Merv Halleck is 62, spent 34 years teaching high school woodshop in the Finger Lakes town he’s lived in his whole life, now makes custom cedar birdhouses full time. His biggest flaw, if you ask his sister, is that he carries a grudge longer than he holds a finish nail. He’s avoided the new baker at the Saturday farmers market for six weeks straight, all because her ex-husband was Richard Hale, the principal who cut his woodshop budget three times in his last five years teaching, forcing Merv to pay for new table saw blades and sanding belts out of his own pocket.
It’s the last market of the August season, 84 degrees, humidity thick enough to drink. Sweat sticks the collar of his faded Carhartt shirt to his neck, the sharp, sun-warmed smell of cedar from his birdhouse stacks curling up his nose. All morning, the sweet, buttery scent of peach scones from Clara Hale’s stall two spots down has been winding its way through the air, making his mouth water even as he tells himself he’d never give her a dime of his money. He watches her out of the corner of his eye when he thinks no one is looking: her gray-streaked blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid, flour smudged on the cuff of her denim jacket, laugh loud enough to carry over the bluegrass band playing at the end of the vendor row.
A sudden clap of thunder cuts off the band’s fiddle solo. Dark clouds roll in so fast no one has time to react before fat, cold raindrops start slamming down. Merv yanks the weighted tarp over his birdhouse stack, already secured to the stall frame, before he looks up. Clara’s card table has collapsed under the weight of a gust of wind, her scone trays tipping toward the mud, her arms full of paper bags as she scrambles to catch what she can. He hesitates for half a second, resentment warring with the part of him that can’t stand to watch someone’s hard work get ruined, then jogs over.
He grabs two trays before they hit the mud, his hand brushing hers when they both reach for the last one full of still-warm peach scones. His skin prickles at the contact; her fingers are calloused, rough from kneading dough, nails chipped with a faint dust of flour under the edges. She’s gasping a little, bangs stuck to her forehead, rain dripping off the tip of her nose. “Thank you,” she says, and her voice is warmer than he expected, no sharp edge like Richard always had.
They carry her trays back to his stall, the only one with a heavy enough overhang to keep them dry, and set them on a folding stool next to his birdhouse display. They stand shoulder to shoulder under the tarp, rain drumming so loud they can barely hear the other vendors yelling across the lot, the smell of cedar, peach, and wet grass wrapping around them tight. Her shoulder presses against his bicep, soft through her soaked jacket, and he doesn’t move away.
She glances at the hand-painted sign on his stall that reads MERV’S BIRDHOUSES, then blinks up at him. “You’re Merv Halleck, right? Richard talked about you all the time.” Merv’s jaw tightens, old anger flaring, but she laughs before he can say anything snappish. “Said you were the only teacher in that whole school who gave a damn about the kids who didn’t want to go to college. He hated asking the school board for money, thought they’d just reallocate it to the football team if he made a fuss. He paid for those saw blades you were always complaining about, you know. Out of his own pocket. Never told you because he didn’t want you to think he was doing you a favor.”
Merv stares at her, stunned, 10 years of sharp, heavy resentment melting so fast he feels lightheaded. He looks at her properly for the first time, at the crinkles around her hazel eyes, the tiny smudge of flour on her left cheek, and he reaches out before he can think better of it, swiping the flour off with the pad of his thumb. She doesn’t flinch, just leans into the touch a fraction, her breath catching so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it over the rain.
The downpour stops 20 minutes later, sun breaking through the clouds so fast the pavement starts steaming almost immediately. Clara grabs the biggest peach scone from the top tray, presses it into his hand, still warm through the paper wrapper. “On the house. For saving my inventory.” He takes a bite, the sweet, juicy peach oozing out the side, and it’s the best thing he’s tasted since his wife died four years ago.
He grabs the wren house he finished two nights ago, carved with tiny oak leaves around the entrance, and hands it to her. “Saw the big oak in your front yard when I drove past last week. Wrens love those spots.” She takes it, her fingers brushing his again, and grins. “You should come over tonight. I’m making peach cobbler for the neighbors, got plenty extra. You can tell me how to hang that birdhouse so the squirrels don’t get it.”
He says yes before he can overthink it, types his number into her beat-up iPhone when she holds it out, watches her walk back to her stall, the sun gilding the edges of her braid. He takes another bite of the scone, sticky peach juice running down his chin. He swipes the juice off his chin with the back of his hand, already counting down the hours until sunset.
