Ronan O’Malley, 58, had made a point of skipping every small town community event for 12 years straight. The antique map restorer had moved to the Blue Ridge foothills right after his divorce, holed up on five acres of oak-dusted land where the only noise he had to tolerate was the whir of his acid bath and the squawk of red-tailed hawks outside his studio. His biggest flaw? He’d built his entire routine around avoiding other people, convinced any casual interaction would spiral into the kind of gossip that had turned his divorce into a county-wide spectator sport. The only reason he’d showed up to the fire department’s annual chili cook-off was his 72-year-old neighbor had left a peach pie on his porch three days prior and begged him to bring his famous honey cornbread as a favor.
He was leaning against the dented metal beer cooler, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, scars from exacto knife slips and old acid burns crisscrossing his forearms, when she reached for the same IPA he was grabbing. Their knuckles brushed. He expected her to yank her hand back, the way most people did when they realized how rough his hands were, but her fingers lingered for half a second, warm and calloused, before she laughed. The sound was bright, cut through the smell of smoked pork and burnt hickory that hung over the field. She had auburn hair streaked with sun-bleached blonde, a smudge of cerulean paint on her left cheek, and smelled like cinnamon and turpentine.
“Sorry,” she said, leaning against the cooler next to him, close enough that her shoulder pressed to his bicep. “I’ve been chasing these all night. The department only bought two cases of the good stuff.”
He grunted, passed her the can, grabbed the last one for himself. When she said her name was Lila Marlow, his throat went tight. He recognized the last name immediately. She was his ex-wife’s niece. The last time he’d seen her, she was 14, covered in acrylic paint at his wedding, begging him to draw her a map of a fairy island off the coast of Maine. He’d done it, doodled it on a napkin, and she’d stuffed it in the pocket of her overalls before running off to chase a stray cat.
He should have walked away right then. He knew the rule: no talking to the ex’s family, no matter how much time had passed. The small town gossip mill would have a field day if anyone saw them so much as standing next to each other. His ex still had three sisters and a dozen cousins living within 20 miles, all of whom still hated his guts for leaving their perfect sister. But she sat down on the splintered picnic bench next to him, thigh pressed firm to his, the rough denim of her overalls catching on the frayed knee of his work jeans, and said she’d recognized him the second she pulled into the parking lot.
The conflict twisted tight in his chest. On one hand, the idea of 20 screaming 9-year-olds traipsing through his studio, touching his 1800s survey maps, made his skin crawl. On the other, he hadn’t had anyone look at him like that, like he was interesting, like he mattered, since his wife had packed her bags and driven west. He was halfway to saying no, making up some excuse about a big client deadline, when the fire department set off the station siren to announce the chili contest winner. The crowd surged forward, cheering, and Lila stumbled, catching herself with both hands flat on his chest.
Her face was inches from his, the blue paint smudge on her cheek brighter up close, her breath smelling like beer and peppermint. She didn’t move away. For three long seconds, the noise of the crowd faded to a hum, and he could feel the heat of her palms through the thin fabric of his flannel, the way her thumb was brushing the edge of the worn leather patch sewn over his heart. “I always thought you were too good for my aunt,” she whispered, so quiet only he could hear. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 14, Ronan. Don’t let the gossip stop you from doing what you want for once.”
He stared at her, stunned, then glanced over her shoulder. A group of the town’s old regulars were staring at them, grinning, already nudging each other like they knew exactly what was happening. For the first time in 12 years, he didn’t care. He pulled a crumpled business card out of his jeans pocket, scrawled his address on the back, and pressed it into her hand. “Come by Saturday at 2,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “I’ve got an 1892 map of the Appalachian Trail I’m restoring. You can see the acid bath process, if you don’t mind the fumes.”
She tucked the card into the pocket of her overalls, grinned, and winked at him before turning to walk toward the chili serving line. He stayed leaned against the cooler, sipping his beer, the spot on his chest where her hands had been still warm, even through the flannel. He saw his ex’s oldest sister staring at him from across the field, mouth tight with disapproval, and he just raised his beer can in a lazy toast, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
