Clay Bennett, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger with 32 years patrolling Oregon’s Willamette National Forest under his belt, leans against a splintered split-rail fence at the Apalachicola annual oyster roast, one calloused hand wrapped around a sweating plastic cup of draft beer, the other holding a paper plate piled high with steamed bivalves still dripping butter and hot sauce. He moved to the panhandle last year, moving into the creaky cottage his aunt left him, and he’s spent most of his time since restoring a 1978 Boston Whaler he picked up for $800 at a church garage sale. His biggest flaw, the one he’ll never admit out loud, is that he’s intentionally closed himself off from any kind of casual connection since his wife of 26 years left him for a Portland real estate agent in 2011; he calls all the local senior mixers and group fishing trips “performative garbage for people who can’t stand to be alone with their own thoughts.”
His eyes lock on Marnie Hale across the crowd, and he scowls into his beer. Marnie, 52, is the new county commissioner, the one who spearheaded the temporary ban on shore fishing at the public ramp he’s used every weekend since he moved here. He’s walked away from her three separate times when she tried to say hi at the VFW bar, and he spoke against her for 10 minutes straight at the last town hall, even when she tried to interject to explain the ban’s context. She’s laughing now at some joke a group of oyster farmers are telling, wearing faded straight-leg jeans caked in mud from the road construction site she toured that morning, a white linen button-down rolled to the elbows, silver hoops glinting in the low October sun. She’s got a thin scar slashing through her left eyebrow, he notices, the kind you get from wiping out on a jet ski as a teen, not a fancy cosmetic procedure.
A sudden, sharp crack of thunder splits the air, and before anyone can react, warm Florida rain is pouring down hard enough to soak through a flannel in 10 seconds. The crowd scatters, yelling and laughing, rushing for whatever cover they can find. Clay gets jostled by a group of teens hauling a cooler of beer, and he stumbles into the small vinyl lean-to tent set up for the event’s volunteers, only to find Marnie pressed up against the pole two feet away, her hair already sticking to the back of her neck. Someone shoves past the tent opening a second later, knocking her straight into him, her shoulder firm against his bicep, and he catches a whiff of coconut shampoo mixed with the briny tang of oysters and wet grass on her jeans.
“Sorry about that,” she says, leaning back just far enough to look up at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, rain dripping off the end of her nose. “Figured I’d find you hiding out somewhere. You’ve been avoiding me like I’ve got a contagious case of bad tax policy.”
He huffs, shifting his weight, but he doesn’t step back. There’s barely room for the two of them under the tent’s sloped edge anyway, the rain hammering so loud on the vinyl they can barely hear each other, even when they raise their voices. He’s ready to snap at her about the fishing ban, but she beats him to it, leaning in so her mouth is only a few inches from his ear, her warm breath fanning over his neck.
“The ban’s temporary,” she says, and he can feel the words vibrate against his skin. “State found toxic algae blooms off three miles of shoreline, we had to shut it down to keep people from getting sick. I’ve got a vote scheduled for next Tuesday to reopen 70 percent of the access points, including the spot you park your Whaler at. I tried to tell you at the VFW last week, but you practically ran out the door when you saw me.”
He blinks, taken off guard. He’d just assumed she was another politician who didn’t care about the locals, more interested in pandering to the out-of-state developers buying up all the beachfront property. Before he can respond, a guy hauling a stack of folding chairs bumps the side of the tent, and Marnie stumbles forward, her hands flying out to catch herself on his chest. He wraps his hands around her waist on instinct, his rough, scarred fingers pressing into the soft cotton of her shirt, and she doesn’t pull away. Her palm rests on his forearm for a beat longer than necessary, her thumb brushing the faded forest service tattoo on his wrist.
“I’ve noticed you fixing the broken picnic tables at the ramp on your days off,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, her eyes darting to his mouth for half a second before she looks back up at his face. “Most guys your age just complain about them being broken to anyone who’ll listen. You don’t do that.”
He feels that tight pull in his chest, the war he’s been fighting for three months between the anger he’s clung to over the fishing ban and the stupid, quiet desire he’s tried to ignore every time he’s seen her at the bar, at the grocery store, at town hall. The rain is letting up now, softening to a drizzle, and he can hear a kid laughing as he runs through the puddles behind the tent, steam curling up from the oyster pits a few dozen feet away.
She pulls her hand back, digging her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, and holds it out to him. The screen is smudged with dirt from the construction site. “Put your number in,” she says, grinning, like she already knows he’s not going to say no. “I’m taking the county patrol boat out next Wednesday to check the algae levels. You can come with me, I’ll show you the spots we’re reopening, we can bring a cooler of beer. No politicians, no town hall speeches, just fishing talk.”
He types his number in slowly, his thumb brushing hers when he hands the phone back. She tucks it into her pocket, waving at a volunteer who’s calling her name to help drag the wet folding chairs out of the mud, and she walks away, her boots squelching in the grass.
He pops open a fresh cold beer a volunteer presses into his hand a minute later, and for the first time in over a decade, he doesn’t make an excuse to leave a community event early.
