Woody Thorne is 63, makes his living restoring vintage travel trailers out of a cinder block shop on the edge of small-town western North Carolina, and hasn’t willingly attended a neighborhood block party in seven years. The only reason he showed up to this one is the 12-year-old kid next door helped him heft a 200-pound Airstream frame onto a workbench two weeks prior, and the kid’s only request for payment was Woody bring his famous oak-smoked brisket. He’s standing by the folding table with the meat tray, sweat sticking his faded Carhartt tee to his back, the sharp smell of charcoal and cut grass mixing with the sickly sweet perfume of the church ladies hovering three feet away, already gossiping about whoever walks past. His biggest flaw is he’s stubborn to a fault; he’s turned down three date offers from local women in the last year, still clinging to the quiet, closed-off routine he built after his ex-wife left him for a cruise ship lounge singer in 2016. He’d rather spend 12 hours a day sanding rusted trailer siding than make small talk with people who only want to ask him about the divorce.
Mara Hale walks up 10 minutes later, and he recognizes her immediately. She’s the new woman who moved into the yellow cottage three blocks over three months prior, left three handwritten notes stuck to his shop door asking him to restore the 1962 Scotty trailer she inherited from her mom, and he ignored every single one. The whole town’s been whispering about her since she arrived; she left her husband, a prominent local Baptist pastor, mid-Sunday sermon, packed her car, and drove across the state without leaving a note. Everyone calls her trouble, says she’s too loud, too unapologetic, doesn’t know her place. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded Dolly Parton tee, barefoot, a smudge of cerulean paint on her left jaw from painting the inside of her cottage that morning. She leans in to reach for a pickle off the tray next to his brisket, her bare shoulder pressing firm against his bicep for two full seconds, the scent of jasmine shampoo curling into his nose, and when she looks up at him, her dark brown eyes hold his gaze longer than polite social custom allows, no quick glance away, no awkward smile.
She asks for a slice of the brisket, says she’s been hearing about it for weeks, and he cuts her an extra thick piece, even though he told himself he’d ration the last few slices for the kid. She takes a bite, moans loud enough that the church ladies turn to stare, and laughs when she sees the look on their faces. She mentions the Scotty trailer again, and he almost gives her his standard line, that he’s booked solid six months out, no exceptions, but then he sees one of the church ladies mutter something to her friend, nod in Mara’s direction, and the words die in his throat. He tells her he can stop by her place Tuesday morning to look at it, no charge for the estimate. She grins, reaches up to brush a crumb of brisket off the front of his shirt, her fingers lingering light on his sternum for a split second before she pulls back, says she knew he wasn’t as much of a cranky hermit as everyone said.
The party winds down an hour later, the bluegrass band packs up their instruments, kids run around chasing fireflies with mason jars, and he offers to walk her home. The air is soft, still warm from the day, crickets chirping in the hedges lining the sidewalk, and when they get to her porch, she leans against the railing, tilts her head up at him. She says everyone in town warned her not to bother asking him for help, said he hated everyone, never did favors for anyone. He reaches up without thinking, brushes the smudge of blue paint off her jaw with his thumb, his skin brushing the soft curve of her cheek, and she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. She says she’s fixing up the Scotty to drive cross country once it’s done, no itinerary, no schedule, just stop wherever looks interesting, and asks if he wants to come with her when it’s finished.
He doesn’t answer right away, just smiles, a real smile, not the tight polite one he uses for customers and nosy neighbors, the kind he hasn’t felt pull at his cheeks in years. He leans in, kisses her slow, tastes sweet tea and the peach cobbler she ate for dessert, the distant sound of a dog barking down the street mixing with the crickets. When he pulls back, he tells her he’ll be at her place at 9 a.m. Tuesday, and he already has a lead on a period-correct plaid awning for the Scotty that he’s been hoarding for two years for no reason he could name until now. She laughs, tangles her fingers in the front of his shirt, tugs him up the porch steps and inside her cottage, the screen door slamming shut behind them with a sharp, happy thwack.
