Ronan O’Malley, 62, boots caked in gray Astoria festival mud, rain beading on the frayed brim of his oilskin cap, was two seconds from ditching his niece and bailing back to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150 when he smelled it: applewood smoked salmon, the exact blend his ex-wife used to brine for winter charcuterie boards back when they still spoke. He’d retired from commercial salmon fishing 17 years prior, after a closure violation cost him his license and gutted his marriage, and he’d avoided the annual Astoria Seafood Festival ever since. His niece had begged, said she wanted to try the famous oyster shooters, and he’d caved, figuring he could stick to the edges and avoid anyone he used to know.
The scent tugged him away from the oyster booth, past a group of teens selling fried calamari, past a Coast Guard recruitment tent, until he spotted the hand-painted wooden sign: Marnie’s Smoked Catch. Behind the booth, Marnie Carter pulled a fillet off the portable smoker, her dark auburn hair streaked with the same thick silver stripe he’d teased her about back in 2005, when they’d all spent three days weathering a storm in a Neah Bay dock. He froze. He’d hated her for 18 years, convinced she’d been the one to call Fish and Wildlife on him when he’d snuck out to fish during the 2006 seasonal closure, the tip that cost him everything. He’d ghosted every old friend after the divorce, changed his phone number, moved to a cabin 20 minutes outside town, and he’d not spoken a word to her since the day the citation showed up in his mailbox.
She looked up, spotted him, and grinned, the same lopsided smile that used to make his chest feel tight even when he was still married. She wiped her calloused hands on her oilskin apron, leaned across the wooden booth, and called his name loud enough to cut through the rain and the chatter of the crowd. He hesitated, then walked over, his boots squelching in the mud, his jaw tight. He was ready to tell her to go to hell, to turn and walk away before she could say a word, but she held out a paper plate with a slice of smoked salmon, and when he reached for it, their forearms brushed. He felt a jolt, warm and sharp, that he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d taken a boat out on the Columbia at sunrise. The lavender soap she used cut through the smoky fish scent, and he could see the faint laugh lines around her hazel eyes, the tiny scar on her left cheek from when she’d fallen off his boat’s ladder in 2004. The fish melted on his tongue, salty and sweet, the exact flavor he’d spent almost two decades craving and refusing to make for himself because he’d associated it with her.
“Been waiting for you to show up,” she said, nodding at the empty space next to the booth. He stepped closer, the edge of the booth pressing into his hip, so close he could feel the heat coming off her rain jacket. “Got something you need to see.”
He huffed, ready to snap that he didn’t want anything from her, that he’d spent almost two decades hating her for what she did, but she ducked under the booth, pulled a crumpled manila envelope out of a plastic storage bin, and handed it to him. His fingers brushed hers when he took it, rough from years of hauling nets and working smokers, and he fumbled with the seal for a second before pulling out the original 2006 citation. The witness line didn’t have her name on it. It had his old deckhand’s name, the kid he’d refused to give a raise to two weeks before the violation, the kid who’d vanished from town a month later.
“He turned you in,” she said, soft enough that only he could hear it, a group of tourists laughing as they walked past. “I tried to find you after I got the copy from the county clerk, but you’d already moved. Kept this all these years, just in case I ever ran into you.” She paused, then shrugged, her shoulder brushing his. “Also always had a thing for you, back when you were too busy being married to notice. Figured if I ever got to tell you the truth, I’d ask you out for a drink.”
Ronan stared at the citation, the anger he’d carried for 18 years melting so fast he felt dizzy, embarrassment mixing with the warm hum that had started when their arms first brushed. He’d spent so long blaming her, so long cutting himself off from everyone he used to know, that he’d forgotten how easy it used to be to talk to her, how she was the only person who’d ever laughed at his terrible fishing jokes instead of rolling her eyes.
He looked up at her, the rain slowing to a fine drizzle, and told her he’d buy the drink. She closed up the booth 20 minutes later, handing off the last of the salmon to a local food bank volunteer, and they walked toward the parking lot, their boots hitting the wet asphalt in sync. When they reached her rusted 2010 Toyota Tacoma, he held out his hand to help her climb into the driver’s seat, and she laced her fingers through his for three slow seconds before pulling herself up. He climbed into the passenger seat, the smell of lavender and applewood smoke clinging to the fabric of her seat covers, and she pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the small cottage she owned on the edge of town.
