Manny Ruiz, 58, retired arson investigator, spent 30 years of his career sniffing out lies hidden in ash and charred wall studs, so he’s got a habit of side-eyeing anything that looks too clean, too perfect, too much like a cover story. That’s why he’d avoided Elara Voss for the eight months she’d lived in town. Everyone knew the story: stuck-up East Coast librarian who’d sued old Joe’s bait shop after slipping on a minnow bucket spill, threatened to shut the whole place down if Joe didn’t cough up five grand. Manny’s buddies at the VFW called her the Sue Lady, made jokes about hiding all their slip mats whenever she walked down the pier.
He was leaning against the cinder block wall by the beer cooler at the Friday fish fry, holding a paper plate of beer-battered cod and crumbly hushpuppies, when she walked in. The room went quiet for half a beat, like everyone was waiting for her to serve a lawsuit to the kid running the cash register. She wasn’t wearing the frumpy cardigans and cat-eye glasses everyone associated with her, just faded high-waisted jeans, a red plaid flannel rolled up to her elbows, and scuffed white sneakers. A smudge of charcoal streaked her left wrist, the same kind Manny used to use to sketch fire scene diagrams back when he was still on the job. She fumbled in her purse for a full minute, face flushing, before the kid behind the counter mumbled that they didn’t take cards, cash only.
Manny didn’t even think about it before he pushed off the wall, walked over, and slapped three bucks on the counter to cover her plate. He could feel the guys at the nearest picnic table staring, whispering behind their beer cans. She blinked up at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, and said thank you, voice soft, not snappy like he’d expected. All the tables were full, so she asked if she could sit with him on the splintered pine bench by the open garage door, where salt air off the Pacific bit at the edge of his flannel. He nodded, even though he knew he’d get ragged on for it for weeks.
They talked for 20 minutes, first about the cod, how the new cook used too much paprika, then about the vintage fishing lures Manny restored in his garage for extra cash. She told him she’d been coming to the coast since she was a kid, fished the Siuslaw River every summer with her grandpa, knew more about old wooden lures than most of the guys who hung around Joe’s shop. The rumor about the lawsuit? She’d never sued anyone. Her 82-year-old mom had slipped on that spill, broken her hip, and she’d just asked Joe to put down non-slip mats near the live bait tanks so no one else got hurt. Joe had gotten defensive, spread the lawsuit story to make her look like the bad guy. Manny’s chest tightened, because he’d bought the lie hook, line, and sinker, had written her off without even asking her side of it, same as he’d written off almost everyone else since his wife left him seven years prior, tired of him checking every closet for fires, every story for holes.
Their hands brushed when they both reached for the bottle of malt vinegar on the table at the same time. His fingers were calloused from sanding down old lure bodies, from hauling himself up charred ladders, and her skin was soft, still cool from the wind outside. She didn’t yank her hand away, just held eye contact for three beats longer than polite, the corner of her mouth tipping up in a tiny, teasing smile. He could smell lavender shampoo on her hair, mixed with the greasy, savory scent of fried fish and the pine from the trees lining the parking lot.
A gust of wind hit then, hard enough to yank the picnic table umbrella out of its stand, send it tipping straight for her head. She yelped, leaned into him to get out of the way, her shoulder pressing firm against his chest, her arm wrapping around his bicep for half a second before she pulled back, face pink, muttering an apology. The first drops of rain started hitting the tin roof of the VFW hall, loud enough to drown out the jukebox playing old Johnny Cash tracks.
Manny didn’t overthink it this time. He wiped a stray drop of rain off her cheek with his thumb, and asked her if she wanted to come back to his place to dry off, see the 1962 Heddon Dowagiac he’d just finished restoring, the one he’d found at a garage sale for three bucks the week before. She nodded, fast, like she’d been waiting for him to ask.
They grabbed their jackets off the back of the bench, ducked their heads, and ran through the rain to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150. He opened the passenger door for her, helped her climb up, and when she sat down she pulled a crumpled pack of spearmint gum out of her jeans pocket, offered him a piece, her fingers brushing his palm again when he took it. He turned the key in the ignition, the heater kicked on, and he pulled out of the parking lot, the sound of rain tapping against the windshield drowning out the catcalls from his buddies on the porch.
