Rafe Mendez, 53, retired high-voltage lineman turned Christmas tree farmer, had only agreed to show up to the Elk Rapids chili cookoff to drop off his sister’s award-winning brisket chili and bolt. He’d worn his most faded gray flannel, scuffed work boots, and kept his worn oak cane tucked close to his bad knee, the one he’d shattered when a utility pole buckled in an ice storm six years prior. The room reeked of smoked paprika, fermented hops, and the faint tang of pine from the wreaths stacked by the front door, a local high school cover band grinding through an off-key version of John Mellencamp’s “Jack & Diane” in the corner. He’d planned to be gone in ten minutes, until he felt a warm shoulder bump his upper arm when he turned to grab a sample of maple porter.
It was Lila, the woman who’d bought the old crumbling farmhouse two miles down his dirt road three months prior, the one the town gossips hadn’t stopped chattering about since she’d pulled up in a beat-up Subaru covered in mushroom and fern stickers, left a six-figure corporate law job in Chicago to open a foraging school for tourists and local kids. Everyone had opinions: she was running from a bad marriage, she was a rich hippie wasting her education, she’d be gone by spring when the snow melted and the mosquitoes came out. Rafe had avoided her until that point, too used to keeping to himself since his wife left him eight years prior, too wary of getting tangled up in small town drama that would end with someone asking him when he’d finally “get back out there.”
She laughed when he apologized for bumping her, a low, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the room, and leaned in so close he could smell cedar and wild honey in her hair, the mint of her gum on her breath when she said, “No harm done. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you for weeks, actually. Your pine stands are the only place around here that have that strain of chanterelles I’ve been hunting all fall.” She gestured at his cane, her silver-streaked auburn hair falling over her shoulder when she tilted her head. “My dad was a lineman too, back in Ohio. Retired with a bad hip and a chip on his shoulder the size of a dump truck.”
Rafe tensed at first, half expecting someone to lean over and make a dumb joke about him finally talking to the new girl, but he found himself smiling anyway, shifting his weight to take pressure off his knee when she stepped even closer, her hip brushing his now, not by accident. He told her about the chanterelles, how they grew thick under the oldest stands of Fraser fir, how he usually left them be because he didn’t know the difference between the edible ones and the ones that would put you in the ER for three days. She laughed again, her hand brushing his wrist when she reached around him to grab a sample cup of spiced cider from the table behind him, her skin soft and warm against the rough scar tissue on his forearm.
He should have pulled away. He’d spent eight years perfecting his routine of waking up at 5 a.m. to tend the trees, eating frozen dinners on his porch while watching the sunset, ignoring every awkward set-up his sister tried to push on him, too bitter about how his marriage ended to let anyone get close. But when she looked up at him, her hazel eyes bright, her thumb brushing the back of his hand for half a second before she pulled back, he didn’t feel the familiar urge to run. “I can show you which ones are safe,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear it, over the roar of the crowd. “If you let me come out to your farm sometime this week. I’ll bring coffee. Homemade apple pie, too. My grandma’s recipe.” She paused, then added, soft, “I know everyone in this town talks too much. I don’t care what they say. I just want to see the mushrooms. And talk to someone who doesn’t ask me why I left Chicago every five minutes.”
Rafe hesitated for two beats, then nodded, pulling a crumpled napkin out of his flannel pocket and scribbling his cell number on it, adding a lopsided doodle of a pine tree in the corner like he always did when he was nervous. “Text me tomorrow,” he said. “I’m out trimming trees until 3, but I’ll be home after that.”
She took the napkin, folded it carefully and tucked it into the pocket of her wool coat, winking at him when she stepped back. “Looking forward to it,” she said, before turning to walk toward the exit, her boots clicking on the linoleum floor.
Rafe stood there for another five minutes, sipping the spiced cider she’d handed him, ignoring the sideways glances from the couple at the next table who’d definitely seen them talking. He’d planned to leave right after dropping off the chili, but he stayed for another half hour, entered the 50/50 raffle, even talked to a guy he’d gone to high school with for ten minutes about deer hunting, and none of it felt like a chore. He could still feel the warmth of her hand on his wrist, the smell of cedar and honey in his nose, the sound of her laugh ringing in his ears. He lifted his cane to take a step toward the exit, the cold metal handle solid under his palm, and for the first time in eight years, he was looking forward to coming home to something other than an empty porch and a frozen dinner.
