Moe Sorvino is 59, has grease permanently crusted under the edges of his fingernails, and hasn’t let anyone who isn’t a VFW regular step foot in his snowmobile restoration shop in seven years. He’s the guy who’ll fix the broken carburetor on a veteran’s old sled for free, but will leave a customer on hold for three days if they ask too many questions about paint codes. The divorce left him sharp around the edges, convinced any connection that isn’t with a 40 year old two stroke engine is more trouble than it’s worth. He’s also spent the last three weeks complaining about the new county health department rule that requires a nurse to do a spot check at every community food event, calling it unnecessary government overreach every time someone brings it up at the fish fry.
It’s 18 degrees outside, wind off Lake Superior cutting through the cinder block walls of the VFW hall even with the space heater cranked, when she walks in. She’s wearing a tailored wool blazer over a turtleneck, a lanyard with the county seal around her neck, a dusting of snow in her auburn hair, and Moe freezes mid-bite of his cod when he sees her. He recognizes her before she says a word: Lila Marlow, daughter of his old racing partner Jimmy, who died of a heart attack out on the trails 10 years back. The last time he saw her, she was 16, covered in grease, begging him to let her take his prize 1978 Arctic Cat El Tigre for a spin around the practice yard.
She spots him a minute later, squints, and walks over, the hem of her blazer brushing the edge of the Formica counter where he’s sitting. He’s suddenly hyper aware of how his flannel is frayed at the cuffs, how his work boots are still caked with mud from the trail behind his shop. She leans an elbow on the counter, and when she reaches for the malt vinegar at the same time he does, their hands brush. His are calloused, rough from 40 years of turning wrenches, hers soft, a chipped coat of red nail polish on her fingers, a tiny silver snowflake ring on her index finger. The contact sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in over a decade, and he yanks his hand back like he’s touched a hot exhaust pipe.
“Moe Sorvino,” she says, grinning, and her voice is lower than he remembers, warm, like the hot toddies Jimmy used to make after races. “You still have that El Tigre you used to hide from my dad so I could ride it?”
He nods, his ears burning, and takes a long drink of his beer to avoid having to talk right away. He feels stupid, flustered, like a kid with a crush on his math teacher. This is Jimmy’s kid, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t be noticing how the turtleneck fits her, how her cheeks are pink from the cold, how she smells like pine and peppermint when she leans in closer to hear him over the noise of the other guys yelling about the football game on the TV above the bar.
They talk for 45 minutes. She tells him she moved back to Duluth six months prior, took the public health nurse job after working at a hospital in Minneapolis for 10 years, her mom moved to Florida last year and left her all of Jimmy’s old racing gear. She says she’s been wanting to get back into riding, hasn’t been on a sled since her dad died. He tells her about the sleds he’s working on, the 1982 Polaris Indy he’s restoring for a collector in Texas, the trail system he maintains behind his property that almost no one else uses. He doesn’t mention the divorce, doesn’t mention how he hasn’t taken anyone out on the trails in 12 years.
The hall clears out, the bartender starts stacking chairs, and Lila grabs his arm when he stands up to leave, her palm warm through the flannel of his shirt. “My car’s parked three blocks over,” she says, nodding toward the door, where the wind is howling so loud it rattles the windows. “I don’t feel like fighting that wind alone. You got room for me in your truck?”
He almost says no. Almost makes up an excuse about having to get back to the shop to finish a carburetor rebuild. But then she’s looking up at him, her hazel eyes flecked with green, her lower lip tucked between her teeth a little like she’s nervous he’ll say no, and he agrees.
The wind hits them the second they step outside, so sharp it makes his eyes water, and Lila huddles close to him, her shoulder pressed to his chest, her arm wrapped around his bicep to stay steady on the icy sidewalk. He can feel the heat off her even through both their winter coats, and he doesn’t pull away. He drives her to her car, a beat up Subaru with a Jimmy John’s sticker on the back window, and when she gets out, she asks if she can come by his shop the next morning, look at the sleds, maybe take one out for a spin. He says 10 a.m., bring warm boots, the trail’s icy in spots.
She shows up 10 minutes early the next day, holding a thermos of spiked hot cocoa and a paper bag of glazed maple donuts from the bakery downtown, wearing a vintage Arctic Cat jacket that used to be Jimmy’s, snow pants and bulky Sorel boots. The El Tigre is idling in the yard, exhaust curling into the crisp, cold air, the engine purring like a contented cat. She holds out a donut to him, and when their fingers brush this time, neither of them pulls away fast. He nods toward the mouth of the trail, picks up the helmet he set out for her, and tosses it to her one handed.
