Rafe Mendoza, 53, makes his living sanding dents out of 1960s Airstream aluminum and restringing vintage propane fridges for clients who pay top dollar to drag a little midcentury luxury out to national park campgrounds. He’s lived alone on 5 wooded acres outside Black Mountain, North Carolina, for 6 years, ever since he signed the divorce papers and told his ex she could keep the house, as long as she left him the half-restored 1968 Trade Wind he’d been working on since he was 22. His biggest flaw, if you ask his niece Lila, is that he’s stubborn as the pine stumps he digs out of his driveway every spring, and he’s held a grudge against every last person who dabbles in what he calls “woo-woo garbage” ever since his ex left him for a guy who made a six-figure income selling crystal-infused body wash on Instagram.
He only agreed to come to the town’s fall harvest festival because Lila begged him to enter his honey butter cornbread in the baking contest, and he’d never say no to the kid who’d spent every summer of her teen years helping him strip paint off old camper panels. He’d planned to stay 90 minutes max, grab a beer, drop off the cornbread, stick around long enough to clap when Lila won first place for her apple pie, then hightail it back home where the only noise was his coonhound Mabel snoring and the hum of his sanders.
That plan went out the window when he turned too fast to grab a cold IPA from the food tent cooler, his work boot catching on a loose hay bale, and he knocked an entire stack of polished rose quartz tumble stones off the folding table next to him. He cursed under his breath, kneeling to scoop them up before they rolled into the mud, and his hand brushed another person’s mid-grab. He looked up, expecting to see some woman in a flowy white linen dress and bare feet, the kind his ex used to hang out with. Instead, he was staring at a woman in a well-worn navy flannel, steel-toe work boots, and jeans dotted with wood stain, a half-smoked Camel tucked behind her ear, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. “Don’t sweat it,” she said, her voice low and rough, like she’d spent 20 years yelling over table saws. “Those things are slippery little shits. I drop them at least three times a day.”
She smelled like pine resin and vanilla, and when she leaned in to grab a stone that had rolled under his boot, her shoulder brushed his bicep, and he could see a thin, pale scar snaking across her left wrist, exactly where he’d sliced himself on a sharp edge of Airstream aluminum last winter, when he’d been rushing to finish a client’s build before Christmas. He held out the handful of stones he’d picked up, and his knuckles brushed hers again when she took them. He noticed her fingers were calloused, same as his, nails chipped, a faint line of dried wood glue under her thumbnail. “I’m Jules,” she said, nodding at the stack of crystals on the table. “I sell these to fund the local feral cat TNR program. My dad was a geologist, taught me to dig for them when I was a kid. No woo-woo, promise. Just pretty rocks for a good cause.”
He laughed, surprised. He’d already pegged her for the same type as his ex’s new husband, the kind who’d try to sell him a $40 “abundance crystal” to “fix his negative energy.” “Rafe,” he said, nodding at the baking tent behind him. “I’m here for the cornbread contest. I usually avoid festivals like the plague. Too many people selling stuff that doesn’t work.” Jules leaned against the table, crossing her ankles, and tilted her head at him, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let me guess. Ex was into all that stuff?” He blinked, shocked she’d guessed that right. “How’d you know?” She grinned, tapping the scar on her wrist. “My ex left me for a yoga instructor who swore her sound baths could cure his back pain. I still make fun of him when I see him at the hardware store, carrying a $20 sage stick.”
The air smelled like wood smoke and spiced cider, and the bluegrass band on the main stage started playing a cover of a Johnny Cash song he’d loved since he was a kid. Mabel, who’d been napping at his feet, lifted her head, trotted over to Jules, and laid her head on her boot. Jules knelt down to scratch her behind the ears, and Mabel’s tail thumped so hard it hit the leg of the table. “She likes you,” Rafe said, surprised. Mabel usually hated strangers, would hide under the porch if anyone he didn’t know came onto his property. “Dogs usually do,” Jules said, standing back up, brushing hay off her jeans. “Hey, I found a cluster of amethyst growing in the rock face down by the creek behind the festival grounds last week. You wanna come see? It’s only a 5 minute walk. No sales pitch, I swear. Just pretty rocks.”
He hesitated. He’d planned to leave 10 minutes prior, after he found out he’d won second place for his cornbread, Lila taking first for her pie. He told himself he was being stupid, that he shouldn’t go off walking in the woods with a stranger, that he’d probably regret it. But then he looked at her, grinning, Mabel already trotting a few steps toward the tree line like she knew exactly where they were going, and he nodded. They walked side by side down the dirt path, fallen oak leaves crunching under their boots, their shoulders brushing every few steps. She told him she restored vintage midcentury furniture for a living, ran the TNR program on the side, had lived in the area for 12 years. He told her about the Airstream restoration business, about the 1972 Sovereign he was working on now for a client in Miami, about how he’d bought his property because it was far enough from town that he didn’t have to hear neighbors yelling at their kids.
When they got to the creek, Jules stopped at a flat rock face half covered in moss, knelt down, and brushed a clump of moss away to reveal a cluster of deep purple amethyst, glinting in the late afternoon sun. She pulled a small pocketknife out of her jeans, pried a loose, thumb-sized piece free, and held it out to him. “For your cornbread win,” she said. He took it, his fingers closing around the smooth, sun-warmed stone. It felt solid, heavy, nothing like the flimsy plastic crystals his ex used to leave around the house. He tucked it into the pocket of his work jeans, and when he looked up, Jules was watching him, the golden flecks in her hazel eyes bright in the sunset. “There’s a diner on the edge of town that serves peach pie till 10,” she said, tilting her head toward the path back up. “They make it with peaches from their own orchard. Wanna go?”
Rafe nodded, whistling for Mabel, who’d wandered off to sniff at a frog in the creek. She came trotting over, tail wagging, and he followed Jules back up the path, the sound of the bluegrass band growing louder as they got closer to the festival, the amethyst warm and heavy in his pocket, the taste of spiced cider still on his tongue.
