Elias Voss, 53, has restored over 400 vintage outboard motors in the eight years since his wife packed her suitcases and drove south for a life with fewer grease stains and more beach trips. He runs his shop out of a converted 1960s boathouse on the Lake of the Ozarks, lives in the 200 square foot loft above the workbench, and has skipped the annual lakeside neighborhood block party every single year since the split. This year, his 72-year-old next door neighbor shoves a six pack of hazy IPA through his screen door at 4 PM, says the new woman who took over the bait shop down the road is running a catfish fry, and if Elias hides out in his shop again he’s leaving a dead carp on his dock at sunrise. Elias rolls his eyes, but tucks the six pack under his arm and heads down the gravel path ten minutes later.
The party is loud, crammed with half the lake’s regulars, red checkered picnic tables strung with fairy lights, a portable speaker blaring old Johnny Cash and Alan Jackson. The air smells like charcoal smoke, fried catfish, and cut grass. Elias hangs back by the edge of the crowd, leans against an oak tree, pops open a beer, plans to stay 45 minutes max then slip back to his quiet shop. He’s halfway through his second beer when she walks over, holding two paper plates stacked high with catfish, hushpuppies, and coleslaw. She’s 46, sun-streaked light brown hair pulled back in a messy braid, a faded Willie Nelson cutoff tee, work boots caked in lake mud, a fish hook stuck through the back pocket of her worn jeans. Her name is Maeve, she says, holds out a plate, and her shoulder brushes his when he takes it. Her eyes are hazel, crinkle at the corners when she smiles, and she doesn’t glance away when he mentions he restores old outboards, no polite little nod to move the conversation along, she asks follow up questions, wants to know the oldest motor he’s ever fixed, how long it takes to track down rare parts for 1960s Evinrudes.
When they reach for the same stack of napkins at the same time, their knuckles brush. Elias feels the thick callus on her index finger, the kind you get from reeling in 30 pound catfish for hours on end, and he flinches almost imperceptibly. He hasn’t been touched that casually, that intentionally, by a woman in almost a decade. Part of him wants to make an excuse, leave right then, avoid the gossip, avoid the inevitable letdown he’s convinced comes with letting anyone get close. But she doesn’t act like she even noticed the brush, just keeps talking about the beat up 1972 Evinrude she’s had sitting on her workbench for three months, can’t get it to turn over, no mechanic in town will touch something that old.
The sky opens up all at once, cold summer rain pouring down hard enough to soak through his flannel in 10 seconds. Everyone yells, grabs their coolers, runs for their trucks. Elias grabs the edge of his flannel, holds it over both their heads, says her bait shop is two blocks away, he can walk her there so she doesn’t get more soaked. They run laughing through the rain, their arms pressed tight together under the thin fabric, and by the time they burst through the door of her shop they’re both dripping, hair stuck to their foreheads, socks squelching in their boots. The shop smells like cedar shavings, nightcrawlers, and cherry Kool-Aid. The old Evinrude is sitting right on her workbench, just like she said, caked in lake grime, carburetor rusted shut.
Elias grabs a screwdriver off her bench, says he can take a quick look, and she leans against the counter next to him, so close he can smell the coconut shampoo in her hair, the beer on her breath. He gets the carburetor apart in five minutes, scrapes the rust out, adjusts the float, puts it back together, and when he yanks the starter cord the motor purrs, low and steady, perfect. Maeve whoops, leans in, kisses his cheek first, soft, then his mouth, tastes like fried catfish, mint gum, and the IPA they were drinking earlier. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t overthink it, just rests his hand on her waist, the wet fabric of her tee shirt cool under his palm. She says she makes chocolate chip pancakes on Saturday mornings, if he wants to stop by, bring any extra parts he has lying around for the Evinrude. He says he’ll be there at 8, tucks a brand new spark plug he has stashed in his truck into his jacket pocket before he leaves so he doesn’t forget.
When he steps out onto her porch later that night, the rain has stopped, and he can see fireflies dancing low over the dark water of the lake, and for the first time in eight years he doesn’t rush to get back to his empty boathouse.
