Mace Hollis, 59, leans against a split-rail fence at the Black Mountain fall community barbecue, a half-drunk Pabst in one hand and grease crusted under the nails of the other. He’d skipped the post-work shower to beat the crowd, didn’t feel like making small talk with the same people who asked him every other week if he’d finally started dating again after his wife left for Charlotte eight years prior. His vintage travel trailer restoration lot is three miles down the road, and he’d spent the whole day prying a rusted water pump out of a 1972 Airstream, his arthritis flaring so bad he’d had to stop twice to rub CBD salve into his knuckles. The air smells like hickory smoke, apple cider vinegar barbecue sauce, and pine blowing down from the ridge, the bluegrass band on the makeshift stage plucking a fiddle so loud the fence hums under his shoulder.
He spots her ten feet away, leaning against a picnic table and laughing so hard she snorts at something the local fire chief says. He’d recognize that face anywhere: the sharp cheekbones, the streak of silver in her dark curly hair, the gap between her two front teeth. Lila Marlow, the woman who wrote that viral op-ed in the Asheville Citizen-Times two weeks prior bashing “mountain extractivism” and calling out local business owners for profiting off panicked urban transplants fleeing post-pandemic city crime. He’d yelled at his laptop screen for 20 minutes straight over that piece, coffee sloshing over the rim of his mug, convinced she was another entitled trust fund transplant here to tell locals how to run their towns. He’d avoided the cabin down the road from his lot ever since she moved in last month, even when he saw her struggling to haul a stack of lumber up her driveway three days prior.
She spots him then, tilts her head, and starts walking over before he can duck behind the port-a-potty. She’s wearing a faded white tee, a plaid flannel tied around her waist, and rain boots caked with the same red clay that coats his work boots. She stands close enough when she stops that he can smell coconut shampoo mixed with the hickory smoke in her hair, has to look down a little to meet her eyes, the gold flecks in them brighter in the golden hour sun. “You’re Mace, right? The trailer guy?” She raises her voice a little to be heard over the fiddle, her shoulder brushing his bicep when a kid runs past her, the soft cotton of her tee warm through the worn Carhartt he’s wearing.
He grunts, takes a sip of beer, doesn’t smile. “That’s me. Don’t do residential repairs. If your toilet’s busted, call the plumber in town.” He’s being deliberately gruff, waiting for her to roll her eyes and walk away like most people do when he’s in a mood.
Instead she laughs, leans in even closer, her elbow nudging his ribs. “I heard you owe the fire department a favor, for bailing you out when your workshop caught fire last winter. They said if I mentioned that, you’d help me fix the leak in my cabin roof before the rains hit next week.” She holds up a paper plate piled high with pulled pork and coleslaw, offers it to him. “Bribery, if you need it. My grandma’s recipe for the slaw. She ran the general store in town back in the 80s.”
That stops him. He’d known the old Marlow general store, used to buy cherry sodas there after school when he was a kid. He’d assumed she was a stranger, not someone with roots here deeper than his own. He takes the plate, the crunch of the coleslaw tangy and sweet when he takes a bite, and nods. “Fine. I’ll be over Saturday morning, 8 a.m. Bring coffee. Strong enough to strip paint.”
They walk down to the creek behind the barbecue grounds to get away from the noise, the leaves crunching under their boots, the water gurgling over smooth stones. She trips over an exposed oak root halfway down, and he catches her without thinking, his calloused hand wrapping around her waist, the soft fabric of her tee warm under his palm. She doesn’t pull away immediately, looks up at him, their faces inches apart, and he can feel her breath on his neck, the gold flecks in her eyes darker now. “I know you read my op-ed,” she says quietly, no smile on her face now. “I saw the comment you left on the website under the name ‘Airstream Mace’. Called me an entitled city brat.”
He snorts, lets go of her waist slowly, his palm tingling. “Guilty. Thought you were here to shut down half the local businesses so you could open a yoga retreat or something.”
She laughs, shoves his shoulder gently. “I wrote that after a guy from Brooklyn offered me three times what my grandma’s store lot is worth to turn it into a matcha bar that charges $42 for a ‘forest infusion’ drink. I wasn’t mad at guys like you who’ve been here their whole lives. I was mad at the people who want to turn this town into a playground for rich people who don’t care who they push out.” She kicks a small stone into the creek, watches it skip across the surface twice before sinking. “I also saw your lot. I’ve been meaning to ask you if you have any small 70s Scottys for sale. I want to fix one up to rent out on my property for people who can’t afford the fancy resorts here. Low cost, for kids who want to camp for a weekend without paying $200 a night.”
He blinks, surprised, and leans against an oak tree, finishing the last of his beer. “I got a 1971 Scotty out back of my lot that just needs new flooring. I’ll cut you a deal. If you make good on that dinner you owe me for the roof, we can talk price after.”
She grins, stepping closer again, her hand brushing his when she reaches for the empty beer bottle in his hand to toss it in a nearby trash can. “Deal. But no cheap diner food. I’m making venison stew. My grandpa hunted the deer himself last fall.”
They walk back up to the barbecue as the sun dips below the ridge, the sky turning pink and orange, the band switching to a slow country song. She stops next to her beat-up pickup truck, turns to him, and leans in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, her lip catching on the rough stubble there before she pulls back. She winks, climbing into the driver’s seat, and rolls the window down. “8 a.m. Saturday. Don’t be late.”
He stands there in the parking lot as she drives away, the taillights fading into the dusk, the spot on his cheek still warm from her kiss. He lifts a calloused finger to brush the spot where her lip caught his stubble, grinning so wide his cheeks ache.
