Russ Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had spent the better part of 15 years avoiding any situation that could qualify as unexpected. His ex-wife had left him for a 32-year-old competitive cycling coach two weeks after their 25th anniversary, and he’d responded by building a routine so rigid he could tell you what he’d be eating for lunch next Tuesday without checking a calendar. He carried his dented stainless steel thermos of black coffee everywhere, refused to eat at chain restaurants, and hadn’t so much as flirted with a woman since the divorce.
He was wandering the county fall craft fair last Saturday because his 10-year-old grandson’s soccer game had gotten rained out, and the house felt too quiet with just his old hound dog snoring on the couch. The air smelled like turned soil and fried Oreos, the crunch of fallen maple leaves under his work boots loud enough to drown out the bluegrass band playing near the entrance. He’d planned to walk the whole row of booths in 20 minutes flat, grab a jar of dill pickles from the Amish stand, and head home. Then the scent of cedar and cinnamon wrapped around him, sharp and warm, exactly like the sawdust and spiced apple cider he used to keep in his workshop for after-school study hall.
He stopped in front of the booth stacked with hand-poured beeswax candles, and the woman behind the table looked up from labeling a jar and grinned. It was Lila Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the one he hadn’t spoken to since that chaotic Christmas party 18 years prior, when she’d pulled him into the pantry to avoid his ex’s drunk uncle and kissed him so quick he’d frozen, then turned and bolted out of the party before he could say a word. He’d felt guilty for months after, even though nothing else had happened, even though his marriage was already falling apart by then.
She was 48 now, a thin silver streak running through her dark wavy hair, freckles across her nose darker from spending the day outside, her flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows showing a tattoo of a sunflower on her forearm. She didn’t hesitate, called his name loud enough that the old guy selling bird feeders next to her glanced over. “I’d know that dented thermos anywhere,” she said, leaning over the table so her shoulder was inches from his chest. “You still refuse to pay $5 for a drip coffee at the gas station, don’t you?”
He laughed before he could stop himself, the tension in his shoulders loosening even as a little voice in his head screamed that this was a bad idea, that family was off limits, that he didn’t need complications. He leaned in to look at a candle shaped like an acorn, and when she handed it to him their fingers brushed, her skin warm and calloused from working with wax, the jolt of it shooting up his arm so fast he almost dropped the candle. She didn’t pull away, held his gaze for three full beats before she smirked and nodded at the thermos sticking out of his Carhartt pocket. “You gonna offer me a sip, or are you still as stingy as you were when you made us all bring our own soda to the 2007 family cookout?”
They talked for 20 minutes, leaning across the booth so close he could smell the peppermint lip balm she was wearing, could see the tiny laugh lines around her eyes he’d never noticed before. She told him she’d moved back to town six months prior, after her own divorce, bought that little blue cottage on the west side of the lake he’d always said was the best house in the county. She’d been selling candles at the fair every weekend, and she’d been meaning to look him up, knew he did custom woodworking out of his garage now, because she had a warped pantry shelf she couldn’t fix on her own, and a batch of spiced apple butter simmering on her stove that was way too much for just one person.
He hesitated, the old rule about no unnecessary risks bouncing around his head. She tilted her head, reached out and brushed a crumpled maple leaf off the collar of his jacket, her palm lingering on his shoulder for half a second longer than she needed to. “No pressure,” she said, soft enough that only he could hear it. “But I’ve been thinking about that kiss in the pantry for 18 years. I’d like to see if it was as good as I remember.”
He said yes before he could overthink it. He carried her heavy box of leftover candle supplies to her beat-up Ford F-150, his boots crunching over the leaves as the bluegrass band faded behind them. She leaned against the passenger door while he set the box in the truck bed, the setting sun painting her cheeks pink, the distant sound of kids screaming on the fair rides still hanging in the air. When he turned back to her, she stepped forward and kissed him, slow this time, her hand curled around the back of his neck, tasting like peppermint and the little lemon drop she’d been sucking on earlier.
He didn’t pull away. He didn’t think about his ex, or his rigid routine, or the cold coffee sitting in his thermos in his jacket pocket. He climbed into the passenger seat of her truck when she held the door open for him, and let her drive them toward the lake, the warm scent of her cedar candle sitting in the cup holder wrapping around him the whole way.
