Raymundo “Ray” Garza, 62, retired border patrol K9 handler turned part-time dog trainer, had avoided every community event in his San Antonio subdivision for three straight months. His wife had left him eight years prior, and he’d grown so set in his lone-wolf routines he barely spoke to neighbors unless it was about their unruly dogs. The reason for his recent boycott was simple: Marnie Cole, 58, HOA board president and owner of the downtown flower shop, had slapped him with a $175 fine after his rescue rottweiler, Duke, dug up the community rose bed planted by the local elementary’s 2nd grade class. He’d called her a tinpot tyrant to his buddies over beer, and ignored every reminder email she sent, even when she hand-delivered a note to his porch. He’d hidden behind the curtain when she knocked.
The October food truck rally was the first event he couldn’t skip. His buddy’s brisket truck was making its first appearance, and Ray had promised to stop by, a stash of his homemade pork tamales tucked in the pocket of his worn denim jacket for trade. The air still held the faint stick of daytime heat, cut with the smell of smoked meat, elote slathered in cotija cheese, and cherry limeade fizzing in plastic cups. He was three people back in line when he caught the scent of jasmine cut with barbecue smoke, and felt a soft elbow brush the scar on his left forearm, the one he’d gotten from a drug runner’s knife in 2017.
He turned. It was Marnie. She wore fitted dark jeans and a cream knit top that showed the smattering of freckles across her collarbone, her silver-streaked brown hair pulled back in a loose braid. She grinned when she saw him, the corner of her mouth tugging up the way it had during the HOA meeting when he’d ranted about Duke being a “law-abiding pup who just liked to dig.” “Fancy seeing you here, Garza,” she said, and her voice was warmer than he remembered, no sharp edge to it. “Come to yell at me about the fine some more?”
He grunted, shifting his weight, suddenly aware of how close she was, their shoulders almost touching. “Came for brisket. None of your business.” He watched her reach for a stack of napkins on the counter beside him, their hands brushing when they both grabbed for the same jar of pickled jalapeños. He felt the callus on her index finger, thick from years of pruning rose stems, and his throat went dry. The hum of the food truck generator, the distant mariachi band playing in the park, the chatter of neighbors all faded for half a second.
“For the record,” she said, twisting the jar open easily and handing it to him first, “I hated writing that fine. Those roses were the 2nd graders’ project, but half the board wanted to make you re-landscape the whole bed. I talked them down to the $175. I also have a soft spot for rottweilers. My late husband had one, named Brutus, that dug up my entire peony patch the first year we were married.” She nodded at his jacket pocket, where the edge of a tamale wrapper was sticking out. “You bring those pork tamales you posted about on the neighborhood Facebook group? I’ve been bugging you to let me try one for weeks.”
He stared at her, stunned. He’d spent three months thinking she had it out for him, and she’d been defending him behind closed doors? He pulled a tamale out, unwrapped the corn husk, and handed it to her. She took a bite, closed her eyes for a second, and made a soft, satisfied sound that sent heat crawling up the back of his neck. She leaned in a little when she spoke, her breath warm against his jaw. “That’s the best thing I’ve eaten all year. I was gonna ask if you wanted to share a table, but if you’re still mad at me, I’ll leave you alone.”
He shook his head, fast, before he could talk himself out of it. “Nah. C’mon. Duke’s in the back of my truck if you want to say hi after. He doesn’t bite. Unless you’re a guy with a backpack full of fentanyl, but I don’t think that’s your vibe.”
She laughed, loud and bright, and followed him to the picnic table on the edge of the park. They stayed until the food trucks closed, swapping stories about their dogs, their old jobs, the time she’d accidentally dyed her hair neon pink before a board meeting. By the time they walked back to his rusted Ford F150, the streetlights were glowing gold, and the police scanner he kept wired into the dash was quietly crackling about a minor fender bender three miles away. Duke perked up when he saw Marnie, wagging his whole body so hard the truck shook, and she leaned in to scratch his ears, her hip pressed to Ray’s.
She turned to him then, her hand resting light on his bicep, and kissed him slow, the taste of tamale and cherry limeade on her lips, the jasmine from her perfume sticking to his jacket. When she pulled back, she grinned, tugging on the edge of his jacket pocket. “You can pay off the rest of that fine by bringing me a dozen tamales next Sunday. And bring Duke. I have a peony patch that’s probably due for a digging.”
