Ray Holt, 58, retired high school woodshop teacher, still carried a 12-year grudge against his neighborhood HOA the way most men carried a favorite pocket knife: close, well-worn, ready to pull out at the slightest provocation. The old board had made him tear down the custom cedar pergola he’d built for his wife, Diane, the summer before her first round of chemo. He’d avoided every neighborhood event for four years after she died, until his 22-year-old niece, crashing in his spare bedroom between college semesters, all but dragged him to the annual summer block party, swearing the smoked pulled pork alone was worth putting up with HOA busybodies.
He leaned against the galvanized steel beer coolers set up at the edge of the cul-de-sac, plastic cup of cheap lager in one calloused hand, watching a group of kids chase a golden retriever covered in cherry popsicle drips. The air smelled like charcoal smoke, cut grass, and the faint sickly sweet tang of cotton candy from the stand by the bounce house. Sun seeped through the oak tree canopy, dappling the frayed cuffs of his work jeans. He’d planned to slip out after 45 minutes, until a woman stepped next to him, reaching over his shoulder for a seltzer can, her bare arm brushing the side of his neck.
She was 52, Clara Bennett, the new HOA president he’d heard grumbles about from the old guard at the hardware store, the one who’d pushed through the vote to waive fence height restrictions so residents could build raised garden beds for the local food bank. Her linen button down was unbuttoned one too many notches, a faint smudge of topsoil on her left cheek, her blonde braid slipping over one shoulder, cutoff jean shorts ending mid-thigh, scuffed white sneakers caked in mulch dust. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and peach iced tea, and when she turned to him, grinning, he felt the grudge he’d been clutching so tight loosen half an inch before he could stop it.
“Ray Holt, right?” She held out a hand, her palm calloused too, the nail on her index finger chipped, no polish. “I found your old woodshop lesson plans when we were clearing out the community center storage last month. The after-school program’s been using them to build birdhouses for the animal shelter. The kids love them.”
He blinked, shook her hand, his skin buzzing where their palms pressed together. He’d expected some stuck-up type in a tennis skirt, not a woman who looked like she’d spent the morning hauling 40-pound bags of compost. He tensed when she mentioned the HOA, ready to snap about the pergola, but she laughed before he could get the words out. “I know, the old board were assholes. We voted last week to reverse that stupid outdoor structure rule. You can rebuild that pergola whenever you want. I’d even help, if you don’t mind teaching me how to use a miter saw without cutting my thumb off.”
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. They leaned against the cooler for 20 minutes, talking, their shoulders bumping every time one of them shifted, her knee brushing his when a kid darted between them, forcing her to step closer. She held eye contact the whole time, no awkward glances away, no empty small talk about the weather, just teasing him about the snarky comments he’d written in old HOA meeting minutes he’d forgotten existed, ranting about the previous president who’d tried to ban neon house numbers, telling him about the community garden she was trying to double in size. When she passed him a bag of salted peanuts, her fingers brushed his, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt since Diane was alive, warm, sharp, settling low in his chest.
He didn’t protest when she nodded toward the tree line at the end of the street, suggesting they walk down to the creek to get away from the thud of the bounce house fan and the screaming kids. The grass tickled his ankles through the holes in his jeans, the sound of the block party fading behind them, replaced by the gurgle of shallow water over smooth stones and the first chirp of crickets as the sun dipped pink below the rooflines. She stopped under a gnarled oak tree, leaning against the trunk, tilting her head up to look at him, her face flushed from the heat, the top two buttons of her shirt gaping a little. “I need someone to build three new picnic tables for the garden. Would you do it? I’ll pay you, obviously, and I’ll bring you iced tea every day you’re working. Peach, the good stuff, not the powdered garbage.”
He teased her that he charged double for HOA clients, and she grinned, stepping closer, the hem of her shorts brushing his calf, her hand coming up to rest lightly on his chest, right over his faded Johnny Cash t-shirt, her fingers warm through the thin cotton. He hesitated for half a second, the last of his resistance warring with the desire thrumming under his skin, the faint disgust he’d felt for anything tied to the HOA melting away so fast he almost felt dizzy. Then she leaned up, kissing him, soft at first, her lips tasting like peach and mint, and he pulled her closer, his hand resting on the small of her back, the rough bark of the tree digging into his shoulder.
They walked back to the party 20 minutes later, his hand brushing the small of her back when they navigated around a group of teens carrying cases of root beer, both of them quiet, grinning like kids who’d snuck out after curfew. She stopped at the sign-up table by the garden display, scribbling his name on the volunteer sheet for the picnic table build, then tore off a scrap of paper from the notebook next to her, scribbling her cell number on it, folding it into a tiny lopsided origami bird before slipping it into the front pocket of his flannel shirt. He patted the pocket to make sure it was secure, took a sip of his now warm lager, and watched her wave as she walked over to talk to a group of kids holding sticky popsicles.
