Rafe Mendez, 62, was wiping pine sawdust out of the creases of his calloused knuckles when the first heavy drops of late October rain hit the canvas awning over his woodworking stall. Most vendors had packed up an hour prior, the smell of leftover fried dough and apple cider drifting down the empty row of folding tables and collapsed pop-ups. He’d stayed late to sand the edge of a maple cutting board a regular had ordered, too focused on the grain to notice the sky turning dark over the ridgeline.
He looked up when he heard boots squelching through the puddle at the edge of his stall, and his throat went tight. Maren Hale, 58, his son’s fiancee’s mother, was huddled under a thin knit hood, her cream sweater dotted with rain at the cuffs and collar, a manila folder tucked under one arm. She’d texted him that morning to drop off wedding invitation proofs, and he’d completely forgotten, too wrapped up in shaping cedar coasters for a tourist couple. He fumbled to drag a folding chair out from behind his table, knocking over a stack of the coasters in the process, and mumbled an apology as they clattered across the wet pavement.
They both bent to pick them up at the same time, and the back of her hand brushed his. The skin of her wrist was soft, cool from the rain, and he flinched like he’d touched a hot iron, pulling back fast enough to knock his shoulder against the leg of the table. She laughed, a low, warm sound that he’d replayed in his head more times than he’d admit since their first meeting at the kids’ engagement party three months prior. “You don’t have to act like I’m contagious, Rafe,” she said, tucking a strand of damp auburn hair behind her ear as she sat down, the scent of jasmine lotion wrapping around him, sharper than the pine and rain in the air.
He sat down next to her, careful to leave a six inch gap between their chairs, and stared at the manila folder she set on the table between them. He’d spent the last three months actively avoiding her at every family cookout and wedding planning meeting, convinced the stupid spark he’d felt the second he saw her in that deep red dress at the engagement party was a midlife crisis waiting to happen. They were going to be in-laws, for Christ’s sake. The last thing either of them needed was people gossiping, or making the kids’ wedding about something other than them. His ex wife had called him reckless once, back when they split, and he’d spent 12 years working to prove her wrong.
Maren leaned in to flip open the folder, and the gap between their shoulders closed, the heat of her arm seeping through his flannel shirt. She pointed at the border of the first proof, a thin line of carved pine wrapping around the edges, and said the kids had added it as a nod to his woodworking. He couldn’t focus on the paper. A drop of rain was dripping from the end of her hair, landing light on his bare forearm, and when he turned his head to look at her, she was already looking at him, not the invitation, her dark eyes soft, no trace of amusement left. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said, not a question. “Did I do something to piss you off?”
He froze, the words stuck in his throat for a long second, before he sighed and admitted it. Not that she’d done anything, that he was attracted to her, that he thought it was wrong, that he didn’t want to make a mess of things for the kids, that he’d spent so long being the boring, reliable guy everyone could count on he didn’t know how to want something for himself anymore. He expected her to look shocked, or annoyed, or laugh it off. Instead, she reached out, brushed a fleck of sawdust off his cheek, her thumb lingering on the rough stubble along his jawline. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that for three months,” she said, her voice low, the rain tapping harder against the awning, drowning out the distant hum of the farm stand generator at the end of the row. “My ex left me for a 28 year old yoga instructor two years ago. I thought I was done feeling this flutter in my chest over anyone. Who cares what other people think?”
She leaned in before he could overthink it, kissed him slow, peppermint on her breath, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, her hair soft and slightly damp against his fingers. He didn’t pull away, didn’t apologize, didn’t spiral into all the reasons this was a bad idea. For the first time in 12 years, he just let himself feel it.
They pulled apart when a clap of thunder rumbled overhead, and she grinned, wiping sawdust off her lip. She tucked the proofs back into her folder, said they could tell the kids whenever they wanted, or keep it their secret for now. He held the awning open as she stepped into the rain, waved as her Subaru pulled out of the lot, taillights fading through the downpour.
He picked up the half-sanded maple cutting board that had fallen to the pavement, a small scratch across its face, already planning to carve a tiny jasmine flower next to the mark before he dropped it off at her house next weekend.
