Dale Herron, 58, retired first-class lineman for Toledo Edison, had not so much as looked twice at a woman since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer seven years prior. His greatest flaw, as his former crew chief liked to tease, was that he was stubborn enough to let grief turn into a self-imposed life sentence. He spent most weekends volunteering at the local fire department’s monthly fish fry, manning the cast-iron fryer until his forearms were streaked with grease and his Carhartt smelled like cod and burnt hushpuppies for three days after. The fry had only just restarted six months earlier, after two years of COVID cancellations that left most of the town’s small social gatherings gathering dust, and Dale had thrown himself into the work harder than ever, if only to avoid the empty silence of his three-bedroom ranch.
The sun was dipping low over the cornfields the first time he saw Clara, painting the picnic area in honeyed gold when she leaned against a splintered folding table, one boot propped on the bench below. He’d not seen Linda’s younger cousin in 12 years, not since the last family reunion before Linda got sick, and he froze mid-toss of a handful of battered cod into the bubbling grease. She’d cut her hair short, auburn streaked with silver at the temples, and she was wearing a faded 2002 Ohio State national championship hoodie and cutoff jean shorts, her legs tanned dark from three months of fixing up the old family farm she’d inherited after her dad died. The divorce that brought her back to town had been messy, he’d heard through the grapevine, but she didn’t look like a woman carrying a load of grief. She looked like she belonged here, like she’d never left.