Manny Ruiz, 53, has made a living restoring vintage campers for 16 years, and the first rule he’s lived by post-divorce is no unnecessary small talk with anyone who doesn’t know the difference between a pop-top seal and a dinette hinge. His biggest flaw? He’s spent eight years writing off every woman who so much as smiles at him as someone looking to lock him into weekend wine tastings and obligatory family visits, no grease under the fingernails allowed. His ex-wife left him for a wealth management advisor who wore custom loafers and called manual labor “a nice hobby,” and he’s carried that chip on his shoulder so long the edge of it has worn smooth.
He’s manning his booth at the town’s annual apple butter festival on a crisp October Saturday, a half-finished cup of spiced cider sweating in the cup holder clipped to the open door of the 1972 Airstream he just wrapped up for a client out of Cincinnati. The flannel he’s wearing has a small burn hole on the cuff from soldering a wiring harness the night before, his hands crusted with faint traces of bondo that won’t wash off for another three days. He’s half ignoring retirees poking their heads into the Airstream to ooh and aah over the reclaimed oak countertops when he sees her, and his first instinct is to duck behind the folding table stacked with his business cards.
Clara moved into the cottage two doors down from his shop three months prior, runs a used poetry bookstore downtown, and she’s made a habit of showing up on his porch at 7 a.m. with loaves of sourdough she baked, asking questions about the campers scattered across his lot. He’s brushed her off every time, gruff, short, convinced she was gearing up to ask him to a church potluck or book club meeting he’d rather chew aluminum foil than attend. She carries a glass jar of deep brown apple butter in one hand, her boots caked in mud from the festival’s dirt parking lot, a small cider stain blotted on the cuff of her cream wool sweater. She leans against the Airstream’s doorframe before he can duck, her elbow brushing his bicep when she holds out the jar, and the smell of her perfume hits him first—cedar and cinnamon, not the cloying rose stuff his ex wore every day for 12 years.
“Brought this as payment for fixing my fence post when that oak fell last month,” she says, holding eye contact steady, no shy look away, no awkward laugh to soften the ask for his attention. He blinks; he’d forgotten he’d even fixed that post, had just hammered it back into place because it was leaning into his side yard, threatening to scratch the paint on the 1968 VW bus he’s let rot behind his shop for two years waiting for motivation to tear it apart. He mumbles that he didn’t do it for payment, reaches out to take the jar anyway, and his calloused fingers brush hers. He notices her nails are chipped with dark green paint, and when he points it out, she laughs, wiggling her fingers to show off the chips. “Was restoring a 1920s oak bookshelf for the store yesterday. Fought rusted screws for three hours. Worth it, though.”
That stops him cold. He’d assumed she was the type who paid someone to hang pictures for her, who didn’t know what a Phillips head screwdriver was. He leans against the doorframe next to her, close enough that their shoulders brush when a gust of wind blows the smell of fried dough from the food truck two booths over. She pulls a six pack of the dark stout he drinks out of her canvas tote, holds it up, and he freezes. “Noticed the empty cans in your recycling bin by your shop gate last week. Was gonna ask if you wanted to take this Airstream up to the overlook for the sunset. No strings, I swear. I’m just tired of guys hitting on me at the bookstore asking if I’ve read Colleen Hoover and think ‘carpentry’ is a type of coffee drink.”
He almost says no, almost makes up an excuse about having to sand a camper frame first thing tomorrow, but then she grins, lopsided, and he finds himself nodding before he can think better of it. He locks up the booth, climbs into the driver’s seat, and she slides into the passenger side, her knee brushing his the whole drive up the winding gravel road to the overlook. The Airstream’s heat rumbles low, the radio playing old Johnny Cash songs he hasn’t heard since he was a kid riding around in his dad’s pickup. They pull up to the edge of the ridge, the valley stretched out below them dotted with orange and red maple trees, and they sit on the built-in bench by the back window, passing a beer back and forth at first, then each taking their own.
The sun dips low, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and she twists open the jar of apple butter, takes a bite straight off the edge, wipes a smudge off her chin with the back of her hand. She holds the jar out to him, and he takes it, takes a bite, the sweet spiced flavor bursting on his tongue, just a hint of nutmeg that makes his chest feel warm, warmer than the Airstream’s heat. He looks over at her, her face lit up by the sunset, and he asks her if she wants to help him tear into that 1968 VW bus next weekend, no strings, no expectations, just cold beer and rusted screws. She grins, nods, takes another bite of apple butter, says only if he brings the beer. He laughs, leans back against the bench, her knee still pressed warm against his, and watches the last sliver of sun sink below the ridge.
