Rafe Mendez, 62, spent 32 years building custom fishing rods for pro anglers and weekend warriors out of his cinder block shop outside Knoxville, and he’d avoided the annual Anderson County Fair every single year since his wife Elaina died seven years prior. His old fishing buddy Jimmie had practically dragged him out of his porch chair that afternoon, saying if he spent one more night sanding rod blanks and listening to the same Fleetwood Mac record on repeat, he’d turn into a ghost himself. Rafe’s biggest flaw, as Elaina used to tease him, was that he’d shut down the second he felt like he was out of his comfort zone, and the crowded beer tent, thick with the smell of stale hops and fried Oreos, was about as far out of his comfort zone as he could get.
He was slouched against a splintered wooden tent pole, sipping an overpriced hazy IPA he didn’t even like, when she bumped into him. The seltzer she was holding sloshed over the rim of her plastic cup, soaking the toe of his scuffed work boot. She babbled an apology, dabbing at the boot with a crumpled napkin she pulled from her jeans pocket, and Rafe almost bit out a gruff dismissal before he looked up. Her name was Clara, 49, the new county extension agent who’d moved to town three months prior, and she had a smudge of blueberry pie filling on her left wrist, just above the callus on her index finger from pruning tomato plants. She was wearing a faded gingham sundress and scuffed white sneakers, and when she laughed at his dry joke about the fair’s $8 lemonade tasting like dish soap, she held his eye contact longer than polite, no quick dart away, no awkward smile.
He didn’t even realize he was leaning in until their shoulders brushed, the soft cotton of her dress warm against his flannel shirt. The country cover band off to the side was playing a terrible rendition of a 90s hit, kids were screaming on the Tilt-A-Whirl just past the tent fence, and all Rafe could focus on was the way she tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear when she talked about her dad, who’d passed the year before, leaving a beat-up 1978 fiberglass fly rod that split at the grip the last time she’d taken it out on the lake. He almost offered to fix it before he caught himself, the familiar twist of guilt in his gut—he hadn’t taken a job from a stranger in seven years, hadn’t let anyone new into his little bubble of grief and routine, had convinced himself even the smallest deviation from the life he’d built with Elaina was a betrayal.
She didn’t push when he hesitated, just grinned and said she’d been asking around town for someone who knew old rods, that everyone kept telling her the grumpy widower who lived on the lake was the only guy who could fix it right. He huffed a laugh, and when she handed him a free ticket for the fireworks show the fair was putting on at dusk, her fingers brushed his palm, the skin soft but rough at the edges, same as the rod blanks he spent hours sanding. He held the ticket in his fist for ten minutes after Jimmie ran off to hit the corn dog stand again, half ready to crumple it up and leave, half desperate to stay, the unfamiliar buzz of excitement warring with the guilt that had sat heavy in his chest for seven years.
He ended up staying. They walked down to the lakefront together as the sun dipped below the trees, the dewy grass sticking to the cuffs of his jeans, her shoulder brushing his every third step. No one they knew was down there, most of the crowd still clustered by the food stands and ride lines, and for the first time in years, Rafe didn’t feel like everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to break down talking about Elaina. When the first firework exploded overhead, bright red and loud enough to rattle his teeth, she jumped a little, leaning into his side, and he lifted his arm to wrap it around her waist before he could overthink it. She didn’t pull away, just rested her head on his shoulder, and he could smell pine and jasmine on her hair, the scent mixing with the sulfur from the fireworks and the damp lake air.
He thought about Elaina then, the way she’d told him a week before she died, when she was too weak to get out of bed, that if he didn’t find someone to laugh with after she was gone, she’d come back and haunt him so bad he’d wish he’d never picked up a rod blank in his life. The guilt faded, slow and soft, replaced by a warmth he’d forgotten existed. When the last firework faded to black, she turned to face him, her hazel eyes lit up by the string lights strung along the dock, and asked if he wanted to come back to her place for the leftover blueberry pie she’d baked that morning, the one that had won second place in the contest. He nodded, no excuses, no overthinking, and laced his calloused fingers through hers.
The cool night air bit at his cheeks as they walked toward her beat-up pickup, her hand soft and steady in his.
