Manny Ruiz, 62, retired commercial casino HVAC designer, had not so much as shared a beer with a woman who wasn’t his daughter or granddaughter in the eight years since his wife Linda passed. His go-to flaw, as his daughter liked to tease, was that he’d turned stubborn loyalty into a full-time personality trait, turning down every blind date, every casual coffee offer, convinced any new connection would be a betrayal of the 34 years he’d had with Linda. He’d moved to Boise from Atlantic City two years prior, spent most weekends fixing window AC units for low-income seniors for free, kept Linda’s collection of 1970s romance novels lined up on his living room shelf exactly where she’d left them.
He was manning the block party grill the third Saturday of August, charcoal smudge on his jaw, faded “Atlantic City Casino Services” work shirt sticking to his back from the 92-degree heat, when she walked up. She was wearing a linen sundress dotted with tiny sunflowers, bare legs dusted with freckles, a stack of free kids’ picture books wedged under one arm, and she smelled like lavender and the spiked lemonade the neighborhood association had set up on the far end of the street. “You got any of the veggie burgers left?” she asked, nodding at the grill, and Manny realized he’d been staring so long he’d almost let a batch of cheeseburgers burn.
He fumbled the tongs, dropped a burger patty straight onto the grass, and she laughed, a low, warm sound, leaning in to help him pick up the stray wrapper that had blown off the table. Their shoulders brushed when they both crouched at the same time, her forearm grazing his wrist, and Manny flinched like he’d touched a live wire. He hadn’t felt skin that wasn’t family’s in almost a decade, and the jolt of it ran straight up his arm, settled warm in his chest, followed immediately by a sharp twist of guilt. He mumbled an apology, but she waved it off, leaning against the picnic table next to the grill instead of walking away to join the other group of parents by the bounce house.
She told him her name was Elara, she was the new head librarian at the neighborhood branch, moved to Boise from Portland three months prior after a quiet divorce, was still adjusting to how hot Idaho summers got, how nice the neighbors were compared to the city. Manny found himself talking before he could stop himself, telling her about Linda, how she’d loved to read, used to bring him lunch at casino job sites tucked between paperbacks she thought he’d like, how he’d spent 30 years designing HVAC systems that pumped subtle vanilla scent into casino floors to keep gamblers staying longer, a trick Linda had suggested after she complained the casinos always smelled like stale cigarette smoke and regret. He stopped halfway through, shocked he’d told a stranger that much, half expecting to feel that familiar lurch of shame, but Elara just nodded, said her mom had been widowed at 52, spent 20 years refusing to go on a single date, said it felt like cheating on her dad, until she met her second husband at a library book club, died at 78 talking about how lucky she’d been to love twice.
The grill’s propane ran out ten minutes later, and Manny offered to grab the spare from his garage two doors down. Elara offered to help carry it, even though he insisted he had it, and when she stumbled on the cracked curb outside his house, he grabbed her waist to steady her without thinking. His hand was pressed to the soft linen of her dress, he could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, and she didn’t pull away, just looked up at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, the setting sun turning the tips of her brown hair pink. He held his hand there for three slow beats, then let go, grabbed the propane tank with both hands to hide how shaky his fingers were.
When they got back to the party, someone had cranked up a speaker playing 1980s rock, a handful of neighbors were slow dancing on the grass. Elara held out her hand, palm up, and asked him to dance. Manny hesitated. He hadn’t danced since Linda’s 50th birthday, when they’d snuck out of their backyard party and danced in the driveway to a song playing on the car radio. For a second, that old guilt flared, sharp and hot, then he remembered what Elara had said about her mom, thought about Linda, who’d always told him he was too stubborn for his own good, who’d told him a hundred times if she died first she wanted him to stop moping and enjoy himself. He took her hand.
They didn’t dance too close, but her shoulder pressed against his chest every time they swayed, he could smell her lavender perfume mixed with the charcoal smoke from the grill, hear her humming along to the song under her breath. His seven-year-old granddaughter ran over a minute later, waving a crayon drawing she’d made, asked who the nice lady was, then lit up when she realized Elara was the librarian who’d read her *Where the Wild Things Are* at story time the week before. He didn’t let go of Elara’s hand when the song ended, didn’t let go when his granddaughter ran off to play with the other kids.
He asked her if she wanted to come over the next afternoon, said he was making Linda’s famous peach pie, had a stack of her old romance novels she could take for the library’s used book sale. She nodded, squeezed his hand, said she’d bring the good lemonade, not the spiked stuff the neighborhood was serving. He watched her walk back to her house at the end of the night, sunflower dress swishing around her calves, and realized he hadn’t felt this light since the day Linda came home from the hospital with their daughter.
