A Much Younger Man - Z.A. Maxfield

Chapter One

I fell in love in St. Nacho’s. It was a Tuesday.

At that point, my only real relationship was with the el pastor tacos cantina cook Oscar created on a vertical spit in the parking lot of Nacho’s Bar. Outdoor cooking wound down with the light at eight—last chance to order tacos before going inside where the restaurant tables over the dance floor could be cleared away for an evening of dancing, drinking, and revelry.

Oscar created his tacos with fire and flash and tidbits of pineapple he flicked from the top of his spit into the tortillas he held at his waist. His partner, Tomas, bagged them up cheerfully while chatting with customers in a long, long line.

Every Tuesday, rain or shine, Tomas set my order aside precisely fifteen minutes before sunset.

Someone in line called out, “Hey, no fair, Dr. Lindy.”

“Somebody has special privileges,” someone else complained.

“Don’t disrespect the doc,” a third person said. “He orders ahead.”

Most of the heckling was good natured, partly because Tomas did the same for several people with standing orders and partly because I did a lot for my adopted community and they seemed to like me.

I took the heavy, greasy bag onto the boardwalk and sat on the retaining wall next to the sand. Taco Tuesday at Nacho’s Bar, Friday pie from Café Bêtise, the occasional poker game with off-duty firefighters on Saturday night—my rituals anchored me in time that would otherwise slide silently by as one season flowed into the next.

I loved my job, I owned a nice house, and the friends I’d acquired in quirky St. Nacho’s made getting up every day easy and sweet.

Did I deserve that pleasurable life? Probably not.

I’d have to pay for my sins someday—ego, pride, and a few others—but apparently today was not that day.

“Nice night.”

“Isn’t it?” I turned to find Cooper Wyatt standing beside me, violin in hand as always, bow held loosely as if he couldn’t wait to play.

“It’s a little clear for June.” A man of few words, Cooper. What he lacked in eloquent speech, he more than made up for with glorious music.

“I haven’t been here enough years to form an opinion.”

“Me neither, really.” Brown eyes blinked against the red brightness of the sun as it settled into a fiery sea.

A large crowd of beachgoers had been drawn out by the fine weather. As the day waned, they strolled or biked or jogged up and down the boardwalk, some with children and pets I recognized from work. A few surfers still bobbed in the water, trying to get in one last ride before it grew too dark to see.

A feeling of contentment stole over me like sunshine, sinking deep into muscle and bone.

I belonged in St. Nacho’s. Nothing matched its peace or beauty. Time flowed in a rhythm all its own as if progress, and politics, and the next new Instagram trend didn’t exist there.

In what other Podunk town could you find an extraordinary violinist playing classical music on the beach because it made him happy, an award-winning pastry chef opening the doors to a quaint French-style cafe every morning? In what other town would a firefighter walk a cat down the sidewalk on Main Street?

I’m a pretty entrenched man of science and reason, but when I stopped to try the infamous brunch at Nacho’s Bar, something about the town had caught me in an almost magical spell. I stayed for one night, then a second. I returned a month later and stayed for a week. The little coastal enclave drew me in and didn’t let go. After months of thinking about moving, of dreaming about St. Nacho’s and the people I’d met there, of pining for the way its waves crashed against the shore, I sold my veterinary clinic in San Diego and opened a practice here.

I moved for the view, the powerful feeling of community, the sense of belonging, and I’ve never looked back.

“You hear that?” Cooper asked once the sun had gone and there was nothing left but a glow on the edge of the world.

“The guitar?” Crystal clear notes drifted from farther along the boardwalk.

“‘Asturias,’” he muttered. Like a dog scenting food, Cooper bounded away, following the sound. I wiped my greasy hands, tossed my trash in a bin, and followed.

He stopped near the small circle of people listening to a seated guitarist. Whoever was playing had skill—Cooper’s rapt attention proved it. As I edged my way through the group to get closer, Cooper set his bow.

The guitarist glanced up