Elias Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had not set foot at the annual Willamette Valley Brat & Beer Fest in four years. Not since his wife, Linda, died of breast cancer, and every person at the event had pulled him aside with a sad smile and a pat on the arm that felt like they were pressing pity right through his flannel shirts. He only showed up this year because Jax Carter, a former student, had begged him to come see the custom offset smoker he’d built from scratch for the barbecue contest. Elias hovered by the oak grove at the edge of the town square, cold hazy IPA in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his faded Carhartt overalls, the same pair he’d worn for 12 years, stained with pine resin and table saw dust, a faint burn mark on the left knee from a 2020 mishap with a wood burning kit.
He spotted Maren Carter before she spotted him. He’d know that sharp, purposeful walk anywhere, even 18 years after she’d stormed into his office, red-faced and yelling, because he’d threatened to suspend Jax for carving a 3-foot tall oak phallus and leaving it on the principal’s front lawn. She was 58 now, auburn hair streaked with silver at the roots, pulled back in a loose braid, a faded Pearl Jam flannel tied around her waist, cutoff denim shorts and scuffed cowboy boots, a smudge of charcoal on her left cheek. She was holding a paper plate of loaded tater tots, laughing at something the girl next to her said, and when she turned her head, her eyes locked right on his.
He froze. He’d avoided her for almost two decades, partially out of lingering awkwardness from that fight, partially because Linda had been casual friends with her back then, and he’d always felt a stupid, unnameable spark when she was in the room, the kind he’d shoved down so far he’d forgotten it existed. She didn’t look away. She handed her plate to her friend, wiped her hands on her shorts, and walked straight over, the grass crunching under her boots.
“Elias Voss. I’d know those grubby overalls anywhere.” Her voice was lower than he remembered, rougher, like she smoked a cigarette every now and then, and she smelled like lavender body wash and campfire smoke when she stopped two feet in front of him. “Jax told me you’d be here. I’ve been wanting to apologize for that office fight, by the way. He admitted a week later the prank was all his idea, not the other kids he tried to blame. Said your woodshop class was the only reason he didn’t drop out of high school, actually.”
He blinked, fumbling with his beer can so hard a little sloshed over the edge onto his wrist. “You don’t have to apologize. I shouldn’t have threatened suspension before I talked to him first. Made him build bookshelves for the library instead, remember? Turned out perfect.”
She laughed, a loud, unselfconscious sound, and leaned in a little, so their shoulders were almost touching, close enough he could see the smattering of freckles across her nose, the tiny laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes. “I remember. Thought it was the most clever discipline I’d ever seen, even when I was mad at you.” She nodded at his beer. “That the hazy IPA from the microbrewery out on Route 9? I’ve been meaning to try it.”
When she reached out to take the can from his hand, her fingers brushed the raised, pale scar across his left knuckle, the one from 2013 when he’d nicked himself on a table saw while helping a student build a birdhouse for his grandma. He jolted a little, a sharp, warm zing shooting up his arm, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was 16 and kissed Linda for the first time behind the gym. He let her take the can, watched her take a sip, her tongue darting out to wipe a drop of beer off her lower lip.
They sat down on the splintered wooden picnic bench a few feet away, their knees brushing every time one of them shifted, no more than an inch of space between them the whole time. She told him she’d moved back to town six months prior, after her second husband died of a heart attack, bought a small cottage on the edge of the woods, was raising four rescue chickens and growing tomatoes in the backyard. He told her about the small woodworking shop he’d set up in his garage, builds custom cutting boards and birdhouses for the local farmers market, still hasn’t gotten used to not having a classroom full of rowdy kids yelling over the sound of saws. He kept waiting for the guilt to hit, the familiar voice in his head telling him he was betraying Linda by enjoying talking to another woman, but it didn’t come. All he could focus on was the way she kept holding eye contact, like she was actually listening to every word he said, the way her knee kept pressing into his, warm through the thin denim of her shorts.
Jax wandered over an hour later, holding two brats slathered in sauerkraut and spicy mustard, a wide grin on his face. “Knew you two would hit it off. Mom’s been badgering me for three weeks to make sure you showed up today. Said she saw you at the grocery store last month, didn’t want to walk up and bother you out of the blue.”
Elias stared at him, then looked at Maren, who was blushing, the pink rising up her cheeks to the tips of her ears. “You asked him to invite me?”
“Guilty.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smiled at him, soft this time, no teasing edge. “I always thought you were cute, even when I was yelling at you. Figured this was easier than cold approaching you in the cereal aisle.”
He laughed, loud enough that a few people sitting nearby turned to look. He reached over, brushed the smudge of charcoal off her cheek with his thumb, his calloused skin catching on her soft skin, and she didn’t pull away. She leaned in, kissed him first on the cheek, then slow on the mouth, tasting like IPA and cherry lip balm, the distant sound of the bluegrass band playing in the square fading out for a second.
They stayed until the sun went down, shared a plate of warm funnel cake dusted with powdered sugar, danced slow for one song, even though neither of them were very good at it, his hand resting low on her waist, her head on his shoulder. When the festival started to clear out, he walked her to her beat up blue pickup truck, crickets chirping in the grass, the air smelling like cut clover and leftover smoke from the barbecue grills. She leaned against the driver’s side door, smiled up at him. “Jax built me a custom oak dining table for the cottage a few weeks back. Wanna come over and take a look? I’ve got a bottle of bourbon stashed on the counter, too.”
He nodded, already reaching for his keys in his overalls pocket. He followed her truck down the dark dirt road leading to her cottage, his old Ford F150 rumbling behind hers, the windows rolled down, cool evening wind tangling his gray hair as he drove.
