Earl Holloway, 61, retired TVA lineman, leans against an oak tree at the Huntsville town square potluck, a paper plate of fried catfish and dill coleslaw balanced in one calloused hand. The scar running up his left forearm, souvenir of a 2007 line surge that knocked him 20 feet off a pole, glows pink in the golden hour sun. He’s avoided this event for three years running, but his next door neighbor practically dragged him out the house that morning, said moping in his workshop restoring old hand tools wasn’t a valid retirement plan.
The air smells like charcoal smoke, sweet tea, and peach cobbler. A local country band tunes up on the small stage 50 feet away, the steel guitar player plucking a slow, wobbly test note that makes the crickets pause their hum for half a second. He’s halfway through his second bite of catfish, crunch of cornmeal batter loud against the chatter, when a woman walks up, holding a Tupperware stacked high with golden baked crust. He recognizes her before she speaks: Clara Bennett, Linda’s first cousin, 10 years younger, the last time he saw her was at Linda’s funeral, 8 years prior, she’d driven up from Austin and hugged him so tight he thought his ribs would crack.
She’s wearing a sunflower print cotton dress that hits just above her knees, white canvas sneakers caked with a little red bakery flour, silver hoops glinting in her ears. Her hair is streaked with gray, pulled back in a loose braid, and she smells like vanilla extract and cinnamon. “I knew I’d find you hiding over here,” she says, grinning, and her voice is still that warm, honeyed Texas drawl she never lost even when she was a kid visiting for summer. She holds the Tupperware out, pops the lid, and the smell of peach cobbler hits him so hard he almost drops his plate. “Mom always said you’d drive 40 minutes out of your way for her cobbler. Figured I’d bring a batch, test if I got the recipe right.”
When he reaches for the plastic fork she’s holding out, their fingers brush. Her skin is soft, a little sticky from holding the warm Tupperware, and a jolt shoots up his arm so sharp he flinches like he touched a live wire. He pulls his hand back fast, cheeks hot, and shoves the fork into the cobbler, takes a bite too big, almost chokes. It’s perfect, sweet but not cloying, the crust flaky, peaches so ripe they burst on his tongue. He mumbles a compliment, stares at his shoes, because part of him is screaming that this is wrong, that Linda would hate him for even standing this close to another woman, let alone her cousin, let alone feeling that stupid spark when their hands touched.
She doesn’t push, just sits down on the weathered park bench a foot away from him, leans back, and watches the band start playing their first set, an old George Strait track that he and Linda used to dance to in their kitchen after dinner on Friday nights. The crowd starts cheering, kids run past chasing a dog with a corn cob in its mouth, and the sun dips lower, painting the sky pink and orange. She leans in to talk over the music, her shoulder pressing firmly against his upper arm, and he can feel the warmth of her through his worn gray flannel shirt, even through the thick summer humidity. “I talked to Linda a month before she died,” she says, her voice low enough only he can hear it, and he freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth. “She called me, said if I ever moved back up here, I needed to kick your ass if you were still holed up in that house, refusing to do anything that didn’t involve tools or mowing the lawn. Said she didn’t want you spending the rest of your life acting like you owed her being lonely.”
He turns to look at her, and her face is inches from his, her brown eyes soft, no pity, just that same easy grin she’s had since she was 12, sneaking beer out of his cooler at family barbecues. He’s spent 8 years feeling guilty for even thinking about anyone else, convinced that moving on was the worst kind of betrayal, that Linda would be furious, but all he can see in front of him right now is someone who knew her, who gets why he’s been so closed off, who doesn’t think he’s broken for taking so long to breathe again. He lifts his hand, slow, like he’s approaching a skittish dog, and brushes a stray strand of gray hair that fell out of her braid off her cheek. His thumb brushes her cheekbone, and she doesn’t pull away, just leans into the touch a little, her smile softening.
The band plays on, the crowd cheers, and they sit there for another hour, not talking much, just listening to the music, their shoulders pressed together the whole time. When the concert ends, the lights come on, and people start packing up their coolers and folding chairs, he walks her to her beat-up 2012 Ford Focus parked two blocks over, the Tupperware of leftover cobbler tucked under his arm. She leans against the driver’s side door, crosses her arms, and grins up at him. “My bakery opens at 6 a.m. tomorrow. I’m testing a new pecan sticky bun recipe. You should come by. First one’s free, for old time’s sake.”
He nods, no hesitation, no voice in his head screaming that he’s doing something wrong. “I’ll be there. Extra glaze, if you got it.” She laughs, opens the car door, climbs in, waves out the window before she turns the key. He waits by the curb until her taillights fade around the corner, the faint taste of peach cobbler still on his tongue, and for the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel guilty looking forward to tomorrow.
