Maceo Rainer is 64, a custom fly rod builder who spent 29 years running backcountry guiding trips on the Tuckasegee River before bad knees and a mild heart attack sidelined him from 12-hour days in waders. He’s gruff by habit, widowed seven years, and his biggest flaw is that he holds grudges like they’re vintage tackle he refuses to part with—case in point, he’s spent three years hating the county extension office for making him rip out 12 mature native azalea bushes along his property line to make way for a roadside drain. He’d only agreed to come to the county agricultural fundraiser that night because his 16-year-old niece, who’s in 4H, begged him to donate one of his hand-carved rods for the silent auction. The rod sold for $1200, which he’s proud of, but he’s had his fill of small town small talk about his “famous” builds, so he slips out 20 minutes early, boots sticking to the gymnasium linoleum, and heads for the only dive bar in town that keeps his favorite small-batch bourbon on hand, no mixers, no fruit garnishes, no nonsense.
He grabs the last empty stool at the far end of the bar, sets his frayed felt fly fishing hat on the scuffed oak counter, and nods at the bartender, who already has his pour waiting, two fingers, neat. The jukebox in the corner spits out old Johnny Cash, the air smells like fried peanuts and bourbon and the faint, sharp tang of pine coming in through the open door when the bell jingles again. A woman slides onto the stool next to him so close her wool work coat brushes his elbow. He tenses immediately. It’s Clara Bennett, 49, the extension agent who’d handed him the azalea removal notice three years prior. He reaches for his hat, ready to move, but she leans in first, and he catches the scent of pine sap and peppermint lip balm off her, warm and sharp and nothing like the flowery perfume his late wife wore. She holds up a dented 1952 Orvis fly reel between them, the exact one he’d bid on four times that night before dropping out when the price hit $420, more than he could justify spending on a hunk of vintage metal, no matter how well it cast.
“I know you wanted this,” she says, grinning, like she’s been waiting to tease him about it. “You kept glowering at me every time I raised my bid card.” He blinks, surprised she’d paid that much attention to him across the crowded gym. He grunts, shifts his weight on the stool, the knee of his worn work jeans brushing hers under the bar. “Didn’t glower,” he says. “Just didn’t feel like paying twice what it’s worth for bragging rights.” She laughs, low and warm, and leans in a little more, her shoulder pressing against his bicep through his thick flannel shirt when she sets the reel on the counter between them. He can feel the heat of her through the fabric, notices the smudge of dark dirt on her left jaw, the thick calluses on her fingertips when she taps the edge of the reel, the same kind of calluses he has from 40 years of wrapping rod handles and tying flies. She says her dad had the exact same reel when she was a kid, they fished the Tuckasegee every weekend together before he passed, and she’d been looking for one for years. She admits she’d looked up his rod builds online a dozen times, had been meaning to stop by his shop to ask him to teach her how to carve a custom handle for a rod she’s building for her teen nephew, who just got into fly fishing last summer.
He’s still half ready to be mad, to bring up the azaleas, but she slides her own glass of bourbon—same brand he drinks, neat—across the counter to him, pushes it until the cool glass touches his wrist. “Apology for the bushes,” she says, her voice softer now, no teasing left. “The county made me serve the notice. I fought it for three weeks, told them your azaleas were critical native pollinator habitat, 20 years old, they didn’t care. I planted 18 new ones at the edge of the community garden two months ago to make up for it, I was gonna bring you photos next week.” He stares at her for a long second, the grudge he’s held onto for three years feeling suddenly stupid, heavy, like a lead sinker in his pocket. He takes a sip of her bourbon, passes it back, and they talk for two hours. She leans in every time he tells a story about guiding trips, her knee brushing his under the bar every time she laughs, neither of them moving away. The bar empties out around them, the bartender starts wiping down counters for closing, and she asks him if he wants to meet her at the public river access at dawn the next day, the caddis hatch is supposed to be perfect, they can test the reel. He hesitates, hasn’t fished with anyone but his old hound dog for seven years, hasn’t wanted to, but he nods before he can overthink it.
She grins, pulls a napkin out of her coat pocket, scribbles her phone number on it in blue ballpoint, presses it into his palm. Her fingers linger on his for two beats longer than necessary, he can feel the rough callus on her index finger from driving fence posts, same as the one on his. She grabs her coat, waves over her shoulder as she heads for the door, and he notices she left the Orvis reel on the counter in front of him, a neon pink post-it note stuck to the side that says “For the guy who loved it first. Bring it tomorrow.” He tucks the napkin into the inside pocket of his flannel, runs a finger over the dented metal of the reel, listens to her pickup rumble out of the parking lot. He flags the bartender down, orders one last drink, and pulls out his phone to set an alarm for 5 a.m.
