Elias Voss, 59, retired lighthouse keeper, nursed a rum and coke at The Salty Spur’s scuffed oak bar, the hem of his flannel shirt dotted with rain from the walk over. October on the Maine coast came with sharp wind, salt that stuck to your skin even when you were three blocks inland, and enough small town gossip to fill every empty lobster trap in the harbor. He’d spent the last twelve years avoiding as much of that gossip as possible, ever since his wife left him for a traveling solar panel salesman who’d passed through town selling door to door. He’d earned a reputation as a quiet crank, the guy who’d fix your boat engine for free but wouldn’t stay for a beer afterward, who left anonymous bags of surplus vegetables on his elderly neighbors’ porches but never knocked to say hello.
The bar smelled like fried clams, old beer, and the pine air freshener taped to the jukebox, which was blaring Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* so loud the stools vibrated a little. He was half done with his drink when the door banged open, cold wind rushing in, and Clara Bennett walked in, soaked to the bone, her chestnut hair stuck in dark strands to the side of her neck. He’d avoided her for three months, ever since she’d moved into the cottage next to his, the one that used to belong to his old Coast Guard buddy Joe. Joe had left her for a 28-year-old yoga instructor down in Portland six months prior, and the whole town had been talking about it nonstop, muttering that it was a shame, that Clara was too good for him, that she was crazy to move up to the middle of nowhere alone after the divorce. Elias had heard more than one old timer at the grocery store say she was probably looking for a rebound, that any guy who got within ten feet of her was asking for trouble with Joe, who still came up to visit his mom every other weekend.
All the other bar stools were taken, so she hesitated for half a second, then walked over and slid onto the one next to him, her wet wool coat sleeve brushing his bare forearm as she sat. He smelled rain, lavender hand cream, and the faint, sharp scent of cedar shavings, the kind he used to line the lighthouse bird feeders with. His skin tingled where she’d touched him, and he tensed up, half tempted to grab his jacket and bolt before anyone saw them sitting together.
She flagged down the bartender, ordered a draft IPA, then turned to him, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for fixing my fence last month,” she said, her voice raised a little to be heard over the jukebox. “My golden retriever got out chasing a squirrel, and you nailed that broken board back up before I even had my shoes on to go look for him.”
Elias shrugged, staring at the ice melting in his drink. “Wasn’t nothing. Dog would’ve run straight into the road if I hadn’t.”
She laughed, a warm, low sound that cut through the noise of the bar. “You left a half-eaten pack of peanut butter crackers on my porch too. I still have ‘em in my pantry, for when you want ‘em back.”
His face heated up, and he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper aware of her knee brushing his under the bar, the denim of her jeans soft against the thick canvas of his work pants. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in years, hadn’t let himself even think about it, convinced he was too set in his ways, too grumpy, too likely to end up hurt again. The part of him that’d spent twelve years hiding from any kind of connection screamed at him to leave, that this was a bad idea, that Joe would throw a fit, that the whole town would be talking about them by sunrise. But the other part of him, the part that’d been lonely sitting in that big empty cottage every night, that’d missed talking to someone who didn’t just want to ask him about fixing something, was curious, light, like he was 20 years old again, sneaking into the lighthouse after hours with a girl he’d met at the town dance.
A group of fishermen at the next table started yelling about a Patriots play that’d just aired on the tiny TV above the bar, and she leaned in closer, her shoulder pressing against his, her breath warm against his ear as she spoke. “I hate how loud this place gets on game nights,” she said, and she touched his wrist, her fingers soft, calloused a little at the tips from working at the animal shelter she ran out of her garage. “I’ve been wanting to ask you if you’d give me a tour of the old lighthouse sometime. I’ve lived here three months and I still haven’t gone up.”
He looked down at her hand on his wrist, then up at her eyes, and she didn’t pull away, just held his gaze, her lips tilted up in a small, knowing smile. He didn’t care about the gossip anymore, didn’t care about Joe, didn’t care about any of the stupid rules he’d made for himself over the last twelve years. “I got a pot of chili on the stove back at my place that’s still warm,” he said, quiet enough only she could hear. “We can stop there first, if you want. Lighthouse tour can wait till the rain stops.”
She nodded, sliding off the stool, grabbing her coat off the back of the chair. He paid for both their drinks, his hands a little shaky, and they walked out into the rain, she holding onto his arm to keep from slipping on the wet gravel leading up to the street. When they got to his porch, he fumbled with his keys for a second, his gloves slippery with rain, and she leaned against the wall next to him, reaching up to brush a strand of wet gray hair off his forehead. He unlocked the door, pulled her inside, and shut the rain and the noise and the whole town’s opinions out behind them.
