Late August in Howard Beach, Queens, the air thick enough with humidity that it sticks to the back of your throat when you breathe, 82 degrees and not a breeze to be found. Leo Rinaldi, 64, retired JFK runway safety inspector, leans against a wobbly folding table stacked with foil-covered pans of potato salad and glass jars of deli pickles, a half-empty Miller Lite sweating through the crumpled paper napkin wrapped around its middle. He’d only showed up to the block party because his 16-year-old grandson had begged him, promised to bring his new girlfriend around to meet him, then bailed an hour prior with a lazy text about a flat tire on his beat-up Civic. Leo’s left work boot taps a slow, restless rhythm against the cracked asphalt, already mentally running through the steps to re-caulk the edge of his back porch when he gets home. He’s avoided every neighborhood gathering for seven years, ever since his wife Elaine died of ovarian cancer, because the neighbors always corner him to ask if he’s “finally putting himself out there” or offer to set him up with their widowed second cousins. This one is no different, until he spots her.
Clara Marlow, 58, moved into the pale blue ranch next door three months ago, the house that used to belong to the old Italian couple who retired to Tampa. The neighborhood rumor mill spun up fast after she moved in: she’d left her husband of 30 years for a 28-year-old yoga instructor, she was a vegan who’d called the local meat market “cruelty central” on Facebook, she’d told the HOA president to “kick rocks” when he tried to make her tear out her front-yard sunflower patch. Leo had nodded along when the guy from two houses over ranted about her at the grocery store last week, too conflict-averse to say he didn’t care what she did, that he’d spent 32 years inspecting tiny runway cracks at 2 a.m. and learned long ago that most people’s personal stories aren’t half as juicy as the lies strangers make up about them. He’d also spent more than a few evenings staring out his kitchen window while he washed dishes, watching her kneel in her garden, sun gilding the streaks of silver in her auburn hair, dirt under her nails, humming old Patsy Cline songs loud enough for him to hear through his screen window.
She walks over to the snack table now, linen sundress sticking slightly to her sun-warmed shoulders, a smudge of charcoal on her left wrist (he’d noticed she paints, from the half-finished canvases propped against her garage wall when she rolls her trash bin out on Tuesdays). She reaches for the same jar of garlic dill pickles he’s reaching for at the exact same time, their knuckles brushing light as a moth’s wing. The contact is so minor he shouldn’t even notice, but he flinches like he’s touched a live wire. “Sorry,” she says, grinning, her voice low and rough, like she’s spent the last week yelling at Mets games. “I’ve been craving these all day. The deli on Cross Bay makes the best brine in the whole borough, right?” He nods, unable to speak for a beat, because he can smell her perfume: lavender and lemon, the exact same kind Elaine used to wear on their anniversary dinners. He’s spent years actively avoiding any scent that reminds him of her, but this doesn’t feel like a punch to the chest. It feels like coming up for air after holding your breath too long.
He knows he should grab his beer and leave, trudge back to his quiet, empty house, avoid the pointed looks the other neighbors are shooting them from across the street. He’s always hated being the center of gossip, hated the way people whisper and nod like you’re an exhibit in a county fair zoo. But she doesn’t seem to care, leaning against the table next to him, so close their elbows brush every time she takes a bite of pickle. “I saw you fixing that old wooden bird feeder on your porch last Tuesday,” she says, wiping pickle brine off her chin with the back of her hand. “You used that tiny little bar clamp to hold the split wood together while the glue dried, right? I used to make my high school art students use those exact same clamps for their sculpture projects. You’re very precise.” He blinks, shocked. No one has noticed a tiny, trivial detail like that about him in years, not since he retired, not since Elaine died. Most people see him as the quiet widower next door, the guy who mows his lawn at 8 a.m. every Saturday and never bothers anyone.
A group of kids on beat-up BMX bikes swerve around the edge of the party, one of them yelling a warning too late, and she grabs his forearm, yanking him back a step so the kid doesn’t crash straight into his side. They’re inches apart now, her chest almost brushing his, and he can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the faint laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her mouth, the way a loose curl of hair falls over her sunburnt cheek. The buzz of the party fades out for a second, just the sound of cicadas humming in the oak trees, the distant crash of waves from the bay a few blocks over. “Thanks,” he says, his voice rougher than he intends. She smirks, like she can tell he’s flustered, and doesn’t let go of his arm right away. “For the record,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, “the rumor about me leaving my husband for a yoga instructor is total bullshit. He left me for his 26-year-old paralegal, and made up that story so his country club buddies wouldn’t think he’s a loser. The sunflower patch stays, though. The HOA president is a petty tyrant.” He laughs, loud enough that a few people turn to look, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t care who’s watching.
He offers to walk her home when the party starts to die down, the sky turning soft pink and tangerine at the edges, kids dragging sleeping bags into the middle of the street for the annual outdoor movie night. They stop at his porch first, and he pulls the newly repaired bird feeder off the hook by the front door to show her, pointing out the tiny crack he filled with waterproof epoxy, the new perches he carved from scrap oak he had left over from building his raised garden beds. He grabs two frosted glasses of iced peach tea from the mini fridge on his porch, the batch he brewed that morning with peaches from the old tree in his backyard, and hands her one. Her fingers brush his when she takes the glass, warm and calloused from gardening and holding paintbrushes, and he doesn’t pull away. She nods at the old wooden porch swing hanging from the eave, the one Elaine bought for their 25th wedding anniversary, and sits down, patting the empty spot next to her. He sits, the worn wood of the swing creaking under their combined weight, and watches a bright red cardinal land on the newly repaired bird feeder as the sun dips below the roofline.
