Ronan Hale, 53, makes his living restoring vintage outboard motors out of a weathered boathouse on the northern shore of Torch Lake. He’s avoided every local community event since his divorce eight years prior, convinced small town cookoffs and fundraisers are little more than gossip circles for retired teachers and bored fishermen with nothing better to do than dissect the personal lives of anyone who dares keep to themselves. He only agreed to come to the annual ice fishing shanty chili cookoff because his only friend, a retired ferry captain named Jake, had begged him, swearing the third place entry from the local bait shop was so spicy it’d clear the winter congestion out of his sinuses for good.
He’s standing by the folding table stacked with paper bowls and plastic spoons, half-finished bowl of chili in one hand, bare other hand tucked under his armpit to ward off the 12-degree chill, when someone slams into his side. The chili sloshes over the edge of the bowl onto his red flannel shirt, and a stream of spiked hot cocoa drips down the cuff of his work pants. He’s ready to snap before he looks down, and finds himself staring at Lila Marquez, 38, the new county park ranger who’s been patrolling the lake access points since last summer. He’s avoided her for six months straight, half out of embarrassment at the stupid, lingering crush he’s carried since she waved at him from her patrol boat last June, half out of fear that someone would notice him looking and run their mouth to her dad, the owner of the bait shop he buys all his parts and supplies from. The 15-year age gap doesn’t help, either; he’s spent months telling himself he’d be the sad old guy hitting on the younger ranger, the punchline of every joke at the diner for the next year.
She’s flustered, swatting at the cocoa stain on his pants with a crumpled paper napkin, her park ranger coat brushing his bare wrist when she leans in. The cold nylon sends a sharp jolt up his arm, and he flinches a little, which makes her laugh. Her cheeks are bright pink from the wind, her dark hair sticking out from under her knit beanie in messy curls, and her breath smells like peppermint and bourbon when she speaks, close enough that he can feel the warm air hit his jaw. “Sorry about that,” she says, still dabbing at the chili stain on his shirt. “Some kid on a snowmobile cut me off, I had to swerve. I’ve been meaning to track you down, actually. Found a 1967 Evinrude in my dad’s garage last weekend, hasn’t run in 20 years. I know you’re the only guy within 50 miles who can fix something that old.”
Ronan snorts, tucking his cold hand back into his jacket pocket. “I don’t do discount work just ‘cause your dad sells me good minnows,” he says, and he’s surprised at how easy the joke comes, how he doesn’t immediately stumble over his words like he expected to. She leans in a little closer, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, and he can feel the heat of her through both their coats. The chatter of the crowd behind them fades into background noise, just the low rumble of conversation and the distant rev of snowmobile engines. “Who said anything about a discount?” she says, tilting her head up to hold eye contact, dark eyes glinting in the string lights strung between the picnic tables. “I’ll pay you in peach pie. Homemade, from the peaches I canned last August. Dad says you buy a jar of his peach preserves every single time you come into the shop, so I know you’re a sucker for them.”
His chest feels tight, the familiar war kicking up in his head: one side screaming that this is a terrible idea, that everyone will see them leave together, that her dad will ban him from the bait shop, that he’s too old, too set in his ways, too broken from his divorce to be worth anyone’s time. The other side is louder, though, buzzing with the thrill of the taboo, of the way she’s looking at him like she knows exactly what she’s doing, like she’s been thinking about this just as long as he has. He’s spent eight years shutting everyone out, convinced he was better off alone with his motors and his quiet boathouse, and for the first time, the idea of letting someone in doesn’t feel like a mistake.
She nods her head toward the frozen lake, where a handful of colorful shanties dot the ice a half mile out. “I’ve got a heated one out there,” she says, holding out a gloved hand for him to take. “Got a portable record player with all the old Johnny Cash records my dad gave me, and that pie’s sitting on the table inside right now. No one’s gonna bother us out there.”
Ronan stares at her hand for three full seconds, then looks over at the crowd, where Jake is standing by the beer cooler, waggling his eyebrows like he’s been watching the whole interaction go down. He looks back at Lila, grinning up at him, and takes her hand. Her glove is fuzzy and warm under his calloused palm, and she tugs him through the snow toward her parked ATV, laughing when he slips a little on a patch of ice. He climbs on behind her, wrapping his arms tight around her waist, and she smells like pine and cocoa when the wind blows her hair back against his face. The ride out to the shanty is fast, the cold stinging his cheeks, and he doesn’t even care that half the town is probably watching them go.
She unlocks the door to the shanty and pulls him inside, and the warm air hits him immediately, thick with the smell of peach and cinnamon. Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” is playing low on the record player sitting on a folding table next to the space heater, and the pie, golden crusted and still a little warm, is sitting right next to it, just like she said. He leans in to kiss her, the cold from her cheek seeping into his own, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t care what anyone in town might say.
