Elio Rizzo is 61, has spent the last four years building custom fishing rods out of his Biloxi garage, and hasn’t let a stranger stand close enough to brush his arm since his wife, Lila, died of lung cancer in 2019. He hates crowds, hates small talk, and only showed up to the post-Hurricane Ida community oyster roast because his best buddy Dale showed up at his door at 4 p.m. with a six pack of his favorite hazy pale ale and a threat to hide all his prized cedar rod blanks if he didn’t tag along.
He’s propped against the bed of Dale’s rusted 2008 F-150 20 minutes later, boot heel propped on a half-buried oyster shell, beer can cold enough to leave waxy condensation rings on the truck’s chipped white paint, when he sees her. She’s behind the folding dessert table, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows, gray streaks in her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, laughing as a grinning 7-year-old runs off with a handful of pecan pralines he definitely didn’t pay for. The wind shifts, and he catches a whiff of coconut sunscreen and burnt sugar over the sharp tang of oak smoke and brine off the Mississippi Sound.
He’s staring, he knows it, and he’s about to yank his gaze away when she trips over a cinder block holding the wobbly table leg down, and the full foil pan of pralines goes clattering to the patchy St. Augustine grass. Before he can think better of it, he’s pushing off the truck, boots crunching over discarded oyster shells and crumpled paper plates, to help. He grabs one edge of the dented pan at the same time she does, their knuckles brushing, and the jolt of warm skin against his makes him flinch like he’s touched a live utility line, muscle memory from 30 years as a lineman before he retired to build rods. He’d forgotten what that felt like, the little zing of contact with someone who isn’t a buddy slapping his back or a client dropping off a cash deposit.
“Sorry about that,” she says, grinning, and her eyes are crinkled at the corners, sky-blue nail polish chipped half off her fingertips like she’s been gluing mosaic tile or sanding furniture all week. “I swear these cinder blocks are out to get me. I’m Maren. Retired elementary art teacher, professional klutz, currently in charge of making sure everyone here leaves with a sugar high to balance out all the garlic butter caked on the oysters.”
He tells her his name, says he builds custom fishing rods for a living, and she leans in a little, like she’s actually interested, close enough he can see the faint freckles across her nose that the autumn sun’s brought out even in late October. He can feel the warmth off her arm through his thick work flannel, and for half a second he wants to lean into it, before the familiar twist of guilt hits him right in the gut. He’d made a stupid, rigid promise to himself after Lila died, no dates, no flirting, no nothing, like giving himself permission to feel something for someone else would erase all 32 years they’d spent together.
He steps back fast, mumbles something about needing to get back to his friend, but she shoves a praline wrapped in crinkly wax paper into his hand before he can leave. “On the house,” she says, and she doesn’t look away when their fingers brush again, her gaze steady, like she can see exactly how skittish he is and isn’t going to push. He walks back to the truck, takes a bite of the praline, sweet and salty and crunchy with toasted pecans, and can’t stop glancing back at her the rest of the night.
Dale teases him about it, of course, says he’s been moping long enough, says Lila would smack him upside the head with a wooden spoon if she saw him turning down a pretty woman who clearly thinks he’s cute. Elio tells him to shut up, but he doesn’t deny it. The roast winds down around 9, most people packing up coolers and herding overtired kids to their cars, when Maren walks over to the truck, wiping her hands on the thigh of her frayed jeans, and asks if he wants to walk down to the old fishing pier with her. She’s got a crumpled plastic grocery bag slung over her shoulder, leftover pralines peeking out the top.
He hesitates for a full 10 seconds, every voice in his head screaming that he’s doing something wrong, something disloyal, before he nods. They walk slow, the gravel of the parking lot giving way to splintered, salt-stained wooden planks under their boots, waves lapping soft against the rotting pilings below, seagulls crying faint in the dark over the water. A sharp gust of wind hits, thick with salt, and she shivers, leaning into his side just a little, not enough to be pushy, just enough to ask for the comfort. He hesitates for half a second, then slips his calloused arm around her shoulders. She smells like coconut and sugar still, and the guilt doesn’t hit this time, just a soft, warm weight in his chest he hasn’t felt in four years.
They stop at the end of the pier, and she pulls two pralines out of the bag, handing one to him. The moon’s bright enough he can see the smile on her face, the way she’s biting her lower lip just a little, like she’s nervous too. He takes the praline, his fingers brushing hers again, and when she leans in, slow, giving him plenty of time to pull away, he doesn’t. The kiss is quick, soft, salt from the wind on her lips, and when she pulls back she’s grinning wider. He tucks a loose strand of braided hair behind her ear, his rough fingertips brushing her warm cheek, and doesn’t say a word.
