voice telling him this was wrong, that she was family, that he was too old for this, that Linda would roll in her grave if she saw him noticing how the sun hit the freckles across her nose, how her laugh was just a little lower, a little warmer than Linda’s, how she kept shifting her weight closer to him, their shoulders brushing every time someone walked past. He wanted to leave, wanted to go home to his empty house and his quiet routine, but he couldn’t make his feet move.
The fire chief got on the loudspeaker then, announcing the 50/50 raffle draw. Cole had bought a ticket on his way in, just to support the department, hadn’t thought twice about it. “Ticket number 472,” the chief yelled, and Cole pulled his crumpled ticket out of his jacket pocket, blinked at the number. “That’s mine,” he said, at the same time Lila held up her own identical ticket, laughing. She’d bought one off the same kid 10 minutes after he did, same number. They walked up to the stage together, the crowd hooting and teasing them for matching tickets, and when a group of kids ran between them, Lila slipped her hand into his to keep from getting separated. Her palm was calloused from handling leashes and halters and tools, a little cold, and it fit perfectly in his, rough from 35 years of climbing power poles and turning wrenches. He didn’t pull away.
They split the $1,200 pot evenly on the side of the stage, and Lila leaned against the oak tree next to him, twisting the check in her hand. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, quiet enough no one else could hear. “That this is weird. That I’m Linda’s kid cousin, that you’re supposed to still be grieving. But Linda was my favorite cousin. She told me once, if she ever went before you, she’d come back and haunt you if you spent the rest of your life alone in that big old ranch.” The words hit him like a punch to the chest, the guilt he’d been carrying softening, just a little. Before he could say anything, she leaned in, kissed him quick, soft, her lips chapped from the wind, tasting like cherry limeade and the beer she’d stolen from him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just rested his hand on her hip, light, like he was scared she’d disappear if he pressed too hard.
They hung around for another hour, won a peach pie in the silent auction, said goodbye to Earl and the rest of the crew, and walked out to the parking lot together. The sun was setting, painting the sky pink and orange, the air cool enough that he handed her his extra flannel from the back of his truck. She slipped it on, it was too big, sleeves hanging past her wrists, and she grinned up at him when she was done. “You wanna drive up to that old lookout point on Oak Hill?” she asked. “I haven’t been up there since I was a kid. We can eat the pie.” He nodded, opened the passenger door of his F-150 for her, waited until she was settled before he walked around to the driver’s side. He turned the key, the engine rumbled to life, and she reached over, laced her fingers through his where they rested on the gear shift.
