Elias Voss, 53, has restored over 400 vintage outboard motors out of his converted Lake Superior boathouse shop, and the only flaw he’ll cop to is being too stubborn to waste time on anything that doesn’t require a wrench and degreaser. He’s leaned into that flaw hard since his wife left for a Minneapolis corporate job seven years prior; he turned down three fishing league invites, skipped weekly town trivia, and taped a half-joking “NO SOLICITORS, NO SMALL TALK, NO GIRLS ALLOWED” sign to his shop door to cut down on interruptions. He only showed up to the fire department’s annual summer fish fry because his childhood friend, the fire chief, dragged him out at 4PM, grease under his fingernails and all.
The air smells like charcoal smoke, fried walleye, and cheap light beer, and Elias is halfway through his second plate when he turns too fast to dodge a group of popsicle-wielding kids, slamming shoulder-first into the woman who bought the cottage half a mile down his shore three months prior. Her pink lemonade sloshes over the rim, splattering a pale yellow splotch across his faded flannel sleeve, and he stammers an apology so flustered it comes out half growl. She laughs, a low warm sound that cuts through crowd chatter, grabs a handful of napkins, and her knuckles brush his wrist when she dabs at the stain. She’s standing so close he can smell coconut sunscreen and mint gum on her breath, see the freckles across her nose that didn’t fade as the sun dipped, and he freezes, hyper aware of the grease crusted under his nails and the hole in his work jeans knee.
He’s avoided her on purpose for three months. She’s 12 years younger, fresh off a divorce from a Chicago lawyer, and the town gossip mill has spun nonstop about her since she moved in, old guys at the bait shop speculating how long she’ll last before running back to the city. Elias told himself a hundred times getting involved with a neighbor is the worst possible idea, that he’s too set in his ways, that he doesn’t need small town whispers picking apart every wave they exchange from their docks. But she holds his gaze, no polite smile, no awkward look away, just a lopsided grin, and says she’s been meaning to stop by his shop for weeks, that she found a beat-up 1958 Evinrude under a tarp in her shed, and everyone says he’s the only guy within 100 miles who can get those old two-strokes running without robbing her blind.
He tries to excuse himself, says he’s swamped with work for the next month, no time for side projects, but she leans in a little, her shoulder brushing his, and teases him about the “no girls allowed” sign, says she figured he was just hiding from people who’d call him out for charging old ladies double for carburetor cleanings. He snorts before he can stop himself, the tight knot of resistance in his chest loosening. He likes that she doesn’t treat him like the reclusive weirdo half the town thinks he is, that she doesn’t tiptoe around his gruff exterior. The part of him that’s been disgusted with himself for even looking at her twice the last three months feels silly now, small, like he’s been hiding from a thunderstorm that never existed.
She asks if he wants to come over after the fry to look at the motor, says she’s got a shore fire pit and a cooler of IPA in the fridge, no pressure, they don’t even have to talk about the motor if he doesn’t want to. He almost says no, almost falls back on the same excuse he’s used for every social invite for seven years, but he looks at her red bandana holding back sun-bleached blonde hair, the scuffed work boots she’s wearing instead of the fancy sandals tourist women favor, and he nods. They agree to leave 10 minutes apart to avoid giving the gossips more ammo.
He stops at his boathouse first to grab his small tool roll and a six pack of local hazy IPA, then drives down the dirt road to her cottage, his beat-up F150’s windows rolled down, cold August wind whipping off the lake. She’s sitting on the edge of her dock when he pulls up, kicking her bare feet in shallow cold water, the old Evinrude propped on a cinder block next to the lit fire pit. He sits down next to her, passes her a cold beer, and when their fingers brush as she takes it, neither of them pulls away.
