Russell Pritchard, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher turned custom birdhouse builder for upstate New York wildlife nonprofits, had only agreed to man the Oktoberfest demo booth because his niece begged. He hated small town events, hated the forced small talk, hated the way everyone stared like they were cataloging every move you made to gossip about later. A permanent splinter dug into the pad of his left thumb, a memento from a cedar plank he’d milled the week before, and he picked at it constantly as he sanded the edge of a wren house, the crisp October air nipping at his ears and the tang of sauerkraut and grilled bratwurst curling through the air.
He was half considering packing up early when she leaned against the edge of his folding table, her elbow three inches from his where he held the sandpaper. Mara Hale, 58, owner of the town’s only vintage vinyl shop, wore a faded Pearl Jam tee, scuffed work boots, and a flannel shirt tied around her waist, and she smelled like clove and vanilla shampoo when she shifted closer to squint at the half-finished birdhouse. Everyone in town knew her as the mayor’s wife, the woman who showed up to every town hall meeting and fundraisers for the local animal shelter, and Russell’s throat went tight when she smiled at him, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
He’d had a quiet crush on her for two years, ever since he’d stopped into her shop to dig for old Johnny Cash records and she’d spent 20 minutes ranting to him about the mayor’s stupid plan to cut the wildlife reserve’s budget to pay for a new football field. He’d never said a word about it, though. He was too cautious, too used to being the boring guy people forgot about after his ex-wife left him for a microbrewery owner who told better party jokes. The last thing he needed was to be the subject of town gossip, the guy everyone accused of breaking up a 28 year marriage.
She teased him about always hiding out in his backyard workshop, and he flustered so bad he dropped his sandpaper on the crunch of fallen maple leaves at their feet. They both reached for it at the same time, his calloused, splinter-dotted hand brushing her soft, nail-polish-free palm, and he yanked his hand back like he’d touched a hot glue gun. She laughed, low and warm, no mockery in it, and held eye contact for three full seconds longer than polite before she handed the sandpaper over.
She offered to buy him a pumpkin ale if he talked through a custom birdhouse she wanted for the 100 year old oak in her backyard, and he hesitated, his eyes flicking to a group of the mayor’s campaign volunteers standing 20 feet away, wearing stupid red “Vote Hale For Assembly” hats. He picked at his thumb splinter until it pricked blood, and she handed him a crumpled tissue from her jeans pocket, her fingers brushing his intentionally this time, no pretense of reaching for something else.
She leaned in, her voice so low only he could hear it over the polka band’s tinny accordion rattle, and said she and the mayor had split seven months prior. He’d begged her to keep it quiet until the election was over in November, scared the news would tank his campaign, and she’d gone along with it until she’d seen Russell hanging birdhouses in the reserve the week before, covered in sawdust and singing Cash under his breath, and decided she was done waiting.
Russell stared at her, the scent of cinnamon roasted nuts sticking to his flannel shirt, the rough edge of the wren house digging into his side where he held it tight. He’d spent eight years convinced he was too quiet, too boring, too set in his ways to be worth anyone’s effort, and the war between the fear of being dragged into a political mess and the sharp, warm pull of desire hummed under his skin. He reached up, brushed a stray strand of her auburn, gray-streaked hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing her warm cheek, and she didn’t flinch, leaning into the touch just a fraction.
He told her he kept a tape measure and extra cedar planks in the bed of his truck, and they could stop by his workshop first to grab the right hardware before they headed to her place to measure the oak branch. She grinned, bright and unapologetic, and squeezed his hand for half a second before letting go when the group of campaign volunteers turned their way. They walked toward the parking lot, the polka music fading behind them, the cool fall air stinging his cheeks, the half-finished wren house bumping against his hip with every step. When she opened the passenger door of her beat-up 1998 Ford F-150 for him, he didn’t hesitate to climb in.
