Rafe Mendoza, 53, makes his living sanding rust off 1970s camp stoves, patching frayed canvas tent walls, and rewiring the dented old lanterns that used to be the center of every family camping trip within 100 miles of his small Oregon mountain town. He’s avoided the annual Blue Ridge BBQ & Beer Festival for four straight years, ever since his wife Elara died mid-chemo, too weak to make the three block walk from their house to the town square. The only reason he showed up this year is his nephew Javi begged him to donate the fully restored 1972 Coleman cooler he’d spent three months fixing as the grand prize for the cornhole tournament. He’d planned to drop it off and bolt before anyone could corner him with the usual “you should get out more” small talk.
He’s leaning against the thick bark of a ponderosa pine, cold IPA sweating in his left hand, the bright blue cooler propped against his boot, when she walks over. She’s his new neighbor, the one who bought the old farm two parcels over six months ago, the one he’s hidden from when she waves over the fence, too guilty to meet her eye when he feels that stupid, sharp jolt of attraction he thought died with Elara. She’s carrying a glass jar full of bright green dill pickles, linen work shirt rolled up to her elbows, smudge of dirt on her left forearm from tending her herb beds that morning. The hickory smoke from the BBQ pits curls around her, and the bluegrass band on the stage behind her is playing a slow, twangy cover of a song Elara used to sing in the car on camping trips.
She stops six inches from his boots, close enough he can smell lavender and fresh cut basil on her shirt, and nods at the cooler. “I saw you haul that out of your workshop last week. Thought you were fixing it for yourself.” Her voice is low, rough from years of working outside in the wind, and when she laughs at the custom decal he’d stuck on the cooler side—a tiny cartoon of a raccoon holding a beer—her hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, flecks of gold catching the late afternoon sun. He tenses up when she leans past him to get a better look at the lid, her shoulder brushing his bicep, warm even through his thin cotton work shirt. When she reaches out to run a finger along the polished metal handle, her hand brushes his where he’s holding the IPA, and cold condensation drips down both their wrists.
He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, face hot. Half of him is screaming that he’s being an idiot, the other half is disgusted with himself for even noticing the way her gray-streaked brown hair falls in a loose braid over her shoulder, for wanting to brush the dirt off her forearm. He’s convinced every person in the square is watching, that they’re whispering about how he’s already forgetting Elara, how he’s chasing the new farm lady before his wife’s been gone five years. He opens his mouth to mumble an excuse to leave, but she holds up a hand before he can speak.
“Relax. I’m not gonna ask you out in front of the whole town. I know how it feels.” She shifts her weight, taps the pickle jar against his beer can gently. “My husband died three years ago. Fell off a scaffolding on a job site. Everyone spent two years trying to set me up with every divorced or widowed guy within 30 miles, like I needed a replacement to be whole. I see you hiding in your workshop. I get it.”
The tight knot in his chest loosens a little, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He’s not the only one who feels like the world is waiting for him to “get over” the person he loved most, who feels guilty for even wanting to laugh at a bad joke or drink a beer with someone who gets it. He leans back against the pine again, his elbow brushing hers on purpose this time, and nods at the pickle jar. “You donating those as a prize? They’re gonna get fought over. I tried your pickles when you left a jar on my porch last month. Best I’ve ever had.”
She grins, tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, and leans in a little closer, so only he can hear her over the band. “Good. I didn’t bring that jar to donate. I brought it for you. Also, I found a beat to hell 1968 Coleman camp stove at a yard sale last weekend. Everyone says you’re the only guy within 100 miles who can get those old things running again.”
He smirks, takes a sip of his beer, and lets his knee brush hers for half a second. “Bring it by my workshop Saturday around 2. I’ve got iced tea in the fridge, and I can show you the vintage down sleeping bag I’m restoring. Been thinking of taking a trip up to the national forest backcountry next month, haven’t had anyone to go with who doesn’t complain about sleeping on the ground.”
She laughs, and the sound mixes with the twang of the banjo on stage, the distant cheer of the cornhole players, the crackle of the BBQ pits. She pushes the pickle jar into his free hand, her fingers lingering on his for a beat longer than necessary, and nods toward the prize table where Javi is waving him over. “I’ll be there. I’ll even bring extra pickles for the trip, if you don’t mind a plus one who knows how to start a campfire without a match.”
He watches her walk away, the sun dipping low enough to paint the sky pink and orange behind her, and twists the lid off the pickle jar, popping a tangy dill spear into his mouth. For the first time in four years, he doesn’t check his watch to see how soon he can leave.
