Ronan O’Malley, 57, makes his living restoring antique maps from the cluttered two-car garage attached to his drafty Vermont colonial, and he’s spent the last 12 years putting everyone else’s needs first without a single complaint. He bailed on his planned cross-country road trip to care for his sister’s chemo-stricken teen in 2011, skipped his own 50th birthday fishing trip to run the church’s food drive, has never turned down a neighbor’s request to fix a fence or hang Christmas lights even when his arthritis flared so bad he could barely hold a hammer. He’s been widowed 8 years, and most days the only company he keeps is his 12-year-old beagle, Mabel, and the faint scratch of his scalpel against centuries-old vellum.
He’s lingering by the dented metal cider barrel at the annual firehouse chili cookoff when it happens, wiping a smudge of his late wife’s award-winning beef chili off the cuff of his plaid flannel, half ready to sneak home early and work through the stack of map repairs piling on his workbench. He turns too fast, shoulder colliding with a warm body, half a cup of spiced cider sloshing over the rim to soak the cuff of a heathered charcoal wool sweater.
His hand flies out to steady her, palm brushing the soft curve of her waist for half a second before he yanks it back like he’s touched a hot stove. He’s seen her around town the last three months—Lena Marlow, the new county librarian, the one all the local gossips have been whispering about, said she left a fancy corporate job in Boston and a husband behind to move to their tiny town for no reason anyone could pin down, called her stuck up because she didn’t bring cookies to the first town hall meeting. She laughs instead of snapping, swiping at the damp spot on her sleeve with one hand, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Relax, it’s wool, it’ll dry. I was actually coming over to find you, anyway. Your chili? The one with the smoked paprika and the beer reduction? Should’ve won first place. The judges just picked the chief’s because they’re scared he’ll make them run fire drills next month.”
Her voice is low, warm, like melted butter, and she leans in when he talks, like she actually cares what he has to say, when he rambles about how he tweaked his wife’s recipe this year to add a little more chipotle. Their elbows brush repeatedly as they stand side by side by the barrel, the crisp October air stinging his cheeks, the distant rattle of the firehouse bell mixing with the chatter of the crowd. He notices the smudge of navy ink on her left wrist, the scuffed brown leather boots she’s wearing instead of the fancy stilettos the town gossips swore she only owned, the way she keeps glancing at his calloused, ink-stained hands, like she’s curious how they got that way.
He tells her he restores maps, and her face lights up. She says she found a crate of tattered 19th century nautical maps in the library basement last week, water damaged, no one had any idea what to do with them, they were going to throw them out. He’s already opening his mouth to offer to fix them for free, like he always does, when she says she brought a bottle of small-batch bourbon she picked up on a trip to Kentucky last year, and if he’s free tonight, she could let him into the library after hours, they could look through the maps, split the bottle.
For half a second, his first instinct is to say no. He told the church council he’d be at the fairgrounds at 7 a.m. tomorrow to set up booths for the harvest festival, he has three maps due for a wealthy client in Boston by the end of the week, he hasn’t been alone with a woman he’s attracted to since his wife died, feels a sharp, hot twist of guilt in his gut like he’s doing something wrong, something taboo, like the whole town is watching them even though most people have already packed up their coolers and headed home.
Then he looks at her, grinning, one eyebrow raised, and he remembers the road trip he never took, the fishing trip he skipped, all the little things he’s denied himself for years to make everyone else happy. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, shoots a quick text to the head of the church council saying his arthritis is flaring bad, he can’t make setup in the morning but he’ll be there at 1 p.m. to help, shoves the phone back in his pocket. “Lead the way,” he says.
The walk to the library is three blocks long, the sidewalk crusted with fallen maple leaves that crunch under their boots, the sky streaked pink and orange with the last of the sunset. She reaches for his hand when they step over a puddle left by that afternoon’s rain, her palm soft and warm against his, and he doesn’t pull away. The guilt fades, slow, replaced by a low, thrumming excitement he hasn’t felt in decades, like he’s 22 again, sneaking into his college girlfriend’s dorm after curfew, no rules, no obligations hanging over his head.
She unlocks the front door of the library, pulls him inside behind her, the air smelling like old paper and lemon polish and the faint, sweet scent of the pear and cedar perfume she’s wearing. She sets the unopened bottle of bourbon on the front desk, turns to face him, and leans in, slow, so he has time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. His hand comes to rest on the same soft curve of her waist he brushed earlier that night, and he kisses her back, the faint taste of spiced cider on her lips, the distant hum of the library’s heater the only sound in the quiet room.
