Manny Ruiz, 52, has been restoring vintage neon signs for 22 years, and he still gets a little jolt when a freshly wired tube flickers to life for the first time. That jolt’s got nothing on the one that zips up his spine when he spots Lila Marlow crossing the harvest festival beer tent toward him, though. He’s got a half-drunk IPA in one calloused hand, jeans still dusted with the phosphor powder he was handling earlier that afternoon, a smudge of solder on his left jaw he hasn’t noticed yet. He donated the 6-foot neon cowboy sign strung above the festival entrance this year, figured it was good for local PR, even if he avoids most small town events on principle. The bluegrass band set up 20 feet away is playing a cover of a Johnny Cash song he hasn’t heard since he was a kid, the fiddle wailing loud enough to drown out the chatter of the crowd around the picnic tables.
He’s spoken to Lila exactly twice before. First time was four months back, when she brought him a warm peach pie as thanks for fixing the neon “OPEN” sign at the feed store she runs with her husband, Tom. Second time was two weeks ago, when she dropped off a stack of old sign catalogs she found at a garage sale, stayed for 15 minutes leaning against the edge of his workbench while he explained the difference between argon and neon tubing, her laugh bright enough to cut through the hum of his neon testers. He’s avoided her ever since, because he knows Tom’s running for county commissioner, knows everyone in town thinks their marriage is rock solid, knows the sharp, hungry twist he feels in his gut when he looks at her is the kind of trouble he swore he’d stay away from after his ex left him 8 years back. He’s got a rule: no messing with married women, no messing with anyone who lives within 10 miles of his shop, no messing with anything that could complicate the quiet, uncomplicated life he’s built for himself.
She stops right next to the picnic table he’s sitting at, leans her hip against the edge so close he can smell the vanilla lotion she wears mixed with the cinnamon sugar from the churro booth she’s been running all day. She holds his eye contact for three full beats, no polite smile, no quick look away, just a slow, lazy grin that makes his ears go warm. “That cowboy sign you hung looks perfect,” she says, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the band. “Kids are lining up to take photos with it.” He nods, takes a sip of his beer to buy time, and when he sets the can down she reaches for a stack of napkins next to his hand, her forearm brushing his bare wrist. The contact is accidental, but he feels the heat of her skin linger for 10 full seconds after she pulls her hand back, tucking a strand of auburn hair that escaped her ponytail behind her ear. He opens his mouth to ask how Tom’s campaign is going, the polite small town question he’s supposed to ask, and she snorts before he can get the words out. “Tom and I split in April,” she says, like she can read his mind. “We haven’t announced it. He thinks a divorce will tank his election odds, so we’re playing happy couple for another three weeks. Don’t tell anyone.”
The relief hits him first, fast and hot, then a sharp stab of guilt, because he’s been daydreaming about this exact conversation for months, feeling like a creep for lusting after a woman he thought was married. He’s torn between the part of him that wants to ask her to get dinner with him next week, and the part of him that wants to make an excuse, grab his beer, and head home to his quiet shop where no one can mess with the routine he’s built. He doesn’t get a chance to choose, because she slides a crumpled paper bag across the table toward him, the sweet smell of peach pie seeping through the sides. “I got a 1957 neon ‘FRESH PIES’ sign in my garage,” she says, her voice dropping lower so no one at the next table can hear. “Inherited it from my grandma. Half the tubes are burnt out. I was gonna ask if you could come take a look at it tonight, after the festival wraps. I’ll make coffee. No charge, unless you count the pie as payment.” Her fingers brush his when he reaches for the bag, and this time it’s not accidental, her pinky curling around his for half a second before she pulls away. “Back gate will be unlocked,” she says, already stepping backward toward her booth. “Come around 9. No need to knock.”
He sits there for another 20 minutes after she leaves, sipping his warm beer, staring at the paper bag in his lap, the neon cowboy above him flickering pink and blue across the crowd. He considers bailing. Considers driving home, eating the pie alone while he works on the old Route 66 sign he’s been restoring for months, pretending this conversation never happened. But when he packs his tools back into his truck at 8:30, he drives toward her house instead of his, turns off the main road onto the dirt lane that leads to her small ranch, his hands a little sweaty on the steering wheel. The back gate is propped open just like she said, and he can see the 1957 “FRESH PIES” sign leaning against her back porch railing, already glowing soft rose-pink, the burnt-out spots dark against the light. He walks up the porch steps, and she opens the door before he can lift his hand to knock, holding two mugs of steaming coffee, wearing a soft gray sweater and no socks, the light from the neon sign spilling over her shoulders. He steps across the threshold, and the door clicks shut softly behind him.
