Rafe Marquez, 53, has spent the last 18 years hunched over fragile vellum and water-stained paper, restoring 19th century Southwest territory maps for private collectors and small museum collections. He’s got a scar slicing across his left knuckle from a utility knife slip when he was prying open a water-damaged map case in 2017, and a flaw he’s never bothered to fix: he’s written off every potential romantic connection since his 2015 divorce, convinced anyone who shows interest is either after his rare personal map collection or looking to run their mouth to his ex-wife’s loud, judgmental family. He works a booth at Santa Fe’s monthly vintage market half for the extra cash, half for the excuse to get out of his remote cabin outside town, where the only company he usually has is his three-legged hound dog, Mabel.
The late October air smells like roasted green chiles and pine from the Christmas tree vendor three rows down when Lila first leans over his table, her shoulder brushing his bicep as she cranes to get a closer look at a framed 1872 map of the Santa Fe Trail. He catches the scent of cedar and vanilla lotion off her flannel, notices the sun streaks in her dark wavy hair, the calluses on her fingers from hammering copper, the smudge of black polish chipped on her thumb. She holds eye contact for three full seconds longer than a stranger would, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile that feels familiar, before she says, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Rafe tenses immediately, his hand curling around the edge of the table. He recognizes her then: Lila, his ex-wife Elaina’s younger cousin, the one who spilled an entire glass of cabernet on his favorite work shirt at Elaina’s sister’s wedding 12 years prior. He’d thought she was sharp then, quick to laugh, but Elaina had ripped him a new one in the car on the way home for “leering at my family like a creep” so he’d written off any interaction with her side of the family entirely. He opens his mouth to make a polite, distant excuse to leave, but she snorts, holding up both hands like she’s surrendering. “Relax. I haven’t spoken to Elaina in six years. She threw a fit when I quit the law firm to make jewelry full time, called me a disappointment to the family. I’m not here to stir up drama.”
She gestures to the booth next to his, stacked with hand-forged copper necklaces and rings stamped with little compass motifs, and Rafe lets his shoulders relax. They talk off and on all day, between customers. She reaches past him to grab a water bottle she stashed behind his stack of map tubes earlier, her hip pressing against his thigh for two beats too long, and he doesn’t step away. When a teenager knocks over a stack of his unframed maps, she helps him pick them up, her fingers brushing his when she hands him a tattered 1891 railroad survey map, and he feels a jolt go up his arm that he hasn’t felt in close to a decade. Part of him feels sick with himself for even noticing her, echoes of Elaina’s old insults ringing in his ears, warning him he’s crossing a line he can’t uncross. The rest of him can’t stop staring at the way her smile crinkles the corners of her eyes, how she rants about the city’s dumb new market fees like she’s known him for years, how she points out a tiny, obscure settlement on the 1872 map that most historians miss, saying she studied Southwest public land policy in college.
The sky turns dark fast mid-afternoon, a sudden October rainstorm rolling in off the Sangre de Cristos, and the market organizers announce an early close. Rafe helps Lila haul her heavy steel display case to her beat-up Ford pickup, both of them soaked to the bone by the time they get the tailgate closed. They huddle under the awning of the chile roaster food truck at the end of the row, rain pouring down so hard they can barely hear each other over the drumming on the metal roof. Lila shoves her hands in her jacket pockets, then pulls out a small copper ring with a tiny compass etched into the top, the same design she sells in her booth, and holds it out to him. “Forgot to give this to you earlier. Thank you for letting me stash my cooler behind your booth all day. And for not being a dick about the Elaina thing.”
Her hand brushes his when he takes the ring, and she doesn’t pull away. She leans in a little, her shoulder pressed to his, and says, quiet enough only he can hear, “For the record? I’ve had a crush on you since that wedding. Always thought you were too good for her.” Rafe freezes for half a second, every alarm bell in his head screaming that this is a bad idea, that it’s gonna blow up in his face, that he’s gonna end up alone again with only Mabel for company. But then he looks down at her, rain dripping off the end of her nose, smiling like she already knows what he’s gonna say, and he brushes a wet strand of hair off her face, his thumb grazing her cheek. She leans into the touch, no hesitation.
They make plans to meet for breakfast at the little 24-hour diner off the plaza the next morning, no rules, no requirements to talk about family or the past if they don’t want to. He watches her pull out of the parking lot, her hand waving out the truck window, and slips the copper ring onto his index finger. It fits perfectly.
