Manny Rios, 62, retired Chicago air traffic controller, only showed up to the local fire department chili cook-off because his next-door neighbor badgered him for three straight days about the grand prize: a $200 gift card to the marina’s fuel dock. He’d spent the past eight months rebuilding the engine of his 1987 Grady-White, and gas for that old beast ate through his fixed income faster than the carp in Torch Lake ate minnows. He leaned against a splintered pine picnic table, picking at a bowl of three-alarm chili that burned the back of his throat, his faded White Sox cap pulled low to block the late August sun, work boots caked with a crust of lake mud and engine grease.
He turned to grab a can of root beer off the table behind him and collided with something soft, warm, smelling like lavender and old paper. A dollop of chili slopped over the edge of his bowl, splattering the front of a linen shirt the color of wild blueberries, right above the curve of a woman’s hip. He fumbled for a crumpled napkin in his jeans pocket, stammering an apology, and his knuckles brushed her skin through the thin fabric when he tried to dab at the stain. She didn’t step back. She laughed, low and throaty, not the shrill, performative titter he’d gotten used to from the women who sidled up to him at the hardware store when they saw him buying power tools.
Her name was Elara Voss, 58, the new town librarian, moved up from Detroit last year after her husband died of pancreatic cancer. She’d seen him at the boat launch three times the week prior, she said, hunched over his outboard with grease under his fingernails, swearing loud enough that the geese took off from the shore. She’d grown up helping her dad rebuild old fishing boats in his garage on the Detroit River, so she knew exactly how finicky those 1980s Grady-White engines could be. Manny’s chest tightened, half from the spice of the chili, half from the way she leaned in when she talked, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, her shoulder brushing his every time a group of kids ran past yelling for cotton candy.
He’d avoided any sort of casual connection with anyone since his wife died in a car crash eight years prior, had told himself he was fine with quiet, with spending his nights drinking cheap beer and watching old baseball games alone, that dating again felt like cheating, like he was throwing away 32 years of marriage for a quick thrill. But Elara didn’t push. She didn’t ask him personal questions right away, just talked about the way the lake turned bright turquoise at noon in the summer, about the group of retired teachers who came into the library every Wednesday to do puzzle books, about how she’d never tasted chili this spicy in her life.
They drifted away from the crowd, over to the edge of the park where the grass sloped down to the lake, the sunset painting the water pink and tangerine, crickets starting to hum in the tall grass at their feet. Manny found himself telling her about the heart attack that forced him to retire early two years prior, about how he’d moved up north to get away from the noise of Chicago, away from every corner that reminded him of his wife, about how he’d thought the quiet would fix everything, but half the time he felt like he was just treading water, waiting for something he didn’t dare name.
Elara didn’t say anything for a long minute, just kicked a small rock into the lake, ripples spreading out across the surface. When she turned back to him, she reached up and brushed a fleck of ash from the cook-off’s bonfire off his cheek, her thumb lingering on the rough stubble of his jaw for half a beat. “Grief isn’t a prison sentence, you know,” she said, soft enough that he almost didn’t hear it over the sound of the waves lapping at the shore.
Manny’s throat went dry. He’d had that exact thought a hundred times, but he’d never said it out loud, never let himself admit he was tired of being alone, that he missed the sound of someone else’s voice in his house. He didn’t hesitate when he asked her if she wanted to come out on the Grady-White with him the next morning, watch the sunrise over the lake, he’d bring cold brew and the blueberry muffins the bakery on Main Street made fresh every day. She said yes before he finished talking, no hesitation, no coy game playing.
He walked her to her beat-up Subaru Outback, the back window plastered with stickers for indie bookstores and the local animal shelter, and she scribbled her cell number on the back of a receipt for a copy of *The Old Man and the Sea*, the ink smudged a little from the sweat on her palm. He tucked the receipt into the inside pocket of his flannel shirt, right over his heart, and waved as she pulled out of the parking lot, her hand hanging out the window to wave back.
When he got back to his small cabin on the lake, he pulled the receipt out of his pocket, held it up to the light from the kitchen lamp, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to the paper. He smiled, slow and unforced, the first time he’d done that without having to fake it for a neighbor or a cashier in years. He set his alarm for 5 a.m., double checked the coffee maker was loaded with his favorite dark roast, and pulled up the marine weather app to confirm the lake would be calm come sunrise.
