Clay Bennett, 58, retired electric co-op lineman with a scar splitting his left eyebrow and a stubborn streak wider than the Tennessee River, leaned against the splintered wooden pole of the VFW’s beer tent at the county’s late August street fair. His left hand squeezed a crumpled plastic cup of cheap lager hard enough to leave dents along the rim. He’d shown up that night ready to grumble, to avoid small talk with neighbors, to seethe over the town council’s vote the week prior to bulldoze the old community pool he and his late wife Linda had spent three weekends painting and laying tile for back in 1992. He’d spent three months firing off angry emails to the council, boycotting the local diner that hosted their meetings, convinced every member was just another greedy suit looking to line their pockets with developer cash.
He’d only seen Mara Hale, the 52-year-old first-term councilwoman who’d spearheaded the pool vote, twice before, both times behind a podium at town hall, in boxy navy blazers and glasses perched on the end of her nose, speaking in that calm, measured tone that made his jaw clench. So when she rounded the cooler next to him, cutoff denim shorts riding high on her thighs, a faded 1987 Lynyrd Skynyrd tour tee clinging to her shoulders, sweat beading at the hairline of her copper ponytail, he almost didn’t recognize her. Her bare forearm brushed his as she reached for a case of IPA stacked behind his boot, and he caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen and beer foam, bright and warm against the thick, smoky air of fried oreos and grill smoke. She paused, glanced up at him, dark eyes sharp, and smirked instead of apologizing. “You look like you’re about to chew through that cup, Bennett. The beer’s not that bad.”
He blinked, surprised she knew his name, and grunted, shifting his weight so he was less slouched against the pole. “Beer’s fine. The people running this town are the problem.” She laughed, a low, throaty sound, and leaned against the cooler across from him, crossing her ankles, the toe of her white converse tapping his work boot lightly. “Let me guess. You’re mad about the pool.” When he nodded, jaw tight, she sighed, and pushed off the cooler to step closer, her shoulder brushing his bicep as a group of kids darted past holding dripping cotton candy, yelling loud enough to drown out the bluegrass band playing two tents over. She didn’t move away when the kids passed. “The old pool was leaking 12,000 gallons of water a month. The state refused to fund repairs, we tried every grant we could find. The new development has an indoor public pool, open year round, no more closing in October when the first frost hits. I didn’t expect you to read the 47-page addendum, but I thought someone who helped build the place would care enough to ask why we voted the way we did.”
Clay froze, his beer halfway to his lips. He’d only seen the 2-line announcement in the local paper, hadn’t bothered to dig deeper, too wrapped up in his own grief to care about anything other than losing the last physical thing he’d built with Linda. He felt heat creep up his neck, embarrassed, and set the cup down on the cooler edge. Mara nodded, like she knew exactly what he was thinking, and poured him another lager, sliding it across the metal top without asking for cash. “I pulled the dedication plaque with Linda’s name on it last week. It’s in the back of my truck. Gonna mount it right by the entrance of the new pool, so no one forgets who built the first one.”
The sun dipped below the tree line as she spoke, the string lights strung across the tent flickering to life, gilding the edges of her ponytail. She leaned in a little more to talk over the band’s cover of Rocky Top, her lips an inch from his ear, and he could smell mint gum on her breath, warm and sweet. When she pulled back, she brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead, her knuckles grazing his jaw by accident, and they both froze, eye contact holding for three full beats, no one speaking, the noise of the fair fading into a low hum around them. Clay felt a tightness in his chest he hadn’t felt since Linda died, half shame, half something softer, warmer, something he’d spent six years convincing himself he didn’t deserve to feel anymore. He’d spent so long angry, so determined to hold onto the past, he hadn’t noticed he’d been waiting for someone to give him a reason to stop fighting.
Mara glanced at her watch, then back up at him, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile. “I close up the tent in 15 minutes. Wanna drive out to the old pool site? I can show you the plaque, we can walk the lot, you can yell at me some more if you still want to.” Clay nodded, finishing the last of his beer in one long swallow, wiping his mouth on the back of his flannel sleeve. He stepped to the side to hold the tent flap open for her when she turned to grab her denim jacket off the stack of coolers. The hem of her shorts brushed his calf as she stepped past, and for the first time in six years, Clay didn’t feel the urge to look away.
