Roman Voss, 62, spent 28 years teaching western North Carolina high school woodshop before the district’s smarmy vice principal Roger Bennett pushed him out on a trumped-up “unsafe workspace” charge six months before his full pension kicked in. He’d spent the decade since building custom hand-carved birdhouses out of reclaimed barn wood on the porch of his creekside cottage, selling them only at the quarterly fall farmers market to cover vet bills for his three-legged beagle, Mabel. He avoided almost all other small town events, carried a grudge so thick he could sand it down and turn it into a cutting board, and hadn’t so much as shared a cup of coffee with a woman since his wife left him for a 28-year-old rock climbing instructor 8 years prior.
The October wind bit through his worn plaid flannel that Saturday, sharp with the smell of turned soil and fried apple pies from the booth two rows over. Mabel was curled on a pile of cedar sawdust under his table, snoring loud enough to drown out the bluegrass trio playing near the market entrance. He’d drained his thermos of black coffee an hour earlier, and his knuckles were stiff enough that he fumbled a hand-carved wren house when a curious kid reached for it. He knew he had to get something warm, and the only hot drink booth within 50 feet was run by Clara Bennett, Roger’s ex-wife. He’d spent 10 years hating her by association, had never even said two words to her, but he’d seen her at school events back in the day, always standing off to the side while her husband schmoozed parents and cracked fake jokes.
He hesitated by the edge of her booth, hands stuffed deep in his frayed jeans pockets, until she looked up from wiping down a glass cider jug and smiled. It was a warm, crinkly-eyed smile, no polished customer service shine, and he froze. He’d expected sharp, cold, the same dismissive energy her ex had always carried. She wiped her hands on her own jeans, spattered with cinnamon and apple pulp, and leaned forward across the rough wooden counter, close enough that he could smell her lavender hand lotion mixed with the spiced cider simmering in a dented pot behind her. “You’re Roman, right? The birdhouse guy. I’ve bought three of yours over the years, the wren one, the bluebird, the little log cabin for the chickadees. They all get used every year, my orchard’s lousy with birds.”
He blinked, confused, and opened his mouth to say something snarky about her ex, but all that came out was a gruff request for a spiced cider, extra hot. She nodded, turned to pour it, and when she handed the steaming paper cup over, her bare hand brushed his. His calloused, splinter-pricked fingers brushed hers, soft but marked with a small, scabbed cut on the knuckle from slicing apples that morning, and he felt a jolt run up his arm that had nothing to do with the cold. The steam curled up to fog his wire-rimmed glasses, and he fumbled to push them up his nose with his free hand, noticing then the smudge of cinnamon on her left cheek, the way her flannel was unbuttoned just enough to show a tiny silver star necklace against her freckled collarbone, the thick gray streaks running through her auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid.
He paid her, mumbled a thanks, and walked back to his booth fast, mad at himself. He was supposed to hate her. She was married to the guy who’d ruined his career, for Christ’s sake. But he couldn’t stop glancing over at her booth, watching her laugh with a regular customer, tuck a stray hair behind her ear, hand out free sample cups to shivering kids in puffer coats. Half an hour later, she wandered over to his booth, Mabel perking up immediately to wag her whole butt and lick her hand when she knelt down to pet her. “I left Roger seven years ago,” she said, not looking up from scratching Mabel behind the ears. “Cheated on me with the 9th grade math teacher. I heard what he did to you. I always thought it was garbage.”
The conflict hit him hard then, half disgust at himself for even considering talking to her, half warm fizz of desire in his chest he hadn’t felt in almost a decade. He gestured to the dented folding chair next to his table, and she sat, their knees brushing every time one of them shifted. They talked through the rest of the market, about woodworking, about the 12-acre apple orchard she ran out in the hills, about how they’d both been burned so bad they’d written off dating entirely for years, too tired to deal with small town gossip and awkward first dates. When the market organizer blew the plastic whistle for closing time, the sky was turning soft pink and purple at the edges, and most vendors were already tossing their coolers into the backs of pickup trucks.
She stood up, brushed sawdust off the back of her jeans, and leaned in a little, close enough that he could feel her warm breath on his cold cheek. “I got a jug of spiked hard cider in my Subaru. Wanna drink it on your porch? I can help you carry your stock to your truck.” He almost said no, almost retreated back into his grumpy, isolated routine of frozen dinners and old westerns after the market, but he looked at her, at the cinnamon smudge still on her cheek, at the way she was smiling like she already knew he’d say yes, and he nodded.
He loaded Mabel into the bed of his beat-up Ford, and she followed him back to his cottage in her rusted Outback, dust kicking up behind both cars on the gravel road. When they got to the porch, she sat down on the cedar swing he’d built himself the year after he was fired, and he poured them each a glass of the hard cider, spiked with extra cinnamon sticks. She reached out, brushed a stray cedar splinter off his jaw with her thumb, and he didn’t pull away. Mabel curled up on the porch step between their feet, and the crickets started chirping loud in the woods behind the house. When she leaned in to kiss him, the taste of cinnamon and tart apples on her lips, he didn’t hesitate. He reached for her hand, lacing their calloused fingers together, and didn’t let go.
