Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, sat at the splintered pine picnic table at Astoria’s annual summer crab feed, butter crusted on his knuckles and his old hound dog, Moe, sprawled at his feet chewing on a discarded crab shell. He’d skipped the event the last three years, sick of the same questions from neighbors: when are you going to stop moping alone on that boat of yours? When are you going to give those grandkids another grandma? He’d shown up this year only because his 16-year-old grandson was competing in the crab cracking contest, and he’d promised he’d be there to cheer him on.
The air reeked of brine, smoked sausage, and the burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand set up by the parking lot. Most of the tables were packed, so when Clara Bennett slid onto the bench across from him, balancing a paper plate piled high with grilled corn and coleslaw, he didn’t have a good excuse to tell her to leave. Clara was 58, ran the smoked salmon chowder truck that parked at the Saturday farmers market, widowed seven years back after her husband died in a logging accident. Ronan had avoided her booth for three months straight, ever since he’d stopped by for a cup last spring and she’d written her phone number on the lid in blue marker, a little doodle of a salmon next to it. He’d panicked, tossed the cup in the trash on the way home, and had walked two blocks out of his way every Saturday since to avoid making eye contact with her.
Her knee brushed his under the table when she shifted to set her iced tea down, and he froze, the crab leg he was holding slipping in his grip. He could smell lavender hand cream on her, faint under the salt and smoke hanging in the air, and when she looked up at him, she held his gaze for two beats longer than polite, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You got butter on your earlobe,” she said, nodding at the left side of his face. Before he could reach up to wipe it off, she leaned across the table, dabbing at the spot with a crumpled napkin, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. He could feel the callus on the pad of her thumb, rough from shucking oysters for her truck, and his neck went hot.
He mumbled a thanks, going back to cracking his crab, working too hard at it, the shell snapping sharp in his grip, sending a chunk of white crab meat flying across the table to land on the neck of her faded navy flannel shirt, right above her collarbone. He swore under his breath, apologizing fast, reaching across the table with a napkin to dab it off. His fingers brushed her warm skin when he picked the meat off, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just kept looking at him, that same smirk on her face.
“Y’know,” she said, picking up a piece of corn, taking a bite, butter glistening on her lower lip, “I thought you hated me. Every time you see me at the market, you turn the other way like I just served you spoiled chowder.”
Ronan sighed, dropping the napkin on the table, leaning back against the bench. Moe lifted his head, looked between the two of them, then went back to chewing his crab shell. “I don’t hate you,” he said, picking at a splinter in the table. “My ex left me 18 years ago, ran off with a realtor from Portland who promised her a house with a view of the mountains and no fish guts on the kitchen counter. Ever since then, I’ve avoided… this. The whole dating thing. My kids keep teasing me I’m gonna die alone with only my crab pots and Moe for company, and I didn’t wanna give ‘em more ammo by making a fool of myself over you.”
Clara laughed, a low, rough sound that made his chest feel light, the way it used to feel when he was 20 and out on the river at sunrise, no weight on his shoulders but the net in his hands. “My kids keep nagging me to stop working 60-hour weeks and go on a date,” she said, reaching across the table, resting her hand on top of his, her palm warm against his calloused knuckles. “I’ve been holding out for the grumpy fisherman who keeps avoiding my booth. I make a mean smoked salmon dip, by the way. Better than any chowder you’ve ever had.”
Ronan looked down at her hand on his, then up at her face, the sun hitting the strands of gray in her hair, the crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. He’d spent so long scared of getting hurt again, scared of being the old guy everyone in town gossiped about, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to want something that wasn’t a good haul or a quiet evening on his porch with a beer.
His grandson ran past the table a minute later, holding a blue ribbon for winning the crab cracking contest, yelling that he was going to the cotton candy stand with his friends. Ronan waved him off, then stood up, holding out a hand to Clara. Moe stood up too, shaking off, a piece of crab shell stuck to his ear.
They walked down to the marina after, the ocean breeze coming off the Columbia tangling her hair in his face when she turned to look at him, her hand tucked in his, their calluses fitting together like they were made to. A couple of his old fishing buddies waved from the deck of a boat docked nearby, hooting and whistling, and Ronan just flipped them off, making Clara laugh so hard she snort-laughed, leaning against his shoulder.
When she leaned up to kiss him, he tasted salt from the crab, faint cinnamon from her lip balm, and the quiet, long-forgotten thrill of not running away from something good.
