Ronan Hale, 62, retired high-voltage lineman, had avoided the Perry County Fire Department’s annual chili cook-off for seven straight years. He hated the way folks would side-eye him, mumble soft condolences about his late wife Elayne, treat him like a fragile glass trinket that might shatter if anyone asked him a question that wasn’t about how he was “holding up.” The only reason he showed up this year was his 11-year-old granddaughter Lila, who’d begged him to enter the venison chili he made every hunting season, swore it’d beat the fire chief’s over-salted beef entry by a mile.
He’d set up his crockpot on a folding table near the back of the bay, wiping his calloused hands on the thigh of his faded Carhartt jeans every two minutes, when a woman he didn’t recognize drifted over. She was around his age, maybe a little younger, dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, a flannel shirt tied around her waist over worn straight-leg jeans, a smudge of chili powder dusting her left cheek. She leaned in close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep, the warm, spicy scent of cinnamon and cayenne from his crockpot mixing with the vanilla lotion she wore, and hummed low under her breath.
“Smells better than every other pot in here,” she said, tilting her head up to hold his gaze, no flicker of recognition or pity in her hazel eyes. She was new, he realized. Must be the public health nurse the county had hired a few months back, the one who’d moved into the old Henderson place to care for her dad with dementia. No one had bothered to fill her in on the widowed lineman who never left his property unless it was to fix a generator or hunt.
“Venison,” Ronan said, nodding at the crockpot. “Harvested the buck last fall out by the state forest. Put a splash of bourbon in the base too, for depth.”
She laughed, a bright, throaty sound that cut through the hum of chatter and clattering paper plates around them. “Bourbon and venison? You’re gonna make the fire chief cry. I’m Mara, by the way.” She held out a hand, her fingers cold from holding a frosty can of root beer, and when he took it, the callus on her index finger from writing too many notes brushed the base of his thumb.
He didn’t realize he’d been staring at the scar snaking up his left forearm until she pointed at it, her fingers hovering an inch from his skin like she was asking permission before she touched. “Line work?” she asked. When he nodded, she brushed the pad of her index finger lightly along the raised, pale edge of the scar, and he jolted like he’d touched a live wire. No one had touched him that softly, that casually, in seven years. A sharp, hot twist of guilt curled in his gut, half shame for even noticing how pretty her eyes were when she crinkled them, half anger at himself for thinking he was betraying Elayne by talking to a woman who didn’t look at him like he was half-dead already.
He almost pulled away, almost made an excuse to go refill his soda and hide by the door, but she was already asking about the fire that left the scar, no pity, just curiosity. He told her about the 2018 ice storm, the downed line that sparked when he was trying to cut power to a neighborhood with a trapped elderly woman, the three weeks he spent in the burn unit with Elayne camped out in a chair next to his bed. She didn’t say she was sorry for his injury, didn’t say she was sorry Elayne was gone, just said “That sounds like the kind of stupid, brave thing you’d do for people you care about,” and took a paper plate from the stack next to his crockpot to serve herself a scoop.
The emcee announced the winners an hour later, and when they called Ronan’s name for first place, Mara cheered louder than Lila, who was jumping up and down three rows over. He walked up to get the cheap wooden plaque, his face hot under the floodlights, and when he turned back, Mara was leaning against the doorframe leading out to the parking lot, holding two paper plates of his chili, grinning.
“Wanna get away from all the people gawking at you?” she asked, jerking her head toward the parking lot. “I saw your old F-150 by the oak tree. We can eat on the tailgate.”
He hesitated for half a second, the voice in the back of his head hissing that he shouldn’t, that he was supposed to stay home and grieve forever, that everyone in town would talk if they saw him out with a woman. Then he remembered Elayne, the last week she was in the hospital, holding his hand and telling him he’d be an idiot to spend the rest of his life alone just because she couldn’t be there with him. He nodded.
They walked out to the truck, the cool April air nipping at his cheeks, the distant sound of the fire station siren test fading behind them. He hopped up on the tailgate first, then reached down to help her up, their hands lacing together for a beat longer than necessary before she sat down next to him. He pulled a crumpled napkin from his pocket, nodded at the chili powder still dusting her cheek, and when she leaned in so he could wipe it off, their foreheads brushed for a split second.
He reached into the cooler he’d stashed in the truck bed that morning, pulled out two cold root beers, twisted the caps off with his pocket knife, and handed one to her. He took a long sip, looked out at the rolling hills turning soft pink and orange as the sun dipped below the treeline, and let his knee rest lightly against hers, no hurry to pull away. The first firefly of the season blinked to life in the branches of the oak tree above them, slow and bright, and he didn’t feel guilty for smiling when she laughed at a stray dog trotting across the parking lot with a half-eaten cornbread muffin in its mouth.
