Rafe Mendez is 53, makes his living restoring vintage campers out of a weathered red barn 10 minutes outside of Asheville, and has not willingly struck up a conversation with a stranger in six years. His ex-wife left him for his longtime business partner two weeks after they’d paid off the barn mortgage, and the mess of that split taught him to keep his circle so small it only includes his 12 year old border collie, a handful of repeat clients, and the bartender at Moe’s Tap who never asks him personal questions. He only goes to Moe’s on Thursdays, when the fried pickles are half off and the draft pilsner is cheap enough that he can have two and still have change for a dog treat on the way home.
The rain is coming down in thin, cold sheets when he pushes through the bar’s screen door Thursday night, and his usual stool at the end of the counter is taken. The only open seat is three stools down, right next to the woman who moved into the cottage half a mile down his road three weeks prior. He’d waved back awkwardly once when she’d yelled hello while walking her golden retriever, then ducked into his shop before she could approach, too wary of small town neighborly small talk that always leads to questions about his marital status. He hesitates for ten full seconds by the door, then slogs over, yanks the stool out, and sits. His jeans brush her knee when he shifts to get comfortable, and he mumbles an apology, staring hard at the scuff on his work boot.
She laughs, low and warm, and he catches the scent of pine soap and cherry hard candy drifting off her chunky wool sweater. “No harm done. I’ve been meaning to track you down, actually. Made peach jam last weekend, figured a guy who spends all day sanding aluminum would appreciate a little sweet stuff.” She rummages in the canvas tote at her feet, pulls out a mason jar sealed with a red checkered lid, and sets it on the counter between them. The glass is still faintly warm from being tucked against her side during her walk over.
Rafe picks at a loose thread on his frayed flannel sleeve, fighting the urge to grab the jar and mumble a thanks and bolt. He’s got a strict rule about not engaging with anyone who lives within a 10 mile radius of his shop, avoids the local gossip mill like it’s rust eating through a 1968 Winnebago frame. But then she nods at the stitched Airstream patch on his work shirt, the one he sewed on himself after buying the gutted 1972 Sovereign behind his barn, and says, “My dad had one exactly like that. We drove it to the Outer Banks every summer until I was 16. I still have the shell collection I found on Hatteras in a shoebox under my bed.”
That pulls his head up fast. He’s been working on that Airstream for two years, a project he started six months after his dad died, the cross-continental drive to Anchorage they’d planned for decades something he’d never told another living soul. He meets her eye for the first time, and she’s grinning, a smudge of cerulean paint on her left jaw, her eyes bright behind scuffed wire rimmed glasses. “You’ve seen it?” he says, surprised. He keeps it tucked behind a wall of stacked pressure treated lumber, thought no one but the mailman had noticed it past the oak trees.
“Walked my dog past your place three times last week,” she says, teasing, and he feels his ears go hot. He’d noticed her, of course, had hidden behind the barn door every time so he wouldn’t have to make small talk. “You kept pretending you didn’t see me. Thought maybe you were a hermit or something.” The jukebox switches over to a scratchy old Merle Haggard track, the one his dad used to sing on family road trips, and the rain taps soft and steady on the bar’s tin roof. When she slides the jam jar closer to him, her hand brushes his, her fingers calloused from planting native wildflowers in her yard all week, and he doesn’t flinch away like he usually does when someone touches him unprompted.
He finds himself talking for an hour, telling her about the custom hardwood floors he laid last month, the trouble he’s having tracking down vintage brass cabinet hardware that matches the original set. She tells him she’s a freelance book cover designer, moved to the mountains after her divorce to get away from the noise of Miami, does upholstery work on the side for extra cash. She offers to help him reupholster the Airstream’s bench seats for free, as long as he lets her ride along on the first test drive once it’s done.
Rafe doesn’t even think before he says yes. He scribbles his phone number on a napkin, even though she already knows where he lives, and tells her to come over tomorrow around two, to bring that hazy IPA she’s drinking. She scribbles her number under his, slides the napkin back across the counter, her thumb brushing his knuckle when she lets go.
He leaves the bar an hour later, the jam jar tucked under one arm, the napkin folded tight in the pocket of his flannel. The rain has slowed to a fine drizzle, and the first stars are peeking through the clouds over the Blue Ridge Mountains. He stops by the gas station on the way home, buys a bag of peanut butter treats for his dog, and a pack of cherry hard candy for the porch he’s suddenly looking forward to sharing tomorrow.
