Elias Voss, 53, has made a point of skipping every small-town northern Michigan social event since his ex-wife left him for a downstate real estate developer seven years prior. He restores vintage outboard motors for a living, working out of a drafty boathouse on the edge of Torch Lake, keeps his interactions limited to haggling over parts at the marine supply shop and walking his hound dog before dawn, avoids small talk like it’s a rusted carburetor that’ll seize the second you touch it. The only reason he showed up to the annual Lions Club fish fry was his oldest client, 82-year-old retired commercial fisherman Joe, who begged him to come, swearing a parts dealer from Green Bay was bringing a crate of 1960s Evinrude components Elias had been hunting for six months.
The parts dealer bailed, his pickup breaking down outside of Traverse City, so Elias was stuck leaning against a dented plastic cooler, nursing a warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, 30 seconds from bolting for his truck when Maren Hale tripped over the cooler’s extended leg. She was carrying a heaping plate of fried perch and creamy coleslaw, half the coleslaw splattering across the sleeve of his faded gray flannel, and she grabbed his left forearm to steady herself, her palm warm even through the thick fabric. She smelled like lavender hand cream, old paper, and the faint briny tang of lake water, the same scent that clung to his work boots after a day on the water testing motors.
Elias knew the town gossip about her, of course. 48, moved to town six months prior to open the used bookstore on Main Street, left a six-figure corporate lawyer husband in Chicago, got caught making out with the 20-year-old barista at the corner coffee shop two months after she arrived. Everyone called her “the city disaster” behind her back, warned their husbands and sons to steer clear. His first instinct was to yank his arm away, mutter a dismissive it’s fine, and hightail it back to his quiet boathouse. But she laughed, a rough, throaty, unapologetic sound, swiping at the coleslaw on his sleeve with a crumpled napkin, and said, “Sorry, I’ve always been clumsy around hot guys who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.”
She held his gaze, didn’t flinch when he offhandedly mentioned the gossip he’d heard about her, just raised one eyebrow and said, “People around here love to make up stories about anyone who doesn’t fit their little 9-to-5, picket-fence box, huh?” He nodded, said he knew the feeling—they called him the boathouse hermit, said he still slept on the couch with his ex-wife’s old sweater every night. She invited him back to the bookstore, said she picked up a box of 1960s outboard motor manuals at an estate sale the week before, he could have the whole lot for free if he helped her haul them out of the back of her beat-up Ford Ranger.
Every part of him that had gotten used to being alone screamed that this was a bad idea, that she was trouble, that he’d end up hurt again. But he nodded, followed her out of the park, the night air cool on his cheeks, fireflies blinking in the oak trees lining Main Street. Their hands brushed twice when they walked side by side, her fingers calloused from turning thousands of book pages, same as his were from twisting wrenches and prying loose rusted bolts. They got to the back of the bookstore, she unlocked the alley gate, and he hefted the heavy box of manuals out of her truck bed. When he turned around, she was standing so close their chests almost touched, she tilted her chin up, and kissed him soft, tasting like lemonade and the crispy fried perch they’d both eaten for dinner.
He didn’t pull away. Wrapped one arm around her waist, the box still held firm in his other hand, and pressed back. When they pulled apart, she grinned, said he could stay for a glass of bourbon if he wanted, or he could leave, no pressure, no expectations. He said he’d stay, and he’d bring that 1957 carburetor over tomorrow, if she wanted to start pulling the old motor apart. She said she’d make peach pie, her grandma’s secret recipe, if he came over next weekend to install it and take the boat out for its first test run.
He tucks a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush home to an empty boathouse.
