Manny Ruiz, 57, has made a living restoring vintage campers for 12 years, ever since he quit his corporate construction management job in Chicago after his wife died. He moved to a 5-acre plot outside Maryville, Tennessee three years prior, specifically because the nearest neighbor was half a mile away, and only customers knocked on his door dropping off rotting 1960s travel trailers or buying used parts. He avoids town events like the plague, hates the way strangers stare like they’re piecing together his backstory for the weekly diner gossip circle, but his 19-year-old part-time employee Javi begged him to enter his brisket chili in the local fire department cookoff, swore it’d take first place. He caved, mostly because Javi had worked 12-hour days all week to finish a client’s Airstream ahead of schedule, and he owed the kid a favor. October air nips at his cheeks through his frayed flannel, pine and wood smoke curling through the crowd, and he leans against a splintered pine picnic table holding a plastic cup of cheap lager, already mentally running through the list of repairs he needs to tackle the next morning.
He spots her across the field first. Lila Marlow, 48, the new town librarian who moved to town three months prior. He’d dropped off a box of tattered 1970s camping manuals he’d found tucked under the seat of a gutted Scotsman a few weeks back, and she’d asked him a dozen questions about his shop, about the campers he restored, her eyes lighting up when he mentioned he kept a few finished models parked behind his barn for personal use. He’d mumbled half-answers and left fast, already feeling the sharp twist of something he hadn’t felt in close to a decade: interest, the kind that doesn’t involve carburetors or sealant. She’s holding a bright red paper bowl of chili, wearing high-waisted jeans and a faded Johnny Cash tee, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, and she spots him almost immediately, grinning and weaving through the crowd toward him. She stops so close he can smell vanilla shampoo and cinnamon and chipotle on her breath, and she holds up the bowl. “Yours, right? I voted for it. Tastes like the chili my dad used to make over campfires when I was a kid.”
The words die in his throat when he sees the new sheriff, Cole Hargrove, walk past behind her, his gaze locking on Manny for a beat too long, cold and sharp. Hargrove’s already written him two $150 fines for “unregistered inoperable vehicles” on his property, even though every trailer is a work in progress, registered to out-of-state clients. Manny’s been fighting the tickets in court for two months, and he knows Hargrove would love any excuse to make his life harder. Hargrove claps Lila on the shoulder, his hand heavy on her upper arm, and Manny watches her jaw tighten, her shoulders hunch like she’s trying to shrink away. “Thought I told you to stay away from the weirdos out in the hills,” Hargrove says, loud enough for the couple next to them to glance over, and Lila yanks her arm away, her face flushing. “We’re divorced, Cole. You don’t get to tell me who I talk to.” Hargrove snorts, glares at Manny one more time, and walks off to yell at a group of teens who brought a seltzer cooler into the beer tent.
Manny’s first instinct is to leave, to climb in his beat-up Ford F-150 and head back to his quiet barn and forget this ever happened. Drama’s the last thing he needs, the whole reason he left Chicago was to avoid exactly this kind of small-town mess. But Lila leans in a little closer, her shoulder brushing his bicep through the flannel, and he can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric, a jolt going straight down his spine. “He’s been an ass since I filed. Thinks every guy who so much as says hi to me is trying to make him look bad. I’ve been meaning to ask you, actually. I’ve been looking for a tiny old camper to fix up for myself, for weekend trips up to the Smokies. I heard you have a few you’re selling that are almost done.” She bites her lower lip a little, like she’s nervous, and her fingers brush his wrist when she gestures to the cookoff tent. The touch is light, almost accidental, but her skin is soft, calloused at the fingertips from turning hundreds of book pages, and Manny’s mouth goes dry.
He should say no. He should tell her he doesn’t have any available, that he’s swamped with work, that he doesn’t need Hargrove showing up at his shop with a search warrant looking for reasons to fine him out of business. But he looks at her eyes, hazel with flecks of gold, crinkled at the corners when she smiles, and he can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like he was interesting, not just the guy who fixes old campers. “I close up at 6 tomorrow,” he says, his voice rougher than he expects. “Don’t park your car out front. Pull around the back by the barn, I’ll leave the side gate unlocked. I’ve got a 1968 Scotsman I’ve been working on for months, almost done. Original wood paneling, the little gas stove still works.” Her face lights up, and she grins, so bright he forgets about the fines, about Hargrove, about the whole stupid gossip mill that’s probably already talking about them standing together.
The announcer calls his name over the loudspeaker then, yelling that he’s won first place in the chili contest, and the small crowd around the tent cheers. Javi whoops from across the field, waving a foam finger he got at a high school football game. Lila laughs, holding up her phone to take a photo of him, and she winks before she steps back, putting a few feet of space between them right as Hargrove glances over again. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, before she turns and walks toward the book sale table set up near the entrance. Manny walks up to get his prize, a $100 gift card to the local feed store, and he tucks it into his flannel pocket, already thinking about stopping on the way home to pick up a six pack of that good amber ale he likes, about pulling the Scotsman out of the back of the barn tonight to polish the chrome. He doesn’t stick around for congratulations, heads straight for his truck when he gets the gift card, the crisp October air stinging his cheeks, and for the first time in eight years, he’s not in a hurry to get back to his quiet, empty house.
