Manny Ruiz, 62, retired FAA air traffic controller, showed up to the town’s annual oyster roast fundraiser only because his next-door neighbor had banged on his screen door at 4 p.m. holding two tupperwares of her famous deviled eggs and threatened to leave them on his porch to rot if he didn’t come. He’d planned to stay 20 minutes max, grab a plate of oysters, avoid small talk, and get back to sanding the hull of his 1978 Boston Whaler, the project that had consumed most of his days since he moved to the Florida panhandle six months prior. He wore faded Carhartt over a white undershirt, work boots caked with marine epoxy, and his left wrist still bore the faint scar from a run-in with a propeller two months back. His biggest flaw, the one his ex-wife had yelled about for 18 years, was that he hated deviating from schedule, hated surprises, hated anything that pulled him out of the rigid rhythm he’d built after 31 years working the control tower at Phoenix Sky Harbor. He still carried guilt, too, for missing his older brother’s final call three years prior, too swamped with a holiday travel rush to pick up, only getting the voice mail an hour after he’d died of a sudden heart attack. The Whaler had been his brother’s, the only thing he’d left Manny in the will.
He was leaning against a longleaf pine sipping sweet tea, half tuned out to a group of retirees arguing about college football, when she bumped into him from behind. A slosh of briny oyster liquor and cocktail sauce dripped down the front of his Carhartt, and she yelped, fumbling for a crumpled napkin in her jeans pocket. “Christ, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” she said, dabbing at the stain before he could protest. Her hand brushed the soft hair at the base of his neck for half a second, and he caught a whiff of jasmine perfume, light, not cloying, cutting through the thick air of smoked sausage and salt and vinegar. He looked down at her: hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, a streak of silver running through the dark brown hair she’d pulled back in a loose braid, chipped deep burgundy nail polish on her fingers, bare ankles scuffed from walking the beach in scuffed leather sandals. She introduced herself as Clara, 58, the town’s new part-time librarian, moved up from Miami six months prior to be closer to her granddaughter, widowed two years back after her husband of 36 years died of pancreatic cancer.
She teased him about the scowl on his face, said he looked like he’d rather be getting a root canal than standing at a party. He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he didn’t make often, and admitted he’d been counting down the minutes until he could leave. He told her about the Whaler, about the routine he’d built: 5 a.m. coffee, 6 a.m. walk on the beach, 7 a.m. work on the boat until noon, lunch at the dive taco stand off Main Street, back home to watch old westerns until bed. He didn’t tell her about the guilt, the way he still felt like he was supposed to be miserable, like enjoying anything after his brother died, after his divorce, was a betrayal. She told him she’d been wanting to get out on the water since she moved, but every guy in town who owned a boat had tried to invite her back to their place before they even pulled out of the dock. He felt a twist of something low in his gut, desire tangled with the familiar urge to retreat, to stick to his schedule, to not let anyone disrupt the quiet he’d worked so hard to build.
She nodded toward the boardwalk leading down to the town dock, said the crowd was giving her a headache, asked if he wanted to walk with her to get some air. He hesitated for two beats, then nodded. The sun was dipping low over the gulf, painting the water streaks of tangerine and pale pink, the air warm enough that the breeze didn’t bite, just carried the sound of crickets and the distant crash of waves. They sat on the edge of the dock, their legs dangling over the water, and her bare calf brushed his jeans once, twice, as she swung her feet. She told him about the guilt she’d felt the first time she’d agreed to get coffee with a guy after her husband died, like she was cheating, like she wasn’t allowed to be happy anymore. He told her about missing his brother’s call, about the way he still couldn’t listen to the old country records they used to blast on fishing trips without crying. For the first time since he’d moved to town, he didn’t feel like he was performing normalcy, like he didn’t have to pretend he was fine all the time.
He asked her if she wanted to come out on the Whaler with him the next morning, 6 a.m., to watch the sunrise, maybe catch a few redfish if they got lucky. She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling so hard they almost shut, and said yes. She leaned in a little, their shoulders pressing together, and he could feel the warmth of her through the thin linen of her button-down, could hear her breath catch just a little when his hand brushed hers where they were propped on the dock between them. He didn’t make a move to kiss her, didn’t want to rush it, didn’t want to ruin the quiet, easy thing they’d stumbled into in the span of an hour.
He walked her to her tiny cottage three blocks from the park, the streetlights coming on as they went, fireflies flickering in the oak trees along the sidewalk. She stopped at her front steps, turned to him, and asked if he wanted to come in for a beer. He told her he had a tupperware of fresh ceviche he’d made that morning stashed in his cooler in the truck, if she wanted to pair it with something stronger than beer. She laughed, loud and warm, and said she had a bottle of tequila and a bag of limes in her fridge just waiting for an excuse to be used. He followed her up the steps, the screen door slapping shut behind them, and he caught the faint sound of Linda Ronstadt’s “Blue Bayou” playing on a record player in the living room, the same song his brother used to play every time they took the Whaler out fishing when they were kids.
