Will - A New Start

The church's winter festival had always attracted all 900 inhabitants of Linden, Tennessee. Joyce and Doris had run the thing since Will could remember, ruled it with an iron fist even though each year was exactly the same. The only thing that changed was the color of Joyce's polyester suit and Doris's floral dress, but even their tight curls stayed the same.

Will didn't find the repetition boring, though. Every December, same setup, same people, same rhythm. There was comfort in that—the predictability of it. Like the seasons changing or the way his cows knew when it was feeding time without him having to call them.

That night was no different. At least not yet.

At barely 5:00, it was already dark outside. And cold. Real cold. Will shifted his weight from foot to foot behind his stand, blowing warm air into his cupped hands before arranging another jar of his grandmother's blackberry preserves.

He was set up in his usual spot, right between the Hendersons' woodwork table and the church ladies' bake sale—prime real estate, his grandmother always said, because folks had to pass him coming and going. He'd arranged everything the way he had for the past twelve years: blackberry preserves, strawberry, bread-and-butter pickles. Eggs in their cartons. His mother's honey bread wrapped in dish towels that were losing their warmth.

The festival was in full swing. Kids in bathrobes and towels on their heads doing one last practice for the children's nativity, Bobby Jenkins and his buddies clustered by the back door where they thought no one noticed them smoking, the Reverend making his rounds with that booming laugh of his. Will had already said his hellos, paid for a slice of pecan pie he'd eat later, asked after Old Mr. Kowalski's hip. The nativity would start in a couple hours, and after that came the pie auction.

Jim's wife, Betty, made a beeline straight to his stand.

"Will! Gladdys!" She greeted him and his grandmother like she hadn't just seen them at church on Sunday. "So good to see y'all." She bent over the table to kiss his grandmother's cheek, then pinched Will's.

"Honey, every time I see you, you look more handsome. You can't stay single forever!" She drawled it out with a warm smile. "What ever happened to that sweet girl you were seeing?"

"She left for the city, Betty. Two years ago now." Will answered with a patient smile.

Like every time I tell her, she forgets.

"Oh, what a shame. Well, my granddaughter's still single, you know. A good-looking man like you shouldn't be alone." She wagged a finger at him with mock severity.

Yeah, and she's still a lesbian, he thought, but he wasn't about to be the one to tell her.

Betty's attention had already shifted. "Gladdys, have you tried Margaret's cake yet?"

"Margaret Jones or Margaret Collins?" His grandmother leaned in, ready for whatever gossip Betty had brought.

Betty clicked her tongue. "No, Margaret Taylor. She's got this new recipe for her sock-it-to-me cake. Gladdys, we need to get that recipe. Best I've ever had!"

Will tried to stifle a laugh and hid the snort by blowing more warm air into his hands.

"Sounds like you're on spy duty, Me-maw," he drawled.

"Oh, you." Betty swatted in his direction without really aiming. "You should be on finding-a-wife duty. If you don't want to ask my granddaughter, I heard there's a new girl in town."

Both Will's and Gladdys's heads perked up—probably for different reasons. Or maybe not.

"That's right!" Betty continued, encouraged by their sudden interest. "Real pretty, too. I saw her myself."

Betty and his grandmother moved on to their real priority: getting that cake recipe. When Betty finally drifted off, Will's grandmother kept eyeing him while he kept eyeing the doors.

And then he saw her.

Betty had been right. She was gorgeous. But the second word that came to his mind was wrong. Not bad wrong, just... off. Like an instrument playing a half-step flat in a familiar song.

She was looking around like she'd never seen a church fellowship hall before, taking it all in with the kind of careful attention that made Will think of the way deer paused at the edge of a clearing. Everything about her read foreign, even the way she held herself. Separate. Watchful.

Then she spoke. Just a simple "excuse me" to someone passing with styrofoam bowls—and the accent hit Will like a splash of cold water.

British.

Not movie-British or TV-British, but real British. The vowels all rounded and clipped in places his had never been, the rhythm of it completely different from the drawl that colored every voice in this room. In Linden, Tennessee, that accent stood out like a cardinal in snow.

Will's grandmother materialized at his elbow the way she always did, wiping her hands on her apron. "You gonna stare all night, or you gonna go say hello?"

"I'm not staring," he said, which was a lie, and they both knew it.

"Mm-hmm." She patted his arm. "New face in town. Haven't seen one of those in a good while. You know everyone's gonna be talking about her come Sunday."

She was right. In a town this size, a stranger was an event. By tomorrow morning, half of Linden would have a theory about who she was and why she was here, each story more elaborate than the last. Better he introduced himself now, before she got cornered by someone nosier.

That's what he told himself, anyway, as he stepped out from behind his table.

When he reached her, he realized she was even prettier up close. But he also noticed she looked profoundly alone in a room full of people, and something about that tugged at his chest.

"First time at one of these?" he asked, keeping his voice low and friendly. His grandmother had raised him to be honest and kind in equal measure. "Welcome to Linden. I'm Will."

He extended his hand, rough from work and cold from the weather.

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