Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living rebuilding vintage outboard motors out of a weathered boathouse on Lake Superior’s south shore, and he’s avoided every small town community event for seven straight years, ever since his wife left him for a Minneapolis real estate broker. He hates the pitying side glances, the awkward small talk, the way local gossips nudge each other like he’s some kind of sad sideshow. The only reason he’s at the annual summer street fair tonight is Javi, his high school buddy on the town council, showed up at his shop at 4 PM with a six pack of hazy IPA and threatened to dump a bucket of frigid lake water in his half-finished 1972 Evinrude rebuild if he didn’t tag along.
The air smells like fried dough, freshly cut grass, and roasted jalapeño, and he’s half a mind to slip out early and go back to his quiet, gossip-free shop when the sharp, smoky jalapeño scent tugs him toward a booth stacked with glass jars of salsa, handwritten labels scrawled in neon marker. The woman behind the table wipes her hands on a stained flour-sack apron, tucks a strand of silver-streaked dark hair behind her ear, and grins, and Manny freezes. It’s Lila, his ex-wife’s younger cousin. He hasn’t seen her since the divorce went through, when she showed up at his shop to drop off a box of his old vinyl records Maria had left in her garage, said she didn’t think Maria had any right to hoard stuff that wasn’t hers. She’s 48 now, faint crinkles fanning out at the corners of her eyes when she smiles, a tiny tattoo of a lake wave peeking out above the waistband of her high-waisted jeans where her cropped linen shirt rides up.
He mumbles a greeting, nods at the jars of extra-hot habanero salsa, his go-to. When he hands her a crumpled five dollar bill, their fingers brush. Hers are ice cold from hauling jars out of the iced tub under the table, and the shock of it zips up his arm all the way to the base of his neck. He flinches a little, and she laughs, low and warm, and holds his gaze longer than strictly polite, like she knows exactly what just happened. “Heard you still work on those old kickers,” she says, leaning her hip against the edge of the table, the rough wood pressing into the denim so he can see the curve of her hip clear as day. “My dad’s 1972 Johnson has been rotting in his garage for three years. Everyone says you’re the only guy within 100 miles who can fix that model without charging an arm and a leg.”
Manny’s first instinct is to say no. He knows how this looks, chatting up his ex-wife’s cousin at the busiest event of the year, the gossips are already glancing over from the fried cheese curd booth 10 feet away, nudging each other behind their paper plates. He doesn’t need more drama, doesn’t need Maria blowing up his phone calling him a creep, doesn’t need everyone in town whispering about him for the next three months. But then she pushes a sample cup of salsa across the table, loaded up with extra cilantro like she remembers he likes it, and he takes a bite, the bright heat burning all the way down his throat, making his eyes water. She hands him a cold can of lemonade, their elbows knocking when they both reach for a stack of extra napkins at the same time, and she says, “For the record, I haven’t spoken to Maria in 12 years. She bailed on my wedding maid of honor duties to go on a ski trip with that same broker she left you for. I don’t care what she thinks, and I don’t care what the town thinks.”
He hangs around the booth for the next two hours, helping her hand out samples, laughing when a snot-nosed kid tries the extra hot salsa and runs screaming to his mom for a popsicle. The sun dips low over the lake, painting the sky streaky pink and tangerine, and the string lights strung above the booth flicker on, casting soft gold over her face. When the fair closes down, he helps her haul the heavy iced tubs of jars into the bed of her beat up 2008 Ford pickup, and when he lifts the last tub, his hand brushes the small of her back. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step away, just turns to look up at him, her lips twisted into that same sharp, teasing grin. “I got a case of that dark oat ale you like in the fridge at my cottage,” she says, nodding toward the north end of the lake, where she rents the old white clapboard cottage with the rickety dock he’s passed a hundred times on the water. “We can go over what parts the Johnson might need. Unless you’re too scared of a little gossip.”
Manny thinks of his quiet shop, the half-finished motor on his workbench, the lumpy worn couch he falls asleep on every night alone. He thinks of the way her cold fingers felt against his, the way she remembered he likes extra cilantro, the way she doesn’t look at him like he’s some broken, sad thing left behind. He shakes his head, laughs, and tosses his jar of salsa into the passenger seat of his own truck. He follows her down the rutted dirt road leading to her cottage, dust kicking up behind the tires, fireflies blinking in the tall grass on either side of the road, and when they pull up to the porch, she reaches across the cab of her truck, rolls down the window, and holds up a frosty cold beer, condensation glistening in the warm yellow porch light. He grabs the beer from her outstretched hand, his palm brushing hers again, and follows her up the weathered pine porch steps.
