Clay Bennett, 58, retired high school woodshop teacher, had avoided every small-town Summerside community event for 12 straight years. The only reason he was at the fire department beer garden fundraiser was because his old football teammate, now the fire chief, had showed up on his porch at 7 a.m. with a case of his favorite IPA and a guilt trip about supporting the guys who’d put out the barn fire on Clay’s property three years prior. Clay’s biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he held grudges so tight they ached in his molars; his ex-wife had left him for her cousin’s husband back in 2011, and half the town had picked sides, so he’d opted out of all side-picking entirely, sticking to his workshop, his hunting blind, and the dive bar 20 minutes outside of town where no one knew his name.
He was leaning against a splintered wooden post by the cornhole boards, cold IPA sweating through the paper napkin wrapped around it, when he spotted her. Mara Hale, 52, the ex-wife of that same cousin his ex had run off with. She was leaning over the pulled pork booth, wiping sauce off a toddler’s cheek with the hem of her faded denim cutoff shorts, a red bandana holding back her sun-bleached auburn hair, and she laughed so hard at something the kid said her shoulders shook. Clay’s throat went dry before he could stop it. He’d only met her twice, both times at awkward family holidays before the divorce, and he’d spent 12 years writing her off as part of the crowd that had chosen his ex’s side, no questions asked.
She hopped over the booth’s low wooden barrier a few minutes later, heading for the beer tent, and she tripped over a cinder block holding down a tent stake, bumping her shoulder hard into Clay’s arm and spilling half her seltzer down the front of his scuffed work boot. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” she said, stepping back, then freezing when she recognized his face. She was close enough he could smell coconut sunscreen and smoked paprika on her t-shirt, the faint menthol of a half-smoked cigarette tucked behind her ear, and when she glanced down at the scar slicing across his left knuckle—earned building a playset for his daughter back in 2009, before everything fell apart—she paused, her gaze softening instead of twisting into the judgment he was used to.
Clay’s first instinct was to mumble that it was fine, turn, and drive straight home, lock himself in his workshop for the rest of the weekend. He hated the idea of anyone in town seeing them talking, drawing their own conclusions, stirring up the old drama he’d worked so hard to bury, especially since the town council had almost nixed the event this year over a dumb zoning dispute about alcohol on public property, meaning half the county had showed up to gawk and protest. But then she pulled a crumpled napkin out of her shorts pocket and held it out to him, and her fingers brushed his when he took it, calloused the same way his were, rough from sanding and planing, and he froze mid-turn. “You refinish furniture, right?” he said, before he could think better of it. She blinked, then nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She’d been posting her work on the local community Facebook group for two years, restoring midcentury dressers and oak dining tables for people across the county, and admitted she’d seen his posts too, the custom birdhouses he built for the senior center, the Adirondack chairs he sold out of his front yard every spring, said she’d thought his joinery was some of the cleanest she’d ever seen.
They talked for 20 minutes, standing so close their shoulders brushed every time someone squeezed past them on the path, the tinny sound of 90s country playing over the tent speakers, the smell of fried oreos and cut grass hanging thick in the humid July air. Clay kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to make a snide comment about his ex, for someone to stop and stare, but no one did. She told him she’d avoided these events for six years after her divorce, too, that everyone in town had treated her like she was damaged goods, like the split had been her fault, not her ex’s choice to run off with a married woman. She laughed when he told her about the dive bar he drove to every Friday, said she went to the same one, half the time they’d probably been there at the same time without noticing.
A sudden, sharp crack of thunder cut her off mid-sentence, and fat, cold raindrops started pouring down out of nowhere, sending the crowd scrambling for cover. Mara grabbed his wrist without thinking, her grip firm, and pulled him under the awning of the old stone pavilion at the edge of the park, pressing up against his side to make room for a group of kids darting in behind them. The rain was so loud they had to lean in to hear each other, their faces inches apart, and Clay could feel her breath warm against his jaw when she spoke, could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes when she looked up at him, no hesitation, no awkward look away. She said she’d always thought he got a raw deal, that her ex was a selfish idiot who’d ruined four lives for a six-month fling, that she’d been wanting to talk to him for months but had been too scared he’d blow her off.
Clay felt the last of his resistance melt right there, the grudge he’d carried for 12 years feeling stupid, heavy, not worth holding onto anymore. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t care who was watching, didn’t care what rumors might start, didn’t care about any of the stupid town drama he’d spent over a decade running from. The rain slowed to a drizzle 10 minutes later, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, painting a faint rainbow over the town water tower at the edge of the park. Mara pulled a crumpled business card out of her back pocket, scribbled her cell number on the back in blue ballpoint, and handed it to him, her thumb brushing his palm when he took it. She said she had a 1950s oak dining table in her garage she’d been stuck on for three weeks, the joinery on the legs was shot, and she could use a second opinion if he was free Saturday afternoon.
Clay tucked the card into the breast pocket of his faded flannel shirt, patting it once to make sure it was secure, and nodded, telling her he’d bring his favorite mortise chisel and a six pack of that hazy IPA he liked. She grinned, turning to head back to the pulled pork booth, and Clay leaned against the pavilion post, taking a slow sip of his warm beer, watching the hem of her denim shorts flutter in the post-rain breeze as she walked.
