Elias Voss had planned to stay exactly 47 minutes at the VFW fish fry, long enough to eat one piece of beer-battered cod, split an order of crinkle-cut fries with his old football teammate Ray, and slip out before anyone could corner him with a request for a “quick look” at a rotting camper they’d dragged home from a farm auction. He was 61, had built his small vintage camper restoration business from scratch after getting laid off from the local auto factory in 2008, and had long since grown tired of being the town’s free handyman for anything on wheels. His left forearm still bore the faint, pitted scar from the rusted sheet metal he’d sliced himself on two years prior, when he’d caved and fixed a neighbor’s pop-up for free, only to have the guy turn around and sell it for three times what it was worth a month later.
Ray begged him to stay for one more beer, said the new county park ranger was coming in and wanted to introduce her, and Elias rolled his eyes but agreed, mostly because his beer was still ice cold and the rain was starting to tap against the building’s tin roof outside. She slid onto the bar stool next to him ten minutes later, so close the edge of her well-worn canvas work jacket brushed his shoulder. She ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon, no lime, and Elias smelled pine and lavender hand soap when she leaned in to yell over the jukebox blaring Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” She glanced over at him when she got her beer, held eye contact for a full two seconds, not the quick, polite dart most people gave him when they realized he wasn’t going to smile first. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid streaked with gray at the temples, and there was a smudge of dark dirt on her left cheek.
When she reached across the bar to grab a napkin, her knuckles brushed the scar on his forearm. She paused, her fingers hovering for half a beat before she pulled back, nodding at the mark. “That looks like a rust injury,” she said, her voice low, graveled from years of working outside in wind and cold. “I got three just like it from fixing split rail fences last month.” He grunted in response, surprised she didn’t immediately launch into a story about a broken camper sitting in her driveway. She shifted on her stool, her knee brushing his under the bar, no apology, no quick pull away like she was embarrassed to have touched him. He could feel the heat of her leg through his heavy work jeans, and he had to fight the urge to lean closer, a flutter he hadn’t felt since his ex-wife had left him eight years prior, for a client he’d built a custom $10,000 Airstream for as a 20th anniversary gift.
He was disgusted with himself for even noticing, first. He’d sworn off dating, off any kind of connection that didn’t involve sanding fiberglass or replacing camper window seals, convinced every person who was nice to him just wanted a favor or a discount. The whole town had been whispering about her for the three weeks she’d been there, said she was stuck up, wouldn’t give any local guy the time of day, that she’d told the mayor to go to hell when he asked her out to a fancy steak dinner in the next town over. Talking to her felt like breaking an unspoken small-town rule, a small, giddy thrill he hadn’t felt since he snuck into the drive-in with his friends when he was 17. He wanted to leave, to run back to his workshop where the only things that talked to him were his power tools and the old radio playing 70s classic rock, but he couldn’t make himself stand up.
She laughed at a dumb joke Ray told about a deer that broke into the park office last week, and her shoulder bumped his again. “I heard you fix old campers,” she said, and Elias’s jaw tightened, ready to turn her down before she even asked, until she held up her hands, grinning. “Before you say no, I’m not asking for a discount. I just bought a beat up 1972 Airstream, the previous owner used it to store farming equipment, and every handyman in town has either tried to overcharge me or said it’s too far gone. I’d rather pay someone who actually knows what they’re doing, not some guy who thinks caulk fixes everything.” He stared at her for a second, surprised. She was leaning in, her eyes bright, no fake flirty smile, no batting eyelashes, just straight to the point. Her knee was still pressed to his, and he could hear the rain picking up outside, tapping harder against the roof. “I can come look at it tomorrow,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “No charge for the estimate. If it’s too far gone, I’ll tell you straight, no B.S.” She grinned, held out her hand to shake. His calloused palm wrapped around hers, and she squeezed once, firm. “I’ll have a homemade peach pie waiting for you when you get there. My grandma’s recipe. Worth more than any estimate fee, I promise.”
He left half an hour later, when the rain slowed to a light drizzle. He walked to his beat up 2006 Ford F-150, the cool night air against his face, smelling like cut grass and clover from the field next to the VFW parking lot. When he got home to his small house on the edge of town, he walked out to his detached workshop, grabbed a tube of Airstream sealant and a set of rust removal tools, and set them by the door next to his scuffed work boots. He opened his fridge, grabbed a cold beer, and stuck a crumpled post-it note on the fridge door, scrawled in his messy, slanted handwriting: 9 AM, park maintenance lot, bring fork for pie.
