Manny Ruiz, 62, retired central Florida citrus grove inspector, had spent four decades carrying a petty grudge so specific he’d forgotten half the details until he spotted her at the town harvest festival. He’d driven the 20 minutes from his ranch only because his 7-year-old granddaughter had begged for cotton candy dyed neon blue, and he never could say no to her. The air reeked of fried oreos and freshly cut St. Augustine grass, a local cover band slurred Merle Haggard deep cuts from the stage by the corn maze, and he nursed a cold IPA in a plastic cup, calloused fingertips scratched from trimming the orange trees in his backyard that morning.
He’d been actively avoiding the artisan craft stalls for an hour, but his granddaughter spotted the peach jam samples before he could steer her toward the bounce house, and she tugged his wrist hard enough to make him slosh beer down his work boot. He froze when he looked up at the woman behind the wooden stall. Elara Voss, 61, silver streaks woven through her loose dark waves, linen work shirt unbuttoned one button too far, a smudge of apricot jam glistening on the inside of her left wrist. She looked up from labeling a jar of blackberry preserves, blinked once, then grinned so sharp he could feel the old irritation rise in his chest.
“Manny Ruiz. You still scowling like I personally ran over your dog?” She wiped her hands on her stained apron, leaned forward on the stall edge, and her shoulder brushed his bicep when she passed his granddaughter a tiny sample spoon of peach jam. The contact was brief, but he felt heat crawl up his neck, and he cursed himself for reacting like a 17-year-old kid again. For 40 years, he’d blamed her for ratting him out to his dad when he’d snuck off to the Gulf coast for a weekend senior year, the stunt that got his pickup taken away and made him miss the prom he’d saved three months of grove overtime to afford. He’d called her every name he could think of back then, and hadn’t spoken to her since graduation.
He opened his mouth to make a snide comment, but she cut him off, nodding at the sun spot on his forearm he’d gotten the same weekend he’d snuck to the coast. “For the record, your snitch of a cousin is the one who told your dad. I saw him hiding in the bushes by your driveway when you left. I tried to flag you down, you were too busy making out with that cheerleader you were dating to notice.”
Manny’s jaw went slack. He’d never heard that part before. He leaned in closer to hear her over the band, his elbow resting on the rough pine of the stall counter, and when he reached for a sample of mango jam at the same time she did, their hands brushed. Her skin was warm, with a tiny faded scar on her knuckle from the time she’d fallen off his bike when they were 16, out checking wild tangerine groves off the back roads. He didn’t pull his hand away first.
They talked for 20 minutes while his granddaughter licked jam off her fingers and poked at the jars stacked on the lower shelf. She told him she’d retired from teaching middle school dance three years prior, ran the jam stall every Saturday, spent her Fridays at the oyster bar up the coast eating steamed Apalachicolas and listening to old blues sets. He told her he’d sold his share of the family grove five years ago, spent his days fishing and fixing up old lawnmowers for the neighborhood kids, had been single since his wife died eight years prior. She teased him about the terrible caterpillar mustache he’d grown senior year, he teased her about the time she’d gotten so drunk at a graduation party she’d tried to serenade a cow in a nearby pasture.
A kid running full tilt from the corn maze slammed into the side of the stall, and a jar of blackberry jam teetered off the edge. Both of them lunged for it at the same time, his hand wrapping around hers on the cool glass, their chests pressing together for half a second before they caught themselves. He could smell lavender soap and ripe peach on her shirt, and for a beat, neither of them spoke, just held eye contact, the noise of the festival fading into background static.
He paid for three jars of jam, peach, mango, blackberry, and when she slid the paper bag across the counter to him, she slipped a handwritten note with her phone number and the address of the oyster bar inside, folded around a free sample jar of her specialty habanero jelly. “Fridays at 7,” she said, winking, and he nodded so fast he almost knocked over his half-empty IPA.
He walked his granddaughter back to his daughter’s truck, tucking the bag of jam in the cooler next to the remaining six pack of beer, and his granddaughter poked him in the side, grinning, saying she’d never seen him talk to a lady that long before. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face, and he checked his phone three times in the five minute walk to the parking lot, half expecting a text already.
Ten minutes later, when they were stopped at a red light on the way home, his phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. He pulled it out, and it was a text from an unknown number, a photo of the oyster bar’s chalkboard menu, with a bucket of steamed oysters circled in pink chalk, no caption. He saved the number to his contacts, typed back a quick “I’ll bring the hot sauce,” and hit send.
He tucked his phone back in his jeans pocket, adjusted his worn Florida Gators baseball cap, and told his granddaughter they could stop for a second scoop of vanilla ice cream on the ride home.
