Elroy Voss, 61, vintage camper restorer, perched on a dented plastic folding chair at the West Asheville VFW fish fry, swiped a smudge of axle grease off his Carhartt cuff and stared at the purple storm clouds rolling over the Blue Ridge foothills. The air smelled like fried catfish, vinegar slaw, and the sweet, sharp tang of cut grass right before rain. Old guys two tables over argued about last weekend’s NASCAR finish, a beagle trotted past with a half-eaten hushpuppy in its mouth, and his third beer was sweating through the paper napkin wrapped around it. He’d planned to leave 20 minutes prior, but the catfish was extra good that night, and he didn’t feel like going back to his quiet 1972 Airstream alone just yet. He’d avoided most social events for 12 years, ever since his ex-wife left him for a real estate agent who’d talked him into selling a restored camper for half the asking price, and he’d learned to keep interactions with strangers as short as possible.
She sat down across from him without asking, and he tensed up immediately. He knew who she was: Mara Hale, 49, the county health inspector who’d sent three certified letters to his camper lot over the past three months, nagging him to install a commercial-grade portable handwashing station for customers who wandered through to browse his half-finished projects. He’d ignored every one, figured she was just another bored bureaucrat looking to shake down a small business owner for cash, had even blocked her number when she called twice last week. She slid a plate of extra hushpuppies across the Formica table before he could say anything, the cuff of her faded Merle Haggard tee brushing the edge of his beer bottle. “Off the clock,” she said, and he noticed the laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes, the smudge of red clay on her left jaw, the callus on her index finger from clutching a clipboard all day. “My uncle ran this VFW back in the 2010s. I’m here for the fish, not to write you a fine.”
He didn’t relax right away, but he took a hushpuppy anyway, bit into it, crispy on the outside, soft and salty inside, dotted with bits of fried onion. She sat close enough that her bare knee brushed his when she shifted in her seat, held eye contact longer than most people did, didn’t flinch when he grumbled about how the handwashing station rule was unnecessary, how he’d run his lot for 18 years without anyone getting so much as a stomach bug. She laughed, a low, rough sound, and told him she knew exactly who he was, that her dad had bought a 1968 Shasta Airflyte from him back in 2017, that they’d restored it together before he died, that she spent every other weekend camped out at Mount Mitchell in it. He felt the knot in his shoulders loosen a little at that, noticed she smelled like lavender hand sanitizer and fried food and the faint, earthy scent of clover. When she reached across the table to grab a napkin, her hand brushed his, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt in over a decade, sharp and warm, spreading from his knuckle up to his chest.
The wind picked up all at once, sending paper napkins flying across the lot, and the first fat raindrops hit the table with loud, sharp smacks. Everyone scattered, grabbing their plates and coolers, running for their cars. She cursed, said she’d left her umbrella on her kitchen counter that morning, and he stood up, shrugged off his Carhartt, held it over both their heads. It was a tight fit, their sides pressed together all the way across the parking lot, his arm slung over her shoulder, the rain soaking through the bottom hem of his jeans and her denim shorts. By the time they got to her beat-up Toyota Tacoma, their hair was dripping, their socks were squelching in their work boots. She turned to him under the edge of the jacket, so close he could feel her breath on his cheek, and reached up to brush a raindrop off his jaw, her thumb lingering on his skin for half a second longer than necessary. “I’ll be at your lot Tuesday at 10 a.m.,” she said, grinning, the rain running down the side of her neck and under the collar of her tee. “If that handwashing station is installed, I’ll bring the peach pie I baked last night. If it’s not, I’m writing you an $800 fine. No exceptions.”
He drove home that night, stopped at the hardware store on the way, bought every part he needed for the handwashing station, stayed up until 1 a.m. putting it together on the edge of his lot right next to the customer parking area. He was sitting on his Airstream’s porch step at 9:59 a.m. Tuesday, two cold sweet teas sweating in mason jars next to him, when he saw her tan Tacoma turn down the dirt road to his lot, a foil-covered pie tin glinting on the passenger seat.
