Rafe Mendez, 53, makes his living sanding dents out of 1960s camper shells and rewiring frayed 12-volt systems out of a pole barn on 12 acres outside Asheville. His worst flaw, per his late wife’s frequent teasing, was holding grudges longer than he held onto the paint jobs on his work trucks. He’d avoided the town’s annual fall chili cookoff for four years straight, ever since she died, but his 72-year-old neighbor had threatened to stop leaving his favorite peach pie on the porch if he skipped again, so he’d showed up an hour late, leaning against the rusted hood of his 1972 F250, spiced cider in a styrofoam cup in one hand, avoiding small talk.
The air smelled like smoked pork, pine, and the faint acrid tang of bonfire smoke drifting from the field at the edge of the fairgrounds. A bluegrass band plucked a fast, twangy tune on the small stage, and kids darted between folding tables chasing a golden retriever with a corncob in its mouth. He spotted her across the crowd before she spotted him, and his jaw tightened. Elara Voss, 51, younger sister of his high school girlfriend, the woman he’d blamed for 34 years for ratting out their underage camping trip senior year, the incident that got him suspended and booted from the wrestling team right before regionals. She was wearing a frayed green flannel, high-waisted work jeans cuffed at the ankle, scuffed steel-toe boots, a smudge of charcoal streaked across her left cheek, a leather-bound sketchbook tucked under one arm.
She walked right over, no hesitation, grinning like she’d been looking for him. He tensed, ready to give her a cold nod and turn away, but she leaned against the truck hood next to him, their elbows brushing so he felt the rough texture of her flannel through his own jacket. “I heard you were still in town restoring old campers,” she said, her voice lower than he remembered, warm like honey. He grunted, took a sip of cider, didn’t look at her. She laughed, soft, and nudged his boot with hers. “C’mon, Mendez. I’ve been meaning to clear this up for 30 years. I didn’t rat you out. My sister did. She was mad you bailed on her prom date to go hunting with your dad, so she told the principal it was me who snuck you the beer. I didn’t even know she did it until she told me last year, when I moved back to take care of mom.”
Rafe froze, the cup halfway to his mouth. He’d spent more than three decades resenting her, avoiding every family function she was at, even turning down a job restoring her mom’s old travel trailer five years prior just because he didn’t want to talk to her. He felt stupid, hot embarrassment creeping up his neck. He looked at her properly for the first time, and noticed the streaks of silver in her dark hair, the faint laugh lines around her brown eyes, the way she was holding his gaze like she was waiting for him to yell, or walk away. He didn’t do either. He laughed, rough, and shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”
“Nah, you just hold a grudge like it’s a prize winning chili recipe,” she said, grinning, and passed him a small paper cup of chili she’d brought, their fingers brushing when he took it. It was spicy, loaded with beef and black beans, better than any of the other samples he’d tried that night. She told him she was a botanical illustrator, had spent the last 15 years traveling the country drawing native wildflowers, moved back three months prior to help her mom recover from a stroke. She was looking for a 1968 Scotty Camper to fix up for the backyard, so her mom could have a private space to sit and look at the garden when the nurses were over.
Rafe’s breath caught. He had exactly that model, half-restored, sitting in his pole barn, waiting for a buyer who’d backed out two weeks prior. He told her as much, and her eyes lit up. She leaned in closer, so her shoulder was pressed fully to his, and he could smell lavender perfume mixed with campfire smoke on her shirt. The bluegrass band had switched to a slow waltz, and a handful of older couples were swaying near the stage. “What’s your price?” she asked, her voice soft enough that only he could hear it, even over the music.
He grinned, leaned in a little more, so their foreheads were almost touching. “Thirty percent off, if you bring me a jar of your mom’s famous apple butter every week for six months. Everyone in town talks about it, I’ve never gotten to try it.” She laughed, loud enough that a few people glanced over, and nudged his ribs with her elbow. “I’ll do you one better,” she said, and flipped open her sketchbook to a page of watercolor drawings of Blue Ridge wildflowers, “I’ll paint a full mural of the parkway on the inside of the camper for free, if you let me bring you dinner every Thursday while we work on it. I’m tired of eating takeout alone.”
Rafe felt a warm, tight feeling in his chest, the kind he hadn’t felt since his wife died. He nodded, no hesitation, no stupid grudge holding him back anymore. “Deal,” he said, and nodded toward the truck. “I got a space heater in the barn, and a six pack of the same cheap beer we snuck on that 1989 camping trip, still cold in the cooler. We can go look at the Scotty now, if you want.” She tucked a strand of silver hair behind her ear, slung her sketchbook back under her arm, and linked her free arm through his, her hand warm around his bicep, as they walked away from the cookoff, the twang of the banjo fading soft behind them.
