Manny Ruiz, 57, spent 32 years running bulldozers for the Michigan DOT before a knee replacement forced early retirement. Now he restores vintage snowmobiles out of his Traverse City two-car garage, charges $45 an hour, and skipped the annual Leelanau County Maple Syrup Festival every year since his wife Elaina died of breast cancer four years prior. His old riding buddy Tom badgered him into a booth this year to sell extra refurbished carburetors, spark plugs, and custom 1970s Ski-Doo decals, so he showed up at 7 a.m. grumbling, thermos of black coffee in one hand, folding table in the other, wearing the faded Carhartt Elaina bought him for their 25th anniversary.
The booth next to his was run by Mara, who kept 120 hives on 10 acres 15 minutes west of town, selling raw wildflower honey, beeswax candles, and chewy maple-honey taffy. Manny didn’t speak to her for three hours, too focused on pretending he’d rather be anywhere else, but he kept glancing over when he thought she wasn’t looking. She had a beeswax smudge on her left cheek, chapped knuckles from working through the March thaw, and laughed loud enough to carry three booths over when a toddler spilled honey all over his mom’s coat.
A sharp gust off the lake hit at 10:30 a.m., knocking her stack of sample cups under Manny’s booth. They both bent to grab them, foreheads knocking with a soft thud, and Manny caught a whiff of lavender shampoo and raw clover honey off her hair before their hands brushed reaching for the same crumpled cup. He flinched like he’d touched a hot exhaust pipe, mumbled an apology, and stood fast, knee twinging. She laughed, wiping chestnut hair out of her face, and teased him for hogging the only wind-sheltered spot in the vendor row. He didn’t have a comeback, just nodded, and rearranged decals to avoid looking at her. He felt guilty, stupid, like even a stray hand brush was betraying Elaina, like he was supposed to stay frozen forever, no laughs, no accidental touches, no life outside the garage and his empty house.
An hour later, drunk college kids on spring break ran past, slamming into Mara’s table. A quart jar of maple-infused honey tipped off the edge, and Manny grabbed it mid-fall, his arm wrapping around her waist for half a second to steady her when she stumbled backward. He pulled away so fast he nearly tripped over his boots, face burning. She thanked him, breathless, her hand resting on his forearm a beat before she checked her stock. He spent the next two hours making excuses to leave: grabbing a second coffee, helping an old customer carry a carburetor to his truck, wandering the syrup tasting tent for space. Every time he came back, he’d catch her looking at him, a small knowing smile on her face, like she could see the war he was fighting in his head.
By 5 p.m., the sun dipped low over the lake, the crowd thinned, and Manny packed leftover stock into his beat-up 2004 F-150. Mara walked over holding the quart of maple honey and a paper bag of taffy, holding them out. He tried to hand her $20, but she pushed his hand away, leaning in just enough that he could see gold flecks in her green eyes. She said she had a 1980 Polaris TX sitting in her barn for three years, left by her dad, and she’d heard he was the best in the county for old snowmobile work. She asked if he’d come look at it, slipping a slip of notebook paper with her number into his palm, her fingers lingering on his wrist on purpose.
Manny stood there, the paper crinkling in his fist, thinking of Elaina, how she’d teased him for years for being too stubborn to let anyone new get close, how she’d made him promise a week before she died that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life alone. He nodded, told her he could swing by her farm next Saturday at 10 a.m. She grinned, said she’d have coffee waiting, and walked back to pack her booth.
He climbed into his truck, the honey jar on the passenger seat next to his thermos, the slip of paper tucked in his Carhartt’s inner pocket. He turned the key, the radio flicked on to a Johnny Cash song, the same one he and Elaina danced to at their wedding reception. He rolled the window down a crack, cold April air biting at his cheeks, and he didn’t feel guilty at all.
