Rafe Mendez, 53, has restored 17 vintage Airstreams out of his converted barn shop outside Asheville, and hasn’t voluntarily attended a social event that didn’t involve power tools or scrap metal since his divorce finalized three years prior. His biggest flaw, per his sister who nags him every Sunday, is that he’d rather spend three nights troubleshooting a faulty water pump than make small talk with someone new, and he wipes grease-stained hands on his work jeans so hard he’s worn permanent frays into the denim when flustered. He’s only at the October county flea market for one reason: to track down a 1972 brass propane fitting he’s hunted for six weeks for a client’s custom build.
The air smells like fried Oreos, pine, and damp rot of fallen maple leaves crushed under boot soles. He’s hunched over a cardboard box of dented scrap metal, half-bent so the brim of his worn baseball cap blocks a group of retirees from his old high school waving him over across the aisle, when his hand brushes someone else’s reaching for the exact same fitting.
He yanks his hand back fast, already wiping it on his jeans before he looks up. The woman next to him laughs, soft and warm, and he recognizes her immediately: Lila, the new Methodist pastor at the tiny church two miles down the road from his shop, the one who dropped a warm peach pie off at his barn last month after he fixed the church’s rusted riding lawnmower for free. He’d mumbled a thank you and bolted back inside before she could say more, too embarrassed by the fact he’d stared at her through the shop window every time she walked her golden retriever past his driveway for six months prior.
She’s wearing a frayed denim jacket over her clergy collar, scuffed white sneakers, dark hair pulled back in a braid dotted with bits of leaf. She holds the brass fitting up between two fingers, waggling it a little. “Funny, I was looking for this too. The youth group’s 1978 Scout camper has a leaky line, and we can’t afford a new assembly on the church’s budget.”
Rafe nods, his throat suddenly dry. He’d seen the beat-up camper parked behind the church the week before, had even slowed down in his truck to gawk at the water damage along the side panel, mentally drafting a list of repairs before he caught himself and hit the gas. “That thing’s a mess. You’d be better off scrapping it.”
“Probably,” she says, shifting closer so their shoulders press together through their jackets, and he smells apple cider and cinnamon on her sweater. “But the kids love it. They’ve been planning a Smokies camping trip for months, and I told them I’d get it running if it killed me.” She pauses, tilting her head, hazel eyes flecked with gold never leaving his. “I heard you restore old campers. The bake sale ladies said you’re the best in the county, even if you’re allergic to church events.”
He snorts, surprised he’d been noticed ducking out of the bake sale after grabbing the pie. “I’m not allergic. I just don’t have much use for small talk about hymns and potluck recipes.”
“Fair,” she says, laughing, and he feels the vibration of it against his arm. She brushes a stray red maple leaf off his flannel shoulder, her fingers grazing the side of his neck for half a second, a tingle running all the way down to his boots. The voice in his head screams this is a bad idea: small town gossip travels faster than wildfire, a divorced, grubby camper restorer who swears like a sailor dating the local pastor? Half the town would lose their minds, and he hates being the center of attention more than he hates rusted bolts that won’t turn.
But then she holds the brass fitting out to him, palm up, and says, “I’ll make you a deal. You take the fitting. I’ll trade you two peach pies, a growler of the hard apple cider I brew in my garage, and a free spot at the church’s fish fry next week if you help me fix the camper. No small talk required, unless you want to complain about rusted parts. I’m very good at listening to people complain about rusted parts.”
He stares for a long second, the flea market noise fading into the background. He can feel the warmth of her hand still lingering on his neck, taste the sweet, buttery peach pie he ate for three nights straight last month, already picture the two of them bent over the camper’s engine bay after the church kids go home, sawdust and cider hanging in the air. He takes the fitting from her, fingers brushing hers on purpose this time, and says yes.
She grins, pulls a crumpled receipt out of her jacket pocket, scribbles her phone number on the back, shoves it into his hand. She says she has to pick up pumpkins for the church’s fall festival, waves as she walks away, braid swinging over her shoulder. He stands there holding the fitting and the receipt, staring at the messy scrawl of her number for a full minute before pulling his phone out to text her the list of extra parts they’ll need before he even walks back to his truck.
