Moe Sorrentino, 62, retired commercial abalone diver, stood slouched against the beer tent pole at the annual Newport Fire Department chili cookoff, paper plate sagging under a heap of three-alarm chili and a crumble of overcooked cornbread. He’d shown up only because his buddy begged him to judge the amateur category, and he’d avoided the main gathering area for the first hour, still simmering over the city council’s vote three weeks prior to ban recreational abalone harvesting for the next three years. He’d held a neon yellow sign outside city hall the day of the vote that read ABALONE DON’T VOTE BUT I DO, and yelled so loud at the presiding council rep his throat had been hoarse for three days.
That same rep was walking straight toward him now, no blazer, no crisp press release folder, just a faded indigo denim shirt, scuffed work boots, and a paper plate piled high with the same lumpy chili he’d turned down from the first contestant. Lila Marquez, 58, first term council rep, originally from southern California, moved to the coast two years ago after her husband died. Moe had only ever seen her from a distance, or behind a microphone at city hall, so he froze when she stopped two feet away, holding up a foil-wrapped muffin in one hand, grinning like she didn’t recognize the guy who’d called her “a desk-bound idiot” to her face three weeks prior.
“Figured you’d be here,” she said, holding the muffin out. The smell of jalapeno and melted butter hit him first, sharp and warm over the smoky haze of grilled sausage and wet grass. “Homemade. Bring ’em to every council meeting, no one ever takes them. They’re all too busy sucking up to the marina developers.”
Moe hesitated, then reached for it. Their fingers brushed as he took the foil, and he felt the rough callus on the pad of her thumb, the kind you get from working with your hands, not typing at a desk. “You got calluses for a politician,” he said, gruff, before he could think better of it.
She laughed, a low, rough sound that cut through the noise of kids chasing each other with water guns and the band tuning up by the picnic tables. “Restore vintage dressers on the side. Stripping old varnish does a number on your hands. You think all I do is sit up there and make rules to piss off divers?”
He didn’t answer, but he unwrapped the muffin and took a bite. It was perfect, spicy, sweet, crumbly enough to leave bits on his mustache. She pointed at his face, and he swiped at the crumb with the back of his hand, suddenly self-conscious. She leaned in a little closer, close enough he could smell pine soap on her shirt, see the thin silver scar slicing through her left eyebrow from a bike crash when she was 10, she explained, when he asked. The noise of the cookoff faded to a low hum as they talked, her asking about his 30 years diving, him telling her about the time he pulled a 7-pound abalone off a reef 40 feet down, almost got swept out by a riptide on the way back. He didn’t even notice when the sky turned gray, until a cold drop of rain hit the back of his neck.
Everyone scattered for cover at the first hard drizzle, and they both stepped back under the lip of the beer tent, shoulders pressed tight together, the fabric of his worn flannel brushing her denim shirt. She tilted her head up to see if the rain was letting up, and her face was inches from his, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners when she caught him staring. He didn’t pull away. She admitted she hadn’t even written the abalone ban report, that the city council had pushed it through without letting her review the latest population data, that she’d been trying to schedule a meeting with local divers for weeks but was scared he’d yell at her before she could explain. He admitted he’d memorized her city council bio three days after the vote, had even driven past her cottage on the edge of town twice, too stubborn to stop and knock.
The rain slowed to a soft mist 10 minutes later, and she wiped a drop of water off her cheek, nodding toward the parking lot. “I got a pot of green chili simmering on my stove right now, way better than anything here. And I got a stack of my dad’s old fishing logs, he fished for albacore out of San Diego for 40 years. You wanna come see?”
Moe nodded, grabbing both their empty plates to toss in the trash can by the tent pole. When he turned back, she was holding his half-eaten muffin in one hand, twisting the foil wrapper between her fingers, smiling like she already knew he’d say yes. He walked toward her, boots squelching in the wet grass, and didn’t even think about the abalone ban the entire walk to her truck.
