Rafe Mendez, 62, spent 28 years patrolling the Georgia coastal wildlife refuge before he retired, and he’d spent the three years since his wife Elaina died doing his level best to avoid every single community event within a 10-mile radius. His flaw was stubbornness, sharp and heavy as the cast iron oyster knife he kept strapped to his work belt; he hated the pitying glances, the unsolicited casseroles left on his porch, the way every neighbor would pause mid-conversation when he walked into the general store like he was a walking ghost. He’d only caved on the annual waterfront oyster roast that night because his chest freezer shorted out that morning, spoiling the two bushels of wild oysters he’d hauled himself from the mudflats three days prior.
He parked his beat-up 2004 F150 at the far edge of the park, kept his faded refuge baseball hat pulled low over his graying temples, and made a beeline for the roast pits before anyone could flag him down for chit chat. The air reeked of brine and hickory smoke and cheap domestic beer, the sound of a local bluegrass band warbling a Johnny Cash cover drifted over the crowd, and oyster shells crunched under his worn work boots like broken glass. He grabbed a paper plate, piled it high with steamed oysters, and reached for the last thick wedge of lemon on the plastic serving tray at the exact same time as Clara Hale.
Clara was 58, ran the bait and tackle shop that had been in her family since the 1980s, and Rafe had gone out of his way to avoid her for the better part of two years. The entire town had started nudging them together six months after Elaina’s funeral, pointing out they both knew the tide tables by heart, both hated people who littered on the marsh, both could out-fish any guy half their age. Rafe had been disgusted back then, furious that anyone would suggest he replace Elaina so fast, and he’d stopped stopping by her shop for bait entirely, even when he needed it. He’d missed her, though, he’d admit that if pressed; missed her rough, smoke-tinged laugh, missed the way she’d roll her eyes at tourists who asked if the alligators were “tame”, missed the scar slashing across her left eyebrow from a fishing hook accident when she was 16.
Their knuckles brushed when they both grabbed for the lemon, rough callus on rough callus, and Rafe pulled his hand back so fast he knocked a loose oyster shell off the edge of the table. “Sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the scuffed toe of his boot.
“Relax, I don’t bite,” Clara said, smirking, and she picked up the lemon wedge, sliced it clean in half with her own oyster knife, and held half out to him. Her nails were chipped, caked with a little bit of fish grease at the edges, and Rafe’s throat went dry when his fingers brushed hers as he took the lemon.
They drifted off to the edge of the crowd, away from the band and the screaming kids chasing each other with glow sticks, and leaned against the split rail fence overlooking the marsh to shuck their oysters. When a drunk college kid stumbled past with a sloshing cup of IPA, Clara stepped in close to Rafe to avoid getting splashed, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep through his thick flannel, and he caught a whiff of her lavender hand lotion mixed with the brine on her clothes. He didn’t move away.
“Know you’ve been avoiding me,” she said, no heat in her voice, as she slid a shucked oyster off its shell into her mouth. “Town gossip is garbage, I get it. I didn’t ask anyone to start playing matchmaker.”
Rafe sighed, twisted the lemon over an oyster, and watched the juice drip down the ridged shell. “I wasn’t mad at you. Was mad at the idea that I could just… move on, I guess. Felt like I was betraying Elaina.”
Clara nodded, stared out at the marsh where the sun was painting the sky pink and orange. “Elaina and I drank margaritas together every Thursday for five years before she got sick. She told me if you turned into a hermit after she was gone, I had permission to kick your ass. Said you’d mope yourself to death if no one dragged you out of the house.”
Rafe blinked, laughed so hard he snort-laughed, the first real laugh he’d had in months, and when she passed him a shucked oyster a minute later, he let their fingers linger together for three full seconds before he took it.
They stayed until the fire pits died down, until the band packed up their gear and most of the crowd had drifted home. Rafe carried her heavy cooler of leftover oysters to her beat-up 1998 Tacoma, and she leaned against the door when he set it down in the bed, tilting her head up to look at him, the last of the sunset gilding the gray strands in her dark hair. “Got a bottle of good bourbon behind the counter at the shop I’ve been saving for a reason,” she said. “Marsh view from my porch is better than any view in town. Wanna come over?”
Rafe didn’t hesitate, didn’t overthink it, didn’t spiral about whether it was too soon or what the neighbors would say. He just nodded, said “Yeah. That sounds good.” He followed her Tacoma down the dirt road leading to her house on the edge of the marsh, and when he pulled into her driveway, he noticed she had the same wild sea oats planted along her porch steps that Elaina had grown in their front yard for 20 years. He turned off his truck, grabbed his hat off the seat, and walked up the steps to meet her at the door.
