Javi Mendez, 52, vintage RV restorer with grease permanently under his fingernails and a scowl that keeps most neighbors from prying, had only agreed to the annual hill country chili cookoff because his sister threatened to stop dropping off her famous pecan pies if he bailed again. He’d taken third place for his brisket and ancho chili, accepted the cheap plastic plaque with a half-hearted nod, and slipped away from the crowd before anyone could corner him to ask when he’d finally start dating again, or come to the church’s men’s breakfast.
He leaned against the rough bark of a gnarled live oak at the edge of the field, twisting the cap off a lukewarm Shiner Bock, the scent of mesquite smoke and roasted meat curling through the crisp October air. His work boots were caked in red dust, the flannel he’d thrown on that morning dotted with old grease stains he’d never bothered to wash out. He’d been there ten minutes, mentally running through the list of repairs he had to finish on a 1968 Airstream that week, when a woman stepped into the shade next to him, holding a paper bowl half full of his chili.
She was wearing worn brown cowboy boots scuffed at the toes, high-waisted jeans, and a white button-down with a flannel tied around her waist, a smudge of chili red on the edge of her jaw. “This is the first thing I’ve eaten at a church-adjacent event that didn’t taste like cardboard and regret,” she said, holding out a hand. “Lena Hale. New Methodist pastor. Everyone in town’s been warning me about the grumpy RV guy who doesn’t like to talk to people.”
Javi’s jaw tightened immediately. He’d had enough run-ins with the previous pastor, a stiff old guy who’d kept showing up at his shop after his divorce to nag him about “finding salvation in the Lord” instead of working 12 hour days, to be wary. He shook her hand anyway, his calloused palm wrapping around hers for half a second, surprised at how warm her skin was. “Javi. They’re not wrong about the grumpy part.”
Lena laughed, a low, rough sound that didn’t match the soft, polished pastor voice he’d been expecting. She leaned against the oak a foot away from him, tipping her bowl to scoop up the last bite of chili, and he caught a whiff of vanilla and pine shampoo when she moved. “I heard you donate half your restoration profits to the local veteran’s shelter. Doesn’t sound very grumpy to me.”
He stared at her, taken aback. Most people only saw the grease stains and the scowl, didn’t bother asking about the rest. A group of rowdy teens darted past, chasing a golden retriever with a paper plate in its mouth, and she stepped closer to avoid being run into, her shoulder pressing firm against his upper arm for three full seconds. He could feel the heat of her through his flannel, hear the soft huff of her laugh when the dog knocked over a tray of cornbread on its way across the field.
He told himself to step back, to make an excuse and leave. This was a bad idea. She was a pastor, for Christ’s sake, the kind of person he’d spent seven years avoiding to keep people from asking questions he didn’t want to answer. But when she turned to look at him, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners, he couldn’t make himself move.
She told him she’d moved to town two months prior, had left a congregation in Dallas because she was sick of spending more time fundraising than actually helping people. She mentioned the beat-up 1972 Winnebago the church used for their mobile food bank runs, said it was sputtering every time it went up a hill, that half the people she’d asked about repairs had told her Javi was the only guy within 50 miles who could fix something that old without charging an arm and a leg.
“I’m not here to recruit you to services, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, and her voice dropped a little, softer, like she was sharing a secret. “I don’t care if you sit in a pew on Sunday or not. I care that you’re good at what you do, and you care about people, even if you don’t want anyone to know it.”
Javi’s throat went dry. No one had ever put it that way, had ever seen past the wall he’d built after his wife left without trying to tear it down for their own reasons. He noticed she was licking a smudge of chili off her thumb, her lip gloss glinting in the late afternoon sun, and his gaze lingered longer than it should have. He reached out before he could think better of it, brushing his thumb across the edge of her jaw to wipe off the remaining chili smudge.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Just held his eye, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and Javi felt something he hadn’t felt in seven years, a light, warm buzz in his chest that had nothing to do with the beer he was drinking.
“I’ll look at the Winnebago tomorrow,” he said, pulling his hand back slowly, like he was afraid he’d break something if he moved too fast. “10 a.m. My shop’s on the west end of town, the metal building with the blue heeler painted on the side.”
Lena grinned, pulling a crumpled napkin out of her jeans pocket and scribbling her phone number on it with a pen she’d tucked behind her ear. The napkin had the church logo printed on the back, faded blue ink. “I’ll bring coffee. The good stuff, cold brew, not the weak watery swill we serve at fellowship hour. Fair warning, I ask a lot of questions when I watch people work.”
She waved over her shoulder as she walked back toward the crowd, weaving through groups of people carrying bowls of chili and paper cups of beer. Javi stood there for another ten minutes, twisting the napkin between his fingers, the ghost of her jaw still soft under his thumb, the cold beer in his other hand long gone warm. He pulled his phone out to set an alarm for 9:30 the next morning, the first time in months he’d bothered to make plans that didn’t involve RV parts or his dog.
