Rudy Gallegos, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, has spent the last four years hiding in his cedar-scented workshop since his wife Linda passed from ovarian cancer. His biggest flaw, the one his late sister nagged him about nonstop, is that he’d rather lick a rusty saw blade than accept small-town pity, so he avoids every community event like they’re contagious. His neighbor Marnie practically dragged him to the annual summer block party this year, saying he’d turn into a hermit who only talks to his lathe if he stayed home one more weekend, so he’s leaned against a splintered picnic table nursing a cold IPA for 45 minutes, avoiding eye contact with everyone who walks past.
The air smells like grilled bratwurst, charcoal, and freshly cut alfalfa from the hay field two blocks over, and the volunteer fire department’s cover band slurs through a 90s country hit when it happens. Elara Voss, the 58-year-old librarian who moved to town three months prior, trips over a kid’s neon scooter by the table, stumbles forward, and Rudy’s hand shoots out to catch her elbow before she faceplants into his beer. Her paper plate of peach cobbler tilts, and a fat dollop of whipped cream lands square on the chest of his faded Carhartt work shirt.
He’s half ready to snap a gruff retort before he looks down at her. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy braid, strands sticking to her sweat-glistened forehead, and she’s laughing so hard her shoulders shake, no awkward apology, no pitying “how are you holding up, Rudy” he gets from every other person in town. Her elbow is warm under his palm, freckled, and she smells like jasmine hair spray and cut grass. He lets go faster than he’d pull his hand away from a hot planer, suddenly self-conscious, half disgusted with himself for even noticing how her faded Fleetwood Mac tee fits across her shoulders.
Everyone in town has gossiped about Elara since she showed up. They say she quit a tenured professor job in Portland after a messy divorce, that she lets stray cats sleep in the library basement, that she never goes to Sunday service. Rudy’s only spoken to her once, three weeks prior, when he checked out a tattered book on vintage lathe maintenance, and she didn’t ask a single personal question, just marked the coffee-stained page and said if he found good woodworking tips to pass them along. It was the first conversation he’d had in months that didn’t revolve around Linda or his grief.
She grabs a crumpled napkin from the table, leans in, and dabs at the whipped cream on his shirt, her knuckles brushing his chest through the thin fabric. The jasmine scent is stronger now, and he can see faint gold flecks in her hazel eyes, the faded tattoo of an open book on her wrist peeking out from under her flannel sleeve. He knows the group of church ladies at the next table are staring, whispering behind their paper fans, and for the first time in four years, he doesn’t care. He smirks at them over Elara’s shoulder, and she snorts, pulling back to toss the napkin in the trash.
They talk for 20 minutes, first about the cobbler, which she baked herself, then about his cutting boards, the ones he sells once a month at the farmers market. She says she bought one three weeks prior, uses it every morning to cut sourdough, loves the tiny pine tree silhouettes he carves into every board, a little tribute to the forest he grew up in. No one has ever noticed the pine trees before, not even Linda. He can feel the tension in his shoulders melting, the urge to run back to his empty house fading with every joke she makes about the town’s weird obsession with jello salad.
The fire department sets off the pre-dusk fireworks display 10 minutes early, bright red and gold sparks exploding against the pale blue sky, and everyone around them cheers, craning their necks to look up. A group of teens runs past, shoving each other, and Elara stumbles into his side, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep. He wraps his arm around her waist for half a second, just to steady her, fully expecting her to pull away, but she doesn’t. She leans into him a little more, and when she looks up at him, her smile is soft, no trace of the loud, brash energy she had 10 minutes prior.
When the last firework fizzles out, the crowd disperses, kids dragging exhausted parents to their cars, the band packing up their gear. Elara tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and asks if he wants to walk her home, says her cottage is only three blocks away, and she has a bottle of good bourbon on the counter she’s been saving for someone who doesn’t think she’s a dangerous radical. He nods, takes her paper plate of leftover cobbler from her to throw away, their fingers brushing when he takes it, the warmth of the dessert seeping through the waxy paper.
He tucks his free hand into his pocket, the faint stickiness of the whipped cream still on his thumb, and falls into step beside her as the first crickets start chirping in the oak trees lining the street.
