Ronan O’Malley, 59, luthier and lifelong stubborn jackass, had avoided the Madison County Harvest Fair for 12 straight years. The only reason he was manning the hot cider booth on that crisp October Saturday was his 19-year-old niece, who’d called sobbing an hour before opening, saying she’d forgotten her biology midterm was that same day. He’d caved faster than he cared to admit, hauling crates of pressed cider and cinnamon sticks to the fairgrounds at 7 a.m., already mentally bracing for the nosy questions about his love life, his divorce, why he never came around anymore.
The air smelled like fried Oreos and pine, the bluegrass band off by the Ferris wheel sawing through a fast rendition of *Foggy Mountain Breakdown*, kids screaming so loud their voices cracked as they spun on the tilt-a-whirl. He’d gotten through three hours of pleasant small talk, only lied twice about being “too busy with work” to come to the county potluck, when she stepped up to the booth. Clara Bennett, his ex-wife’s younger sister, the town librarian everyone referred to as “the reclusive one,” wrapped in an oversized gray cardigan, holding a stack of library hold books so tall she could barely see over the top. She asked for a large hot cider, extra cinnamon, her voice soft but clear, no stutter, no shyness like he’d expected.
He poured the steaming cider into a paper mug, his calloused knuckles brushing hers when he handed it over. Her palm was cold from carrying the books, the skin softer than he would have guessed, and the jolt of that contact ran up his arm so fast he nearly spilled the rest of the pitcher. He looked up, and she wasn’t looking away, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, a tiny smudge of blue ink on her left cheekbone from stamping checkout slips, he guessed. He felt that familiar twist of guilt immediately—she was his ex’s sister, 12 years younger than him, everyone in town would lose their minds if they so much as had a 10 minute conversation, and he’d spent too many years avoiding drama to court it now.
She didn’t leave. She leaned against the hay bale next to the booth, sipping her cider, saying she’d heard he repaired old fiddles, that her grandfather’s 1930s Gibson had been cracked down the soundboard in a move 20 years prior, she’d never found anyone she trusted to fix it. He noticed she was wearing scuffed brown work boots under her long wool skirt, not the frumpy loafers all the town gossips swore she wore exclusively. She laughed when he fumbled a jug of cider and splashed a drop on his dark green flannel, reaching out without thinking to dab it off with a crumpled napkin, her fingers brushing his chest through the thick fabric. He could feel the heat of her hand long after she pulled it away.
By the time the fair shut down at 8 p.m., the sky was deep indigo, crickets chirping loud in the grass at the edge of the fairgrounds, the last of the crowd loading tired kids into minivans. She’d stayed the whole last hour, helping him fold up the folding tables, carrying crates of empty mugs to his beat-up Ford F-150, telling him stories about the weird books people checked out from the library, the retired teacher who only read cowboy romance novels, the teen who’d checked out 17 books about beekeeping in one month. He’d forgotten what it felt like to talk to someone who didn’t treat him like a ghost or a cautionary tale.
He was leaning against the truck bed, about to mumble a generic goodbye, when she stepped closer, the toe of her boot almost touching his. She said she didn’t care what the town gossips said, didn’t care that her sister had been married to him 12 years prior, she’d had a crush on him since she’d stumbled into that small music jam at the general store last winter and saw him playing fiddle, his face lit up like he was 20 years old again, she just hadn’t had the guts to say anything until now. He froze for half a second, then reached out, brushing that blue ink smudge off her cheek with his thumb, his touch lingering on the soft line of her jaw. She leaned into it, no hesitation. He asked if she wanted to come back to his shop, see the custom fiddle he was finishing for a 12-year-old kid down the valley, maybe have a glass of the bourbon he kept stashed under his workbench. She nodded, smiling so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled.
He held the passenger door open for her, then climbed into the driver’s seat, turning the key so the old truck rumbled to life, the heater blowing warm air that smelled like pine and old leather. She was humming that same bluegrass song the band had played earlier, her hand resting on the center console, six inches from his. He didn’t reach for it right away, letting the hum of the engine and the faint glow of the dashboard lights wrap around them, watching the tree lines blur past the windows as they turned onto the dirt road leading to his cabin.
