Rafe Marquez, 52, has restored over 400 vintage outboard motors in the three years since his divorce, each one taken apart down to the last screw, cleaned, tuned, and reassembled with the kind of meticulous care he stopped extending to his own life a long time ago. He only showed up to the Rockaway Beach fire department chili cookoff because his childhood buddy, the fire chief, threatened to tow his beat-up 1987 F-150 from the workshop parking lot if he bailed again. The air smells like cumin, smoked brisket, and salt blowing off the ocean, a portable speaker blaring 90s country loud enough to drown out the kids screaming as they chase a half-feral golden retriever across the grass.
He’s wiping grease off the cuff of his plaid flannel, half-empty beer in his other hand, when she steps up to the picnic table he’s claimed in the far corner. She’s in a faded county animal control uniform, scuffed work boots caked in mud, sunburn streaked across the bridge of her nose, a chunk of silver hoop earring missing from her left ear. He’s heard the town gossip about her: Lila, moved here three months ago from Portland, left a six-figure corporate vet job to wrangle stray dogs and rescue injured sea lions, turned down three dates from the local realtor already, labeled “standoffish” and “too loud for a small town” by the church ladies who meet for coffee at the diner every Wednesday.
“Word on the street is you’re the guy who can fix even the most dead Evinrude,” she says, leaning in far enough that her elbow brushes his bicep when she reaches for a slice of his brisket. The scent of coconut shampoo and pine tree air freshener hits him, sharp and sweet over the smell of chili. He freezes for half a second, the way he always does when someone gets closer than arm’s length without permission, half irritated, half hyperaware of the heat of her arm through his shirt.
He nods, takes a sip of beer, doesn’t say anything at first. He’s gotten used to one word answers, to not having to make small talk, to the quiet of his workshop where the only noise is the hum of his buffer and his 12-year-old beagle Mutt snoring on the couch in the corner. Part of him wants to brush her off, tell her to call the marina up the road, that he’s booked three months out, that he doesn’t work for people he doesn’t know. The other part is staring at the crinkles around her eyes when she takes a bite of the brisket and moans quiet enough that only he can hear it, at the calluses on her fingers from hauling dog crates and untangling fishing line from seal flippers.
They end up stepping away from the crowd to look at the 1972 Johnson outboard he has propped up in the bed of his truck, polished to a shine, waiting for a buyer in Seattle. She leans against the fender of the truck, her knee pressing firm against his calf when he points out the custom carburetor he machined himself, and she doesn’t move away when he shifts his weight to get a better look at the motor. He catches her staring at his mouth when he explains how he tracked down a rare gasket for it on eBay, her eyes dark, and he fumbles his words for the first time he can remember in years.
She says she has a 1968 Evinrude sitting in the garage of the cabin she bought on the edge of town, hasn’t been able to get it running since she dragged it home from a garage sale last month. He opens his mouth to tell her he’s booked, that he doesn’t do house calls, that he only works on motors people drop off at his shop, but then she tilts her head, smiles like she knows exactly what he’s about to say, and says she already talked to his buddy the fire chief, who told her he’s got nothing but old western reruns and a frozen pizza planned for Saturday.
The thrill of it hits him sharp, the kind of stupid, giddy rush he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking his dad’s boat out after dark. He knows the town will talk if he shows up at her cabin, knows the church ladies will spin it into a dozen different messy stories, knows he’s spent three years building a wall between himself and everyone else for a reason, that letting someone in means risking getting his heart broken all over again. But when she pulls a crumpled napkin out of her uniform pocket, scribbles her address on it in blue ballpoint, and tucks it into the breast pocket of his flannel, her knuckles brushing the stubble on his jaw when she pulls her hand away, he doesn’t push her away.
She says she’ll have cold beer and fresh peach pie waiting when he shows up around noon, then winks, turns, and walks back toward the cookoff, the golden retriever the kids were chasing trotting after her like she’s already its owner. Rafe stands there for a long minute, his beer warm in his hand, staring at the spot where she was standing, until his buddy the fire chief slaps him on the back hard enough to make him spill half his beer down his shirt. He doesn’t even bother yelling about it. He pulls the napkin out of his pocket, runs his thumb over the smudged numbers at the bottom of the address, tucks it back in safe, and adds a stop at the farmers market for her favorite peach jam to his Saturday to-do list.
