Ron Voss, 62, retired lineman for the Upper Cumberland Electric Co-op, had spent the last 45 minutes leaning against the chipped brick exterior of the town general store, pretending to scroll his flip phone to avoid small talk. His niece had dragged him to the annual fall harvest block party, half-yelling over her shoulder that if he ate one more frozen beef and bean burrito for dinner she’d change the locks on his cabin. He’d given in to get her off his back, but the crowd of chattering locals, the twang of the bluegrass band on the flatbed stage, the sickly sweet smell of cotton candy all felt like too much, like he was intruding on a life he’d opted out of when his wife passed four years prior.
He twisted the tab on his third cold IPA, the aluminum cold enough to sting the calluses on his palms, and scanned the crowd out of habit. His gaze caught on the woman running the pie contest table 30 feet away. He’d seen her around town before—Clara, the new part-time librarian, 58, who’d moved to town from Portland six months prior, who the local gossips had been tittering about ever since she told the pastor at the grocery store she didn’t attend church and hadn’t in 20 years. Rumor was she’d left a 35-year marriage to move across the country alone, that she was “reckless” for a woman her age, that she kept a chicken coop in her backyard even though the city ordinance technically banned livestock inside town limits.
She had a smudge of flour on the inside of her left forearm, her gray-streaked auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid, and she was laughing so hard at a kid’s story about his dog eating his mom’s pie entry that her eyes crinkled shut. Ron looked away before she could catch him staring, his jaw tight. He hated the town gossip, hated how they picked apart anyone who didn’t fit their little perfect small-town box, but he also hated the little jolt of heat he’d felt in his chest when he looked at her, like he was doing something wrong just noticing she existed.
He was so busy staring at the scuff on his work boot that he didn’t see her trip over a kid’s neon pink bike left in the walkway, her arms full of pie entry forms, until she was half-falling. He moved faster than he had since he’d torn his meniscus climbing a utility pole three years prior, his hand wrapping around her elbow to steady her before she could hit the gravel. Their hands brushed when she grabbed his wrist to keep her balance, and he felt the rough calluses on her fingertips, same as his, from digging in garden beds or hauling stacks of hardcovers, smelled lavender and warm apple cider on her shirt.
“Thought I was gonna face-plant right into the pecan pie entries,” she said, grinning up at him, holding eye contact longer than most people did, like she wasn’t in a hurry to look away. “Appreciate the save, corner guy. I’ve been watching you hide over there all afternoon. Scared someone’s gonna make you enter the pie-eating contest?”
Ron blinked, stunned. He hadn’t bantered with anyone that wasn’t his niece or his old lineman buddy in years. “Scared I’d win, more like,” he said, before he could think better of it, and she laughed, a throaty, warm sound that cut right through the noise of the crowd. She leaned in a little to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he didn’t step back.
She told him the neon bike belonged to the mayor’s 7-year-old, who’d been leaving it all over town for weeks, that she’d already tripped over it twice that day. He told her he’d spent 30 years climbing utility poles in thunderstorms, had never fallen once, but had tripped over his own golden retriever’s chew toy last month and broken a rib. She snort-laughed at that, and he felt a little lightheaded, like he was 16 again, talking to a girl at the high school sock hop, scared he’d say the wrong thing. The town gossips were staring, he could feel their eyes on the two of them, but he didn’t care as much as he thought he would. He’d spent four years making himself small, staying in his cabin, avoiding any situation that might make him feel like he was moving on from his wife, like he was betraying her memory. But standing there next to Clara, the crunch of maple leaves under their boots, the faint sound of the bluegrass band playing a Johnny Cash cover, he didn’t feel guilty. He felt awake.
She asked him if he wanted to split the first-place peach pie she’d baked, said she’d entered on a dare, didn’t have anyone at home to share it with. He almost said no, almost made an excuse about needing to get home to feed his dog, but then he saw the little crinkle at the corner of her eye when she smiled, and he said yes. They walked down the block to his beat-up 2008 F150, sat on the tailgate, split the pie with flimsy plastic forks. She told him she’d left her ex-husband because he’d never let her bake, never let her have any hobbies that didn’t revolve around his career as a corporate lawyer, that she’d moved to Tennessee because it was the first place she’d ever visited where no one asked her what her husband did for a living before they asked her what she liked to do. He told her about his wife, about how she’d loved pie baking too, about how he’d spent four years scared to do anything that didn’t feel like honoring her memory, that he’d thought having fun again meant he didn’t love her anymore.
“Grief isn’t a prison sentence,” she said, wiping a smudge of peach filling off his stubble with her thumb, her hand lingering on his jaw for a beat longer than necessary. “If she loved you half as much as you say she did, she’d be kicking your ass for eating frozen burritos every night instead of eating good pie with someone who wants to share it with you.”
Ron laughed, so hard his sides hurt, and he realized he hadn’t laughed that hard since before his wife got sick. The sun dipped below the treeline, the string lights strung across the block flickered on, and the bluegrass band shifted to a slow waltz, the fiddle soft and warm over the hum of the crowd. He slid off the tailgate, held his hand out to her. She slipped her hand into his, her calluses rough against his, and let him pull her to her feet. He led her back toward the crowd, toward the small patch of grass where a handful of other couples were already dancing, her hand warm in his, and he didn’t look back.
