Earl Hagerty, 62, retired highway paving foreman, shifts his weight on the gravel picnic bench, paper plate of fried catfish and crispy hushpuppies digging into his calloused palm. Grease seeps through the edge of the plate, leaving a translucent splotch on the thigh of his faded denim work jeans. The air smells like burnt wood, vinegar coleslaw, and the faint chlorine of the fire station’s pool off to the side, the whole town turned out for the first fish fry since they fought the county health department and won, bureaucrats backing off after 400 people signed a petition saying the weekly gathering was more essential than any nitpicky temperature check rule for the deep fryer.
He’d just finished razzing the fire chief about hiding an extra case of beer in the back of his squad truck when the woman carrying a foil tray of peach cobbler stumbles, her linen sleeve catching on the splintered edge of the table next to him. Earl moves before he thinks, his left arm wrapping around her elbow to steady her, the old scar on his forearm from a 1998 asphalt spill brushing the soft skin of her wrist. She smells like jasmine and fried okra, a faint smudge of dark potting soil streaked just above her knuckle, and when she laughs, he recognizes her immediately. Marnie Cole, Lila’s second cousin, the kid he’d last seen at Lila’s funeral 8 years prior, wearing a too-big black dress and crying so hard she could barely stand. Now she’s 54, sun streaks in her honey blonde hair, laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes, and she’s standing so close her shoulder brushes his bicep when a group of kids dart past chasing a stray dog.