Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 38 years as a commercial salmon fisherman before selling his boat after his wife Elara’s sudden stroke eight years prior, when he was three days out from shore and couldn’t get back in time. The guilt still nags at him, sharp as a fish hook caught under the skin, so he’s kept all romantic interest at arm’s length, convinced he doesn’t get to feel that kind of lightness again. He’s manning the beer tap at the town’s annual summer crab feed when he first spots her, standing off to the side of the pavilion, fighting with a crab mallet that keeps slipping off the shell. She’s wearing a well-worn plaid flannel over a white linen tank, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with silver, chipped sage green nail polish on her fingers.
He hands a cold IPA to a teenager who’s definitely using his dad’s ID, nodding when the kid mumbles a thanks, and keeps half an eye on her as she huffs, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a faint smudge of crab butter on her cheek. She walks over a minute later, plate piled high with cracked shell and melted butter, and asks for extra napkins. Her voice is low, warm, like she’s spent years reading out loud to groups of kids, and when he passes the stack of paper napkins across the folding table, their fingers brush. The contact sends a jolt up his arm, sharp and unexpected, and he tenses, annoyed with himself for reacting like a 16 year old kid at his first sock hop. He learns her name is Clara, she’s the new town librarian, moved out from Chicago six months prior to escape the brutal winters and the ghost of her 20 year marriage that ended in a quiet, amicable divorce three years back.
He offers to help her crack the rest of her crab, sliding into the bench across from her at the picnic table, his knee brushing hers under the slatted wood. Neither of them moves away. He shows her how to angle the mallet to hit the shell just right, his hand hovering over hers for half a second before he pulls back, pointing to the seam along the crab’s back. She laughs when he tells her about the seagull that stole a whole crab roll right out of his hand last week at the pier, her laugh rich and throaty, mixing with the twang of the country band setting up at the front of the pavilion and the clink of beer bottles around them. When he mentions Elara, offhand, in a story about their first crab feed together, Clara doesn’t do that thing everyone else does, the tight smile and quick change of subject, like grief is contagious. She just nods, sipping her hard seltzer, and says “Grief doesn’t get to be a life sentence, Ronan. You know that, right?” No one’s said that to him before. Not his kids, not his old fishing buddies, not even his priest. The words land soft, like rain on dry dirt, and he finds himself leaning in a little closer, the scent of lavender lotion and sea salt clinging to her shirt wrapping around him.
The band strikes up a slow, meandering Patsy Cline cover as the sun dips below the ocean, painting the sky pink and orange, and Clara tilts her head, nodding toward the small patch of grass people are dancing on. “You dance?” she asks, and he snorts, wiping crab butter off his calloused palms on his jeans. “Haven’t danced since my wedding,” he says, and she grins, standing up, holding her hand out to him. “Me neither. We can be terrible at it together.” He stares at her hand for three long beats, the guilt nipping at the back of his neck, and then he takes it, her palm soft and warm against his, scarred from decades of winch accidents and fish hook slips.
They sway slow, his hand light on her waist, her arm draped over his shoulder, their faces only a few inches apart. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her flannel, hear the way her breath catches a little when their hips brush, see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes under the string lights strung between the pavilion poles. He doesn’t care that the old guys from his fishing crew are whistling from the picnic table, doesn’t care that the guilt he’s carried for eight years is melting away faster than butter on hot crab. He feels alive, for the first time in what feels like forever.
They leave the feed an hour later, walking down the boardwalk toward the pier, their shoulders brushing as they go. The moon is bright, full, painting the ocean silver as the waves crash soft against the pilings. He points out Orion’s belt, tells her his dad taught him the constellations when he was a kid, out on the boat for weeks at a time with no TV, nothing but the stars to look at. She leans her head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She tilts her face up to his, and he kisses her, slow and soft, no rush, the salt of the ocean and the faint taste of cherry seltzer on her lips. He tucks a loose strand of her braid behind her ear, his thumb brushing the soft curve of her jaw, and doesn’t let go.
