Manny Ruiz is 62, retired commercial abalone diver, runs a tiny bait and tackle shop out of his Monterey garage, hasn’t let anyone get close enough to learn the full story of his shoulder injury since his ex-wife moved to Portland 12 years prior. His biggest flaw is that he’d rather spend three hours fumbling with a broken fishing reel alone than ask a neighbor for a 10-second loan of a screwdriver, just to avoid the inevitable small-town gossip mill that would spin a 5-minute interaction into a full-blown courtship. He’d shown up to the annual coastal harvest festival only to pick up the first-place prize for his smoked salmon entry, fully planning to duck out before anyone could corner him into volunteering for next year’s cookoff.
The air smells like roasted elote and hickory smoke, a bluegrass trio sawing away on a makeshift stage by the beer garden, when her shoulder brushes his bad left one. He tenses up instantly, ready to grumble, until he looks over and recognizes her: Elena Voss, 58, the substitute librarian who moved into the creaky old cottage three doors down from his place six months prior. He’s only ever waved at her from the cab of his beat-up Ford F-150 before, always stepping on the gas a little faster if he saw her out gardening, too stubborn to deal with the group of retired ladies who sit on the porch across the street and take notes on every interaction between unmarried people within a two-block radius. She’s wearing a faded plaid flannel rolled up to her elbows, jeans caked at the cuffs with mud, a smudge of cinnamon on her left cheek, and she smells like pine soap and spiked apple cider.
“Sorry about that,” she says, her voice low, rough around the edges from years of reading aloud to rowdy elementary school classes. She nods at the first-place ribbon pinned to his flannel. “Heard your salmon was the one people were fighting over at the tasting tent. I entered peach cobbler, got third. The judge hates cinnamon, so I’m calling it a win.”
He nods, not sure what to say, his throat suddenly dry. He hasn’t had a conversation with a woman who wasn’t trying to sell him lumber or get a discount on fishing gear in longer than he can remember. She shifts her weight closer, so their elbows are almost touching, and holds out a paper plate with a half-slice of cobbler on it. The plate is warm through the paper, the crust crusted with coarse sugar, the oozing peach filling still steaming a little at the edges. He takes a bite, the sweet-tart fruit bursting across his tongue, and he makes a noise he’s a little embarrassed by, half hum, half groan. She laughs, a quiet, throaty sound, and when a dusting of sugar sticks to the pad of his thumb, she leans in without asking, swipes it off with her own thumb, and licks it off like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The contact makes his shoulder tingle, not the sharp pain he’s used to, something softer, warmer. He’s torn between stepping back, making an excuse about needing to get back to feed his old hound dog, and leaning in, asking her if she wants to get a beer at the garden. The gossip angle nags at him—he knows by tomorrow morning, the ladies across the street will be calling his ex to tell her he’s “running around” with the new librarian, and he hates the idea of people he barely knows weighing in on his business.
A group of kids in cowboy costumes dart past, one of them slamming into her side hard enough to send the paper bag full of jam jars she’s holding slipping out of her grip. He reaches down automatically to catch it, his bad shoulder screaming as he bends, and he winces so hard his eyes squeeze shut. Her hand wraps around his upper arm before he can right himself, steadying him, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, her fingers just firm enough to hold him up without making him feel weak.
“Your shoulder’s the one you messed up on that dive in 2015, right?” she says, and he blinks, surprised he never told her that. “The old guy who runs the hardware store mentioned it when I was asking about who could help me fix the rotting pier piling out behind my cottage. I heard you turn down every request for help, though, so I didn’t even bother asking.”
He stares at her, the jam bag heavy in his good hand, the cobbler plate still in the other, and for a second he’s ready to lie, say he’s too busy, say his shoulder is too bad. But she’s looking right at him, no pity in her eyes, just a little smirk, like she already knows what he’s going to say, and the bluegrass band kicks into a faster, rowdier tune, and he realizes he’s tired of eating dinner alone, tired of fixing things alone, tired of letting a bunch of bored retired ladies dictate what he does with his time.
“I can come by tomorrow,” he says, and her smirk widens into a full smile, the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes, shows off a tiny chip in her front tooth he hasn’t noticed before. She pulls a pen out of her flannel pocket, scribbles her cell number and her address on the back of her third-place cobbler entry ticket, and presses it into his palm, her fingers lingering on his skin for three slow beats before she pulls away.
“Bring the leftover salmon,” she says, nodding at the foil-wrapped package tucked under his arm. “And whatever story you’ve been avoiding telling about that dive. I’ve got bourbon at the house that pairs great with both.”
She turns and walks off, waving over her shoulder at her niece who’s waiting by the craft booths, and he stands there for a minute, the ticket crumpled a little in his palm, the smell of pine soap still hanging in the air where she was standing. He shoves the ticket in his jeans pocket, adjusts the salmon under his arm, and walks toward his truck, not even bothering to glance over at the porch where the gossips are sitting, already watching him.
