Clay Hargrove, 58, retired high-voltage lineman, has held a grudge so tight against Maggie Cole for 22 years his jaw aches just thinking about her. He’s the kind of guy who still changes his own oil, keeps a stack of worn western paperbacks on his dash, and hasn’t apologized for anything since 2001, when he accidentally backed his F-150 into the church sign. His biggest flaw? He never lets anyone make amends, even when he’s bored out of his skull eating frozen dinners alone every night. He’d driven 20 minutes out of his way for 6 months just to avoid running into her after she moved back to town following her husband’s heart attack last fall.
The annual fire department fish fry is the only event he can’t skip. He’s been coming since he was 16, won the cornhole tournament three years running, and the cod’s always crispy, the hushpuppies dusted with just enough cayenne to make his nose run. He’s dabbing tartar sauce off the cuff of his faded Carhartt flannel when the picnic bench across from him creaks, and he looks up to find Maggie sitting right there, 54, silver streaks running through the braid slung over her shoulder, a fire department volunteer patch sewn to the shoulder of her denim jacket, a smudge of fryer grease on her left cheek.