Elias Voss, 67, has made a quiet living restoring vintage fishing lures out of his sunlit workshop behind his cottage on the Maine coast for the last 12 years, ever since he retired from the state fish and wildlife service. He’s avoided the annual town summer seafood cookoff every year since his wife Elara died 8 years prior; it’s where they’d had their first date, shared a plate of overcooked lobster rolls and a warm can of beer, and he’d always thought showing up without her felt like cheating. This year, his old fishing buddy Joe badgered him for three straight weeks until he caved, showing up in his faded gray flannel over a holey white undershirt, work boots still dusted with wood shavings from the lure he’d been sanding that morning, a plastic cup of cheap lager in his calloused hand.
He hangs back by the weathered picnic tables farthest from the grill, watching families chase each other with water balloons, teens huddle around a portable speaker blasting 90s country, salt stinging the edge of his nostrils and the faint crackle of charcoal fires mixing with the sharp, buttery scent of grilled scallops. He’s halfway considering slipping out early when a woman leans against the table next to him, her sun-warmed shoulder brushing his bicep when she sets a paper plate heaped with seared scallops down between them. He recognizes her from old photos Joe’s shown her: Clara, Joe’s younger sister, 64, who moved back to town three months prior to run the used bookshop on Main Street after her ex-husband moved to Florida with his much younger admin.
Her hair is streaked with silver, pulled back with a frayed blue bandana, sun freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, and she holds his eye contact for a full two beats longer than casual politeness dictates before she grins, the corner of her mouth tugging up higher on one side. “Joe said I’d find you hiding over here. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. I saw that 1952 Creek Chub you restored for the general store display last month. Gorgeous work.” Elias blinks, surprised. No one outside of a handful of old fishing nerds ever pays attention to his lure restorations, let alone notices a specific piece. He fumbles his lager cup a little, spilling a single drop on the knee of his worn denim jeans, and she huffs a soft laugh, pulling a crumpled cotton napkin from the pocket of her canvas overalls and dabbing at the wet spot, her knuckles brushing his thigh through the fabric.
He tenses at first, his brain screaming that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be enjoying the way she smells like lavender and old paper and sea air, shouldn’t be leaning in a little when she talks, like he’s scared to miss a word. For 8 years, any flicker of interest in anyone else has felt like a slap to Elara’s memory, a betrayal of the 32 years they spent together, but Clara doesn’t push, doesn’t comment on his silence, just nods at the plate between them and says she made the scallops herself, marinated them in lemon and garlic for three hours before cooking. He takes one, it’s buttery and bright, the salt from the ocean sticking to his lip when he bites into it, and he finds himself telling her about the Creek Chub, how he’d tracked down the exact original paint formula from a retired lure factory worker in Ohio, how it took him 12 hours to sand and repaint the tiny chipped spots without messing up the original molded details.
She listens, her elbow propped on the table, her knee brushing his under the edge when she shifts to get more comfortable, no apology, no move to pull away. “I found something of yours in Joe’s garage when I was cleaning it out last week,” she says, rummaging in the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and pulling out a beat-up wooden minnow lure, paint chipped almost all the way off, the hook rusted at the end. Elias’s breath catches. He lost that lure when he was 32, out on the bay with Joe, when a 20-pound striped bass snapped his line and took it with it. Joe must have found it washed up on the shore a week later and forgotten to give it back.
He reaches for it, his fingers brushing hers when he takes it, her skin is calloused too, from stacking shelves of hardcovers and turning brittle old pages, and he doesn’t pull away. For a second, the noise of the cookoff fades, the only sounds the soft lap of the bay against the shore and the distant hum of a boat motor out on the water. He’s spent 8 years telling himself he doesn’t get to have nice things anymore, that any joy that doesn’t tie back to Elara’s memory is wrong, but when he looks up at Clara, she’s biting the corner of her lower lip, waiting for him to say something, and the guilt that’s sat heavy in his chest for almost a decade feels lighter, for the first time.
“I can restore this for you, if you want,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “I’ve got the exact paint for this model back at my workshop. I can show you the rest of my collection, too, if you’re interested.” She grins, sliding her hand up to rest on his forearm for half a second, warm and solid, before she pulls it back to grab another scallop off the plate. The sun dips lower over the bay, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft pink, and a cool breeze rolls off the water, carrying the faint sound of the crowd cheering as the cookoff winners are announced. Elias twists the old lure between his fingers, running his thumb over the chipped paint, and when Clara shifts closer to him, her shoulder pressed fully to his now, he doesn’t move away.
