Rudy Galvan, 58, retired high school woodshop teacher, had only dragged himself to the town fireman’s carnival because his former star student, now a volunteer firefighter, had begged him to donate a custom cedar birdhouse for the annual raffle. For four years, ever since his wife Linda passed suddenly from a stroke, he’d stuck to a rigid routine: 6am coffee in his workshop, three hours of sanding or joinery, lunch at the diner alone, three more hours of work, then TV until bed. He avoided any event with more than ten people, called anyone over 50 who posted about dating on Facebook “a senile kid playing house.” That was his flaw—he’d frozen his life the day Linda’s heart stopped, convinced any joy that didn’t tie back to her was a betrayal.
He was leaning against the raffle table, wiping sawdust off the edge of the birdhouse, when he turned too fast to avoid a group of teens sprinting past with snow cones. His elbow connected with a plastic cup of frozen lemonade, sending it sloshing to the dirt, a bright yellow splash spotting the toe of his scuffed work boots and the hem of a faded sage linen sundress. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” he said, fumbling for the crumpled napkins in his pocket, before he looked up.
Elara Voss was 54, the new librarian who’d moved to town six months prior, and he’d seen her exactly three times before: once at the hardware store buying paint for the library’s children’s room, once at the grocery store carrying a stack of romance novels and a bag of cat food, once walking her golden retriever past his house. She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the carnival’s noise of cotton candy machines and screaming kids on the Tilt-A-Whirl. “No harm done. I’ve spilled worse on myself this week, trust me.” She leaned in to grab a napkin from the stack on the raffle table, and her shoulder brushed his bicep, so close he could pick up the mix of lemon Pledge, lavender hand lotion, and coconut sunscreen on her skin. Her hand brushed his wrist when she passed him a napkin to wipe his boot, and he flinched like he’d been burned—no one had touched him that casually, that intentionally, in four years.
He fought the urge to mumble another apology and bolt for his truck. That old, sharp guilt twisted in his gut, the familiar voice yelling that he had no right talking to a pretty woman, no right enjoying the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, no right even noticing the freckles scattered across her nose from working in the library’s community garden. He started to step back, but she nodded at the birdhouse next to him. “I saw those you had at the hardware store craft fair back in May. The ones with the carved sunflowers on the side? I almost bought one, but someone beat me to it.”
Rudy blinked. He’d carved those sunflowers because Linda used to grow rows of them along their fence line. “I, uh, I can make you another one. If you want.” The words were out before he could stop them, and he wanted to kick himself.
Elara’s smile widened, and she leaned in a little more, the noise of the carnival fading to a low hum for a split second. “I’d like that. Actually, I was going to track you down anyway. I’m trying to put together free senior classes at the library, and I need someone to teach basic woodworking. Nothing fancy—birdhouses, cutting boards, little stuff. We’d pay you, obviously.”
His first instinct was to say no. He didn’t want to be around a bunch of strangers, didn’t want to deal with small talk, didn’t want to face the fact that he was actually considering it just because she was the one asking. That disgust with himself bubbled up again, hot and sharp—how dare he even think about moving on? But then she tilted her head, and said, “Everyone says you’re the best woodworker within 50 miles. And everyone also says you haven’t left your workshop for anything except the VFW fish fry in four years. Don’t make me beg.” She was teasing, but there was a softness under it, like she understood, like she wasn’t pushing him to do something he couldn’t handle.
He hesitated, then said, “I’ll think about it.” It was the most open he’d been to anything new since Linda died.
They ended up walking the fairgrounds together, him buying her a new frozen lemonade, her pointing out the rigged carnival games and making fun of the lopsided giant stuffed teddy bears you could win. The sun went down, and the string lights strung across the food booths turned on, casting a warm golden glow over everything. When the fire department siren blared to announce the 10pm raffle drawing, Elara flinched a little and leaned into him, her side pressed fully against his, the warmth of her body seeping through his worn flannel shirt. “Sorry,” she said, leaning up to speak in his ear so he could hear her over the siren, “I hate loud noises.” Her breath was warm against his neck, and that guilt that had been nipping at his heels all night faded a little, replaced by something lighter, something he hadn’t felt in years: excitement.
The siren cut out, and the emcee announced the raffle winners. Elara whooped when she won a $25 gift card to the diner, and Rudy’s birdhouse went to a little old lady who lived three houses down from him. When the first firework went off over the fairgrounds, painting the dark sky neon pink, Rudy turned to her, and before he could talk himself out of it, he said, “I’ll teach the class. And if you’re free tomorrow, we can talk about lesson plans over breakfast at the diner. On me.”
Elara smiled, and tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ear, her fingers brushing his cheek accidentally when she pulled her hand back. He didn’t flinch this time. “I’d like that,” she said.
They stood there for another ten minutes, watching the fireworks burst over the treeline, their shoulders touching the whole time, no awkward silences, no pressure, just the distant pop of fireworks and the smell of buttered popcorn and cotton candy in the air. A kid ran past them holding a sparkler, and Elara laughed, pointing at the way the golden flecks of light hung in the dark for half a second before fading.
