Manny Rios only showed up to the annual Apalachicola Seafood Festival because his next-door neighbor, a retired commercial shrimper named Earl, banged on his door at 3 p.m. holding two cold Coronas and threatened to siphon all the gas out of his Boston Whaler if he spent another Friday night alone sanding hulls. At 62, the retired air traffic controller had spent seven years deliberately walling himself off from crowds and small talk after his wife Linda’s sudden heart attack, and the throng of sunburned tourists yelling over zydeco music made his jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. He was three bites into a plate of fried oysters, half ready to make an excuse and bolt, when he turned to step around a stroller and his elbow clipped a folding table stacked with used nautical books.
A mason jar of key lime lemonade tipped over, splattering pale yellow liquid across the front of the woman standing behind the table’s white linen shirt. Manny lunged to catch it before it hit the ground, his calloused work glove brushing the soft skin of her wrist as their hands wrapped around the jar at the same time. He smelled coconut sunscreen and vanilla lip balm when he leaned in to mop at the wet spot on her shirt with a crumpled napkin, and when he glanced up, she was grinning, not mad, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners so deep he could see flecks of gold in them. She was in her mid-50s, streaks of silver running through the dark hair she’d pulled back in a messy braid, a tiny anchor tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her cutoff jeans. He recognized her as Clara, the woman who ran the used bookstore on Main Street he’d been meaning to visit for months to track down old navigation guides for his Whaler.
His first instinct was to mumble an apology and vanish into the crowd before anyone he knew saw him talking to her. For seven years, the whole town had pegged him as the quiet widower who kept to himself, and the thought of being the subject of porch gossip made his skin crawl, a sharp twist of guilt coiling in his gut like he was doing something wrong, something disloyal to Linda. Instead, he heard himself offer to buy her a replacement drink, and when she nodded, he followed her through the crowd to the beer tent, their shoulders brushing every time a group of drunk college kids pushed past.
They stood against the wooden railing overlooking the gulf for an hour, talking about engine parts and dead reckoning and the worst storms they’d ever weathered out on the water. She told him she’d had a 1972 Boston Whaler before her ex-husband took it in the divorce, and when he held up his calloused hands to show her the scar he’d gotten replacing a fuel line the month before, she reached out to run her finger along the raised, silvery line, her touch light enough that he almost didn’t feel it, warm enough that it sent a jolt up his arm all the way to his chest. She kept tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear when she laughed, her gaze darting down to his mouth every time he spoke, and he didn’t step away when the crowd pressed closer, their hips bumping together as people jostled for a better view of the water.
The first firework went off right as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky bright red, and Clara stepped into his space without thinking, her hand brushing his forearm before she laced her fingers through his. He froze for half a second, every alarm in his head blaring that he should pull away, that this was too fast, too wrong, but then he squeezed her hand back, the rough fabric of his work glove rubbing against her soft skin, the boom of the fireworks vibrating in his chest so loud he could barely hear anything else. He didn’t feel guilty anymore. He felt alive, for the first time in seven years, like the static that had been humming in his ears ever since Linda died had finally cut out.
When the last firework faded and the crowd started to disperse, he asked her if she wanted to come look at his Whaler the next morning, help him troubleshoot the finicky starter he’d been fighting with for weeks. She nodded, pulling a pen out of her back pocket and scribbling her cell number on the back of a tattered 1982 nautical chart she pulled from one of the boxes on her table. She tucked the paper into the front pocket of his faded flannel shirt, her fingers brushing the bare skin of his chest where the top two buttons were undone, and leaned in to kiss his cheek, her breath sweet with key lime lemonade when she pulled back.
He walked her to her beat-up Subaru, waited until she pulled out of the parking lot and waved before he turned to head home, the crumpled chart page warm against his chest through his shirt. A cool breeze off the gulf carried the smell of salt and fried seafood, and he smiled, not even caring if Earl saw him and teased him about it for the next month.
