Elias Voss, 57, builds custom fishing rods out of his cinder block garage on the Oregon coast, and he holds grudges longer than he keeps the tungsten guide sets he stocks for high-end builds. He retired from industrial welding four years ago, when a bad fall left him with a permanent limp in his left leg and zero patience for corporate deadlines, and he’d avoided the downtown summer farmers market for nearly two decades for one specific reason: Maren Hale, his ex-wife’s former best friend, who he’d blamed since 2005 for ratting him out when he skipped his mother-in-law’s 70th birthday barbecue to go chinook fishing off Neah Bay.
His daughter, home for a long weekend from Portland, had dragged him out that Saturday morning, begging for the blackberry jam Maren was famous for, and Elias had been too much of a soft touch to say no. The sun sat low and warm on the back of his neck, the air thick with the smell of grilled elote, fresh cut basil, and the sharp, sweet tang of ripe berries from the produce stalls. A bluegrass trio plucked a fast, twangy tune near the picnic tables, and kids darted between legs with dripping shaved ice dyed neon blue and red.
He spotted Maren before she spotted him, leaning against the wooden slat of her stall, silver streaks running through the thick auburn braid slung over her shoulder, worn denim overalls rolled up to her calves, a faded Fleetwood Mac tee peeking out under the straps. She was laughing at something a customer said, her head thrown back, the crinkles around her hazel eyes deep enough to get lost in, and Elias felt his jaw tense, old anger bubbling up fast. His daughter darted off as soon as they got close, yelling something about getting a dill pickle from a nearby fermented goods stall, and Elias was left standing there, stuck, when Maren’s gaze landed on him.
She waved, grinning like she hadn’t spent 18 years as his personal boogeyman, and called him over. He walked slow, his limp more pronounced when he was tense, and stopped a foot back from the stall, keeping his distance. She reached for a jar of dark purple blackberry jam at the same time he did, their hands brushing, and Elias felt the rough callus on her thumb from years of turning garden soil, the warmth of her skin seeping into his, and he pulled back like he’d touched a hot welding torch.
She smirked, twisting the jar in her hand, and said she’d been wondering when he’d stop hiding out in his garage long enough to come say hi. He grunted, said he only came for the jam, and she laughed, loud and bright, over the sound of the bluegrass. She told him she never ratted him out, for the record, that his ex had found his crumpled fishing receipt in the glove box of his truck when she was looking for his insurance card, and that she’d actually covered for him twice when his ex called asking where he was, lying and saying he was helping her fix her cabin’s leaky roof.
Elias felt all that old anger melt fast, leaving him red-faced and stupid, like he’d spent 18 years mad at a stop sign for being in his way. He apologized, awkward, rubbing the back of his neck, and she waved it off, leaning in a little closer over the stall, like she was sharing a secret no one else got to hear. A kid darted past with a blue shaved ice, tripping over a curb, and Maren stepped forward to avoid getting splashed, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, and he could smell lavender hand soap mixed with the sweet, sticky blackberry scent clinging to her clothes.
She said she’d been testing a new jalapeno blackberry jam, made specifically for stubborn guys who’d rather spend three days on a boat alone than admit they were wrong, and held a small wooden sample spoon out to him. He took it, the jam sweet and bright at first, then a slow, warm burn spreading across his tongue, and he nodded, said it was the best thing he’d tasted all summer. She asked him if he wanted to bring one of his custom rods out to her cabin that night, said she had a cooler of cold IPA, grass-fed burgers for the grill, and had been trying to teach herself to cast for chinook all summer with no luck.
Elias hesitated for half a second, the old, stupid part of his brain saying this was wrong, that he wasn’t supposed to be friendly with his ex’s best friend, let alone go to her cabin alone after dark. The rest of him, the part that hadn’t felt this light and curious in years, won out before he could overthink it, and he said yes.
He showed up at her cabin an hour before sunset, a medium-action salmon rod slung over his shoulder, the western red cedar handle sanded smooth by his own hands. They grilled burgers, ate the jalapeno jam slathered on warm cornbread, and walked down to her private dock when the sky turned pink and tangerine over the Pacific, the waves lapping soft and steady against the wooden pilings. He stood behind her to adjust her grip on the rod, his chest brushing her back, and told her to flick her wrist sharp when she cast. She did, the line sailing out 30 yards over the glassy water, and she whooped when she felt a sharp tug a minute later, reeling in a small, silvery rockfish. She laughed so hard she stumbled back, and Elias caught her around the waist, his hands resting on the soft curve of her hips, and didn’t let go.
