Arnie Pappas, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had only dragged his crate of hand-carved birdhouses to the small-town July street fair because his 10-year-old granddaughter had begged him to enter the craft contest. He’d spent three years hiding in his basement workshop after his wife Ellie died, turning down every invite to cookouts, poker nights, even the annual woodworkers’ reunion, convinced any small joy that didn’t tie back to her was a betrayal. The 90-degree heat stuck his faded flannel shirt to his back, and he gripped a plastic cup of light beer so tight his knuckles whitened, already planning to sneak out as soon as the contest winners were announced.
He was running a thumb over the carved cedar edge of a bluebird house when a woman’s voice cut through the hum of fried oreo vendors and kids’ laughter. “Arnie Pappas? I’d know that dovetail join anywhere.” He looked up, and it took him three seconds to place her: Marisol Ruiz, 56, whose son Javier had been his favorite student back in 1998, the kid who’d won a full trade school scholarship off the oak bookshelf he’d built in Arnie’s class. She was leaning against the edge of his booth, close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep when she shifted to get a better look at the birdhouses, and she smelled like jasmine and sun-warmed citrus, no heavy perfume, just something soft and familiar. Her silver hoop earrings caught the afternoon sun, and she held eye contact a beat longer than polite when he said her name, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.