Manny Ortega, 53, makes his living building custom carbon-fiber fishing rods from the cinder-block workshop behind his bayou cabin outside Houma, Louisiana. He’s avoided the annual Terrebonne Parish Seafood Festival for eight straight years, ever since his wife left him for a tourist from Chicago she’d met shucking oysters at the 2016 contest. His only real flaw is he holds grudges like he holds a fishing line when he’s got a redfish on the other end: tight, unforgiving, no room for give. His cousin had begged him to come this year, said the 2024 lineup had a new wild oyster shucking bracket with a $500 grand prize, then bailed ten minutes after they walked through the gates to go flirt with the girl running the boudin food truck.
He’s leaning against a support pole at the beer tent, nursing a cold Abita Amber, scuffing the toe of his oil-stained work boots in the sawdust covering the ground, when he steps back to avoid a group of drunk teens wearing Mardi Gras beads and neon fishing hats. His shoulder slams straight into a woman carrying a tray of a dozen shucked oysters, and a splash of bright red mignonette arcs onto the sleeve of his faded gray flannel, rolled up to the elbow to show the pale, silvery scar running up his left forearm from a rod blank that snapped on him last winter.
He tenses up, ready to snap the first half-assed apology he expects, but she snorts instead, dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners, a whole lemon tucked behind her ear, her jeans splattered with saltwater, calluses visible on the fingers wrapped around the tray. “Well that’s a damn waste of good horseradish,” she says, nodding at the stain on his sleeve, no fake contrition in her voice. She sets the tray down on a nearby folding table, grabs a fistful of paper napkins, and dabs at the wet spot, her knuckles brushing the edge of his scar. He flinches, not from pain, but from the shock of casual, unplanned touch from someone who isn’t his cousin or a customer dropping off a deposit. She smells like sea salt, roasted garlic, and the faint, sweet tang of the satsuma lip gloss she’s wearing.
“Clara,” she says, holding out a hand once she’s blotted most of the stain out. “I run the raw bar out of the converted shrimp boat docked at the end of Bayou Petit Caillou. I’m judging the shucking bracket in ten minutes. I owe you a dozen oysters for ruining your shirt. You wanna tag along? No weird small talk with the local busybodies, I promise.”
His first instinct is to say no. He can already hear the gossip circulating by tomorrow morning: Manny Ortega finally crawled out of his workshop to hit on the new oyster lady. But her eyes don’t have that hungry, curious glint most people in town get when they talk to him, like they’re just waiting for him to mention his ex so they can run back to their friends with new material. She’s leaning against the table, weight shifted to one hip, not pushing, not pulling, just waiting. He nods.
The judge’s booth is rickety, the wooden planks sticky with old beer and spilled cocktail sauce, Zydeco music blaring from the main stage two tents over, the air thick with the smell of fried alligator and boiled crawfish. She sits down, and her knee brushes his when she crosses her legs, warm through the denim of their jeans. She passes him an oyster from her tray, their fingers brushing when he takes it, the cold brine sharp on his tongue when he tips it back, the horseradish burning just enough to make his eyes water. She laughs when he coughs a little, leaning in to slap him lightly on the back, her palm warm through his flannel.
He tells her about building rods, how he carves custom handles from cypress he pulls out of the bayou himself, how he ships them to sportsmen across the Gulf Coast. She says she’s been looking for a new custom rod ever since she hooked a 32-pound redfish last month and her old cheap fiberglass one snapped clean in half. He teases her that she must have been reeling too hard, too impatient, and she shoves his shoulder playfully, says she’d outfish him any day of the week even with a broomstick and a piece of string.
The contest wraps up an hour later, and she wins a $20 bet with the other judge that the 19-year-old kid from Chauvin would take first place, shucking 32 oysters in a minute flat. She grabs his arm to celebrate, leaning in so close her breath is warm against his ear, the lemon behind her ear brushing his temple. “Wanna get out of here?” she says. “I got a cooler of way better oysters and a bottle of 10-year bourbon on my boat. No crowds, no people asking you about your ex-wife, just the fireflies and the gators making noise out in the marsh.”
The old resistance flares up for half a second, the familiar tightness in his chest that makes him want to go home, lock his workshop door, and pretend he never left the house. But he looks at her, a fleck of oyster shell stuck to her left cheek, her hand still resting light on his arm, and he nods.
They walk toward the dock, the Zydeco music fading behind them, fireflies blinking low over the dark water of the bayou. She steps over a loose plank halfway down, lacing her fingers through his to steady herself, and doesn’t let go once she’s safely on the other side.
