Rafe Mendoza, 52, makes his living rebuilding vintage outboard motors out of a cinder block boathouse tucked between two cypress groves on Kentucky Lake. He’d avoided the county fire department’s annual fish fry for eight straight years, ever since his ex-wife left him for a Nashville real estate agent and half the town spent three months asking him if he was “holding up okay” like he was a lost golden retriever. The only reason he showed this year was his 19-year-old niece, who’d begged him to help haul cases of chocolate chip cookies for the junior volunteer bake sale, and he’d never been able to say no to that kid. He’d planned to duck out as soon as the boxes were unloaded, grab a six pack from the gas station on the way home, and spend the rest of the night sanding the 1957 Evinrude he’d been restoring for a client in Louisville. That plan went out the window the second a woman holding a paper plate stacked high with catfish turned too fast to answer a call from across the fairground and slammed right into his chest.
Coleslaw dribbled down the front of his faded gray Carhartt, the vinegar dressing seeping through the thin fabric fast enough that he felt the cool dampness against his skin before he could react. She froze, hazel eyes going wide, and leaned in before he could step back, dabbing at the stain with a crumpled paper napkin from her pocket. “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she said, her voice warm, a little smoky, like she spent half her day laughing too loud. He could smell vanilla lotion and the faint tang of lemonade on her breath, feel her knuckles brushing his chest through the wet spot on his shirt, her shoulder pressed so tight to his bicep he could count the faint freckles across the top of her hand. Her hair was a messy braid streaked with silver, pulled back with a frayed bandana printed with tiny fishing lures, and he realized he’d seen her before, behind the desk at the tiny county library downtown, the one he’d walked past a hundred times but never stepped foot in.
He opened his mouth to say it was fine, that he could wash the shirt, that he was leaving anyway, but the words stuck in his throat when she pulled back and grinned, swiping a stray strand of hair off her face. “I’m Clara,” she said, holding out a hand calloused at the fingertips, like she gardened or fixed things when she wasn’t stamping library books. He shook her hand, his own palm rough from years of working with wrenches and motor oil, and felt a jolt run up his arm when her fingers curled around his. The logical part of his brain screamed to leave, to get in his truck, to avoid the inevitable gossip that would spread if anyone saw him talking to the new librarian for longer than ten seconds. The other part, the part he’d buried under eight years of motor grease and quiet nights alone, wanted to stay.
They ended up sitting on the tailgate of his beat up 2008 Ford F150, parked at the far edge of the fairground where the string lights didn’t reach and the noise of the crowd faded to a low hum. She split her last hushpuppy with him, crispy on the outside, soft and salty on the inside, and told him she’d left Chicago after her ex-husband, a college professor, had cheated on her with a 22-year-old grad student. He found himself telling her about the Evinrude, about the way the old motors smelled like gasoline and time when you took them apart, about how he’d bought the boathouse with his ex right after they got married, and he’d never had the heart to sell it even after she left. She leaned in as he talked, her knee pressed firm against his jeans, and didn’t look away when he paused to meet her gaze. He could see fireflies flickering in the oak trees behind her, hear the low rumble of a boat motor out on the lake, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel the urge to run.
He reached out without thinking, brushing a crumb of hushpuppy off her lower lip, his finger lingering for half a second against the soft skin. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back, just smiled, slow and warm, and leaned into the touch a little. He knew every gossiping retiree in the county would be talking about this by breakfast, would be asking him if he was “seeing someone” like it was their business, and for once, he didn’t care. She asked if he’d show her the boathouse sometime, said she’d always wanted to learn how to fix small engines, and he told her she could come by anytime, no appointment needed. He hopped off the tailgate, held out a hand to help her down, and grabbed his keys out of his pocket when she said she didn’t feel like walking home in the dark. He glanced down at the faint yellow coleslaw stain on the front of his Carhartt as he opened the passenger door for her, and smiled when she laughed and tapped the stain with her finger. The motor of his truck rumbled to life when he turned the key, and he pulled out of the fairground parking lot, heading toward the lake, not a single thought of going home alone crossing his mind.
