Hugo Marquez, 58, leaned against a splintered pine picnic table at the county fire department’s annual fall chili cookoff, a paper bowl of three-alarm chili sweating in one calloused hand. The retired high school football coach, who’d opened a tiny bait and tackle shop on the edge of Lake Charlevoix after stepping down two years prior, had only showed up to support the volunteer firefighters who’d helped him put out a small shed fire at his cottage last spring. He’d planned to stay 45 minutes max, eat his chili, drop a $20 bill in the donation bin, and hightail it back to his quiet split-level to watch the Michigan State game. Crisp northern Michigan air bit at the tips of his ears, and he could smell burnt hot dogs and hickory smoke drifting from the food tents.
A soft weight bumped his right bicep, and he heard a quiet curse. He turned, and there she was: the woman who’d moved into the run-down cottage three doors down from his in June, the one he’d caught himself staring at through his kitchen window a dozen times when she pulled weeds or hung laundry on a clothesline. She held an overstuffed bowl of chili, a smudge of red sauce on her left cheek, dark hair pulled back in a loose braid threaded with a scrap of gingham fabric. “Sorry,” she said, steadying herself with a hand on his wrist for half a second, her palm warm through the frayed cuff of his flannel shirt. “These paper bowls are cheaper than dirt, I swear. I almost dumped the whole thing on your boots.” Her voice was low, a little rough, like she smoked half a pack a day, and she smelled like jasmine perfume and cinnamon.
Hugo’s neck went hot. He’d avoided talking to her for three months straight, because the entire town had been gossiping about her since she moved in—Elara Voss, 54, widowed three years, ran a vintage linen shop out of her cottage, moved up from Indianapolis to be closer to her daughter. The ladies at the grocery store had already asked him twice if he’d “stopped by to welcome the new neighbor,” and he’d brushed them off both times, too proud to be the first guy the town rumor mill tied to her. He’d convinced himself getting involved with anyone would mess up the quiet, predictable routine he’d built since his messy divorce 12 years prior, when the whole county talked about his ex leaving him for a younger real estate agent for six solid months. “No harm done,” he said, nodding at the empty spot on the bench next to him. “You can sit here if you want. Better view of the raffle table than standing.”
She sat, her denim-clad knee brushing his under the table, and he didn’t move away. They talked about the chili first—she complained hers was so mild it tasted like canned tomato soup, he offered to dump a scoop of his three-alarm batch into her bowl, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed a little, covering her mouth with her hand. She told him she’d been meaning to stop by his tackle shop for weeks, to pick up a beginner fishing rod for her 10-year-old grandson, who was coming to visit for Halloween. “I saw your ‘no solicitors’ sign on the door, though,” she teased, nudging his elbow with hers. “Looked pretty serious. Thought you might chase me off with a minnow bucket if I showed up unannounced.” He grinned, surprised at how easy it was to talk to her, how he didn’t feel that tight, anxious twist in his chest he usually got around new people. He told her about the 1970s fiberglass rod he’d restored a month prior, perfect for a kid, light enough to cast all day without wearing out his arms.
The fire chief got on the loudspeaker to announce the 50/50 raffle winners, and Hugo realized he’d been sitting there for almost two hours, had forgotten all about the Michigan State game. He’d bought a single $5 ticket when he walked in, Elara had bought one too. When the chief called her number, she whooped, holding up her ticket like she’d just won the lottery. The pot was $420, and she split it right down the middle, shoving $210 into his hand before he could protest. “For the rod,” she said, her hand resting on his forearm for three full seconds, her dark eyes holding his, no hint of shyness. “And for you to take me out on your boat next weekend, to show me how to cast so I don’t embarrass myself in front of my grandson.”
Hugo’s first instinct was to say no, to make an excuse about how the boat needed a new spark plug, how he had to restock the tackle shop that weekend, to avoid the gossip that would definitely spread if the town saw them out on the lake together. But then he looked at her, the smudge of chili still on her cheek, her boot propped on the lower rung of the bench, and he realized he didn’t care what the gossips at the grocery store said. He’d spent 12 years hiding from any kind of joy that might bring a little attention, and he was tired of it. “Deal,” he said.
They left the cookoff together, Hugo carrying her leftover chili and her half of the raffle cash in his jacket pocket, her shoulder bumping his every few steps as they walked across crunching fallen maple leaves to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150. He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in, adjusting the seat back so she had enough leg room. Before he could climb into the driver’s side, she reached across the center console, twisted the radio dial to the classic rock station he always had playing in his shop, and tapped her boot to the opening riff of a Tom Petty song.
