Jesse Rainer, 53, makes his living stripping 100-year-old oak floors of decades of scuffs, stain, and bad renovation choices, then buffing them to a shine so deep you can see your reflection in them. He’s got a scar across his left palm from a faulty sander, a pickup truck with 220,000 miles on it, and a rule he hasn’t broken in four years: no unnecessary social events. He’s got no patience for the pitying looks, the offhand “you should get out more” comments, the well-meaning neighbors who try to set him up with their divorced sisters. The only reason he’s at the Ottawa County Fair on a soggy August Tuesday is his 9-year-old granddaughter’s 4-H rabbit show, and he’d planned to hightail it back to his quiet ranch house the second her ribbon ceremony ended.
Then the sky opened up. Rain hammered down so hard it bounced 6 inches off the asphalt, turning the fairgrounds into a mud pit in 10 minutes flat. Jesse ducked into the closest covered structure, the craft beer tent, and ordered a pale ale, leaning against a splintered wooden pole to wait out the storm. The tent reeked of fried dough, hops, and wet hay, and twangy 90s country hummed low from a speaker tucked in the corner.
He was halfway through his beer when a woman in a waxed canvas rain jacket shook off a sheet of water right next to him, her sleeve brushing his bare forearm hard enough to leave a faint damp streak. He smelled apple cider and ground cinnamon before he looked up, and when he did, his throat went tight. Lila Marlow. His late wife’s baby cousin, the girl who’d been 19 and loud and covered in vanilla frosting when she fell into his wedding cake 27 years prior. He hadn’t seen her in 11 years, not since his wife’s 40th birthday party, back before the cancer diagnosis.
She recognized him at the same time, her hazel eyes widening before she broke into that same sharp, unapologetic grin he’d always found hard to look away from. “Jesse Rainer. I’d know that sawdust-dusted work boot anywhere,” she said, stepping closer so they didn’t have to yell over the rain drumming on the tent’s vinyl roof. They were standing so close their shoulders almost brushed, and Jesse could see the faint smudge of apple pulp on her left cheek, the thin silver streak running through the front of her dark auburn hair. He’d always felt a dumb, guilty flicker of attraction to her back when he was dating Ellie, had gone out of his way to avoid being alone with her for decades, writing it off as some stupid, unfaithful impulse he needed to stomp out before it took root.
She told him she’d taken over her parents’ apple orchard outside Holland three years prior, had launched a line of hard ciders that were selling across the state. She held up a can of her best-selling honey crisp variety and pressed it into his hand, her fingers brushing his wrist for half a second, and Jesse felt a jolt go up his arm he hadn’t felt since before Ellie got sick. He told her he was still running his one-man floor refinishing shop, still turning down jobs that required him to work for rich people with weird, non-negotiable demands about glossy vs matte finish. She laughed, and the sound cut through the rain noise, and when she leaned in to tell him about the time a customer asked her to infuse a cider with CBD and pickle brine, her shoulder bumped his firmly, and he didn’t move away.
He fought the urge to step back the whole time they talked, telling himself he was being disrespectful, that Ellie would hate this, that this was the kind of reckless impulse he’d spent 27 years squashing. But every time Lila smiled, every time she nudged his arm to make a point, every time the wind shifted and he smelled that cinnamon and apple scent clinging to her jacket, the scolding voice in his head got quieter.
The rain slowed to a soft drizzle 20 minutes later, and Lila tilted her head toward the tent exit. “I’ve been looking for someone to redo the original hardwood in the orchard’s tasting room for months. It’s beat to hell, scuffed up from 60 years of farm boots and spilled cider. You wanna come take a look tonight? Tasting room’s closed, no crowds, no interruptions.”
Jesse hesitated for three full seconds, thinking of the framed photo of Ellie on his truck dashboard, the promise he’d made to himself after she died that he wouldn’t mess up the good, quiet life they’d built together. Then he nodded.
He followed her to the golf cart she’d parked by the tent entrance, the gravel squelching under his work boots. She handed him a frayed wool blanket to lay over the wet vinyl seat, and their fingers tangled for a beat when he took it from her, no awkward apologies, no pulling away fast like they’d been caught doing something wrong. He climbed into the passenger seat, and she turned the key, the cart’s headlights cutting through the thick mist hanging over the fairgrounds. She leaned over to adjust the wonky windshield wiper halfway down the dirt road leading to the orchard, her warm thigh pressing solidly against his, and he rested his hand on the seat between them, his pinky brushing the frayed edge of her jeans.
