Clay Bennett, 58, retired high-voltage lineman, had not set foot at the county farmers market in four years. His only reason for showing up that muggy late August afternoon was a bet he’d won against his neighbor Ron, who owed him a six pack of the hazy IPA he’d been ranting about from the new brewery downtown. Clay’s scuffed work boots stuck a little to the grass clipping-dusted asphalt, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows even in the 84 degree heat, ball cap pulled low enough to block most of the sun off his face, the faded lineman’s union logo peeling at the edges. He’d spent 32 years climbing power poles in rain, snow, and swelter, and he wasn’t about to start wearing pastel polo shirts and khaki shorts like every other guy his age milling around the produce stalls. The air smelled like fried green tomatoes, cut clover, and the yeast tang of the beer tent set up at the far end of the lot, run by the local HOA he’d been publicly feuding with for three years, ever since they’d forced him to tear down the 12-foot deer stand he’d built with his son the summer before the kid moved to Denver.
He’d planned to grab the beer from Ron and hightail it back to his garage, where he was rebuilding a 1972 Ford F-150 he’d pulled from a junkyard earlier that year, but Ron veered straight for the HOA beer tent before Clay could grab his arm. Clay froze when he saw who was pouring drafts behind the counter: Mara Hale, 49, the HOA president who’d read him the riot act at three separate public meetings about the deer stand, who he’d written off as a stuck up suburban suit who’d never held a power tool in her life. She wasn’t wearing the blazer and tight bun he’d only ever seen her in, though. Her dark hair was loose, falling in wavy strands past her shoulders, a faded cutoff denim shirt hanging open over a white tank top, a smudge of grease on her left cheek. She looked up when they approached, and a slow, knowing smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Fancy seeing you here, Bennett. Come to yell at me about zoning ordinances, or are you finally ready to pay that $150 fine you’ve been ignoring?”
Clay’s jaw tightened, and he almost turned to leave, but Ron clapped him on the back and ordered two IPAs before he could protest. When Mara slid the cold, condensation-slick can across the wooden counter to him, their fingers brushed, and he blinked when he felt the rough calluses on the pads of her index and middle fingers, identical to the ones he’d had on his own hands for 40 years. “You fix things for a living?” he asked before he could stop himself, curiosity winning out over the grudge he’d carried for years. She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the twang of the bluegrass band playing 20 feet away, and held up her hands to show him the faint scar across her left palm. “Vintage motorcycles, mostly. The grease on my cheek is from a 1978 Honda CX500 I’ve been tearing apart in my garage for the last month. I only do the HOA gig because no one else was dumb enough to run for president last year.”
Clay leaned against the tent pole closest to the counter, forgetting all about the F-150 waiting for him in his garage, as they talked. She teased him about wearing flannel in the middle of an Ohio summer, and he teased her back about signing off on the stupid rule banning front yard vegetable gardens, which she admitted she’d voted against, lost by one ballot. A group of kids ran past the tent, chasing a golden retriever with a corn cob in its mouth, and one of them slammed into Mara’s back hard enough to send her stumbling forward into Clay’s chest. He caught her by the elbows, his hands wrapping around the warm, bare skin of her arms, and for half a second he could smell the coconut sunscreen and pine sawdust in her hair, feel the thud of her heartbeat against his chest. She pulled back slowly, her dark eyes locked on his for a beat longer than necessary, and didn’t step away even when she was steady on her feet.
He’d spent three years hating everything she represented, had ranted to anyone who would listen that the HOA was a useless group of busybodies who cared more about neatly trimmed lawns than actual people, but standing that close to her, he couldn’t summon a single spark of that anger. She told him she’d been working to get the deer stand rule overturned for months, wanted to open public land on the edge of town to low income kids who couldn’t afford hunting leases otherwise, and had been meaning to reach out to him to ask for help presenting the case at the next meeting, since she knew he’d taught local kids how to hunt for 15 years before the HOA ban. She asked if he wanted to come by her house that weekend to look at the Honda, too, because she couldn’t figure out why the carburetor kept sticking, and she’d heard he was the best small engine mechanic within 20 miles. He said yes before he even had time to overthink it, surprised at how easy the word came out of his mouth.
They exchanged numbers before Ron wandered back over, holding a plate of funnel cake, and teased Clay for spending 45 minutes talking to the woman he’d called “the devil in a blazer” less than a month prior. Clay ignored him, tucking his phone back into his flannel pocket, and waved at Mara as they walked back to the parking lot. He drove home with the windows down, the warm August air blowing through the cab of his current truck, and pulled into his driveway, glancing at the empty spot in the tree line where his deer stand used to sit. His phone pinged in his pocket as he was walking up the front steps, and he pulled it out to see a text from her, a photo of the beat up Honda CX500 propped up in her garage, with a note that said don’t forget to bring your carburetor cleaning kit. He smiled, shoving the phone back in his pocket, and turned to head to his garage to grab the kit.
