Ronan O’Malley, 59, antique clock restorer, had avoided Asheville’s weekly River Arts District beer garden for three straight years. He hated the forced cheer, the strangers asking prying questions about his barn workshop, the way people always stared a little too long when they found out he’d moved here alone after his wife’s quick cancer death eight years prior. The only reason he showed up that muggy late June night was because a regular client promised to hand off a rare 1922 Waltham pocket watch they’d donated to the town’s youth center raffle, and he’d offered to appraise it ahead of the drawing to drive up ticket sales. He’d planned to grab the watch, chug one cheap IPA, and be back in his workshop before the fireflies came out in full force.
The first sign of trouble was when a warm body bumped his left elbow hard enough to slosh half an inch of beer down the front of his well-worn gray flannel, the one with the tiny oil stain on the cuff from fixing an 1890s grandfather clock the week before. He bit back a sharp retort, looked down, and met the dark, crinkling eyes of Lena Marquez, the new part-time librarian who’d left the town’s beloved high school football coach three months prior, the split that had been the only thing anyone at the local diner talked about for weeks. She smelled like jasmine perfume and lemon furniture polish, and she was holding a crumpled paper napkin out to him, her lips twisted in a sheepish grin. “My bad. I was avoiding the group of football parents over by the cornhole boards and didn’t see you.”
He took the napkin, his calloused, oil-stained fingers brushing her knuckles for half a second, and felt a jolt run up his arm he hadn’t felt since his wife was alive. He knew the gossip: half the town thought she’d left the coach for a younger man, the other half thought she was just ungrateful for the “perfect” life he’d given her. Ronan had heard it all, had even told himself to stay away from whatever mess she was tangled up in, but he couldn’t look away from the way she was leaning against the picnic table next to him, her bare leg almost brushing his jeans, not caring that a handful of people across the garden were staring right at them. She told him she’d stopped by his workshop twice already, dropping off a box of old clock repair manuals she’d found in the library’s attic, but he’d been so focused on a broken pocket watch he hadn’t even heard her knock. He laughed, surprised, admitted he often wore noise-canceling headphones when he worked, missed half the knocks on his door.
They talked for 40 minutes, the bluegrass band off to the side switching from fast, foot-stomping tracks to slow, waltzing tunes, fireflies blinking between the oak tree branches above them. She told him she left the coach because he’d been cheating on her with a student’s mom for two years, that everyone was mad at her because he’d just won the state championship, like a trophy made infidelity okay. Ronan nodded, told her he knew what it was like to have people make up stories about you: half the town thought he’d killed his wife, the other half thought he was running from the law, when really he just couldn’t stand to live in the house they’d shared back in Charlotte.
When the band struck up a slow cover of a 1970s country song he’d danced to with his wife at their wedding, she held her hand out to him, palm up. “Dance with me.” He hesitated, glancing over at the group of football parents who were definitely staring now, muttering to each other. He hated attention, hated giving people more stuff to gossip about, but when he looked back at her, her thumb brushing the edge of her wrist like she was nervous he’d say no, he took her hand. Her palm was calloused from sanding the old bookshelves she refinished on the side, fit perfectly in his. They didn’t stand close at first, just swayed a little to the music, but a kid running with a snow cone bumped into her back, and she stumbled forward, her chest pressing against his, her hair brushing his jaw. He wrapped his arm around her waist to steady her, didn’t let go when she found her footing. He could feel her heartbeat through her thin cotton dress, warm and fast, and he realized he didn’t care who was watching, what they were saying.
When the song ended, they walked back to the picnic table, and she pulled the Waltham pocket watch out of her purse, the client having asked her to hold it for him when she spotted him across the garden. He flipped it open, checked the movement, nodded, it was in perfect shape. He told her to bring the dented 1890s mantle clock she’d mentioned finding in the library attic by his workshop Saturday morning, he’d make cold brew, teach her how to oil the gears if she wanted. She grinned, leaned in, kissed his cheek slow, her lip brushing the corner of his mouth for half a second before she pulled back. She waved over her shoulder as she walked to her beat-up 1998 Ford Ranger, honked twice when she pulled out of the parking lot. He flipped the pocket watch closed, slipped it into his jeans pocket, and took a sip of his now warm beer, the spot where her lips had brushed his skin still tingling.
