Manny Ruiz, 53, has restored 72 vintage camper vans in the eight years since his ex-wife moved to Arizona with a guy who’d bought a 1968 Ford Econoline Manny had spent 11 months perfecting. His worst flaw, if you ask the few friends he lets hang around his shop outside of Astoria, is that he’d rather sand a rusted wheel well for 12 hours straight than admit he’s lonely, or that he still has the handwritten note his ex left taped to the inside of his toolbox, just to remind himself not to let anyone get close enough to disappoint him again.
He’s leaning against the side of a 1972 Volkswagen Westfalia he just finished at the annual Clatsop County Classic Car Show, sipping a lukewarm Coors Banquet, when he spots her. The sun’s low enough that it gilds the edges of her hair, and she’s wearing a linen sundress the color of wild lavender, scuffed leather Birkenstocks instead of the stiletto heels the other wives of the local big shots are tottering around in. She’s not staring at the custom Ford F-150 that just won Best In Show, the one owned by Dale Hendricks, the real estate developer who’s been trying to buy Manny’s shop lot for three years to build a strip of luxury vacation rentals. She’s staring straight at the Westfalia.
She walks across the asphalt before he can look away, close enough that he catches the scent of jasmine hand lotion and the faint fizz of cherry seltzer on her breath when she stops a foot away, no awkward polite distance. Her eyes are hazel, flecked with gold, and she holds his gaze the whole time she talks, no darting away like most people do when they’re talking to a guy covered in permanent grease stains who hasn’t had a haircut in four months. “That upholstery’s Pendleton, right?” she says, nodding at the open sliding door, where the seat covers he cut and stitched himself are visible. She reaches out before she asks, her fingers brushing the wool first, then brushing his knuckles when he leans in to point out the tiny vintage campfire print woven into the fabric. The contact is light, accidental, but it sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt since before his divorce. He notices her wedding ring is twisted halfway around her finger, the diamond dull, like she hasn’t cleaned it in months.
For 20 minutes they talk, and she laughs so hard at his story about driving three hours to buy a rare carburetor off a guy on Craigslist only to find the seller was his third cousin who still owed him $200 from a high school bet that she snorts a little, clapping a hand over her mouth like she’s not allowed to make that noise. She says Dale drags her to every car show within 100 miles, brags about the truck he paid a shop in Portland $80,000 to restore like he turned every wrench himself, never lets her stop to talk to anyone who isn’t in his country club crowd. “I’ve wanted a camper since I was 19,” she says, twisting that ring again. “I always wanted to drive down the coast, stop whenever I saw a beach I liked, no one telling me when we had to leave to make a tee time.”
Manny’s chest tightens. He knows the rule: don’t mess with a married woman, especially not one married to the most insufferable guy within 50 miles, the guy who’d make his life a living hell if he found out Manny so much as talked to her for longer than 30 seconds. He’s disgusted at the little spark of hope he feels, at the way he’s already imagining showing her the hidden coves south of Cannon Beach, teaching her how to change the van’s oil if she wanted. He’s halfway to making up an excuse to leave when Dale yells her name from across the lot, loud enough that half the people nearby turn to look.
She flinches, then slips a crumpled napkin into the pocket of his work jeans, her palm pressing against his thigh for half a second too long to be polite. “I left my ring on the kitchen counter this morning,” she whispers, so quiet only he can hear it over the hum of idling engines and the crackle of the snack stand’s speaker. “I’m staying with my sister in Seaside. Text me when the show’s over. I want to take that Westfalia for a test drive.” She turns and walks away before he can answer, not looking back, not even when Dale grabs her arm hard enough to leave a mark when she reaches his side.
Manny stands there for 10 minutes after they drive off, the napkin crinkling under his fingers when he pulls it out, her phone number scrawled in purple glitter pen, a tiny drawing of a camper van next to it. He locks up the Westfalia, drives back to his shop, and spends an hour staring at the note his ex left taped to his toolbox before he yanks it off, crumples it up, and throws it in the trash can next to his workbench.
He texts her 20 minutes later, tells her he’ll pick her up at her sister’s place at 7 a.m. the next day, brings a cooler of cold beer and a wool blanket for the beach. She’s waiting on the porch when he pulls up, suitcase in the back of her beat-up Honda Civic, no ring on her finger, grinning so wide her cheeks look sore. He helps her load her suitcase into the back of the Westfalia, his hand brushing hers again when he passes her a bottle of water, and this time neither of them flinches. He pulls out of the driveway, turns south on Highway 101, and doesn’t look back.
