Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman and owner of the only bait and tackle shop within 20 miles of his tiny Oregon coastal town, had spent three months deliberately avoiding the woman who’d moved into the weathered blue cottage at the end of his gravel road. He’d spent 38 years hauling 100-pound nets off frigid Pacific waters, had a winch scar slicing across his left cheek, could tie 12 different fishing knots blindfolded, but the second he spotted her waving from her porch as he rumbled past in his dented 1998 Ford F-150, his brain went blank and he’d stare straight ahead like he’d suddenly forgotten how to use his hand to wave back. It was stupid, he knew. His ex-wife had left him for a retired golf pro in Scottsdale 12 years prior, had taken the good silver and the dog and never even sent a Christmas card, but he’d convinced himself that any flicker of interest in another woman was some kind of betrayal, that he was too set in his salt-crusted, early-rising, beer-for-dinner ways to be worth anyone’s time anyway.
He was standing in line for a smoked cod taco at the town’s annual summer food truck festival when she slid in next to him, her rain boot scuffing the toe of his work boot before she even said hello. The line was packed, bodies pressed tight between the taco truck and the grilled corn stand, the air thick with the smell of fried batter, paprika, and briny sea air blowing off the nearby pier. Her elbow brushed his when she reached for the plastic napkin dispenser bolted to the side of the truck, and he caught a whiff of jasmine lotion mixed with the same salt that clung to every surface in town, plus a faint, earthy whiff of clay that he later realized was from the pottery studio she ran out of her garage. Her nails were smudged terracotta at the edges, she was wearing a faded Pearl Jam flannel that swallowed her shoulders, cutoffs that showed a smattering of freckles across her thighs, and those beat up green rain boots even though the sun was out and the temperature hovered at 72 degrees. She looked up at him, held his gaze two full beats longer than casual small talk required, and grinned when she spotted the vintage wooden salmon lure pinned to the brim of his weathered baseball cap.
“Ronan, right?” she said, and he was surprised she knew his name, surprised her voice was lower than he expected, rough around the edges like she spent half her time yelling over pottery wheel noise and wind. “I’m Elara. I’ve been trying to catch perch off my dock for three weeks and all I’m reeling in is seaweed and the occasional plastic water bottle. Figured you’d be the guy to ask what I’m doing wrong.”
He wanted to step back, to mumble a half-assed answer and bolt for the empty bench by the water, but the family behind them was pressed so close the kid’s sippy cup was digging into his lower back, so he stayed put, his shoulder pressed tight to hers, able to feel the warmth of her arm through the thin fabric of his work flannel. He teased her a little, said she was probably using too heavy a sinker, that the perch this close to shore were skittish, that he had a box of small hooks and light weights in his shop he could drop off at her place the next afternoon. She leaned in when he talked, like she was actually listening, not just being polite, and her shoulder nudged his bicep when she laughed at his story about the 7-year-old at the youth fishing clinic last weekend who’d accidentally cast his line into a port-a-potty.
By the time they got their tacos, the only empty spot to sit was a splintered pine picnic bench half in the shade of a cypress tree, and he didn’t even hesitate before following her over. She got a dollop of chipotle sauce on the corner of her chin halfway through her first taco, and before he could think better of it, he lifted his hand and wiped it off with the pad of his thumb, the skin of her chin soft under his calloused finger. He froze, half convinced she was going to slap him, half embarrassed he’d let himself move that fast without thinking, but she didn’t pull away. She just smiled slow, the corner of her mouth tugging up, and said she’d been waving at him from her porch for three months, had even walked past his shop twice last week just to see if he’d come out and say hello, and she’d started to think he actually hated her.
He admitted he was being an idiot, that he hadn’t so much as had a cup of coffee with a woman who wasn’t a customer or a kid’s mom at the fishing clinic in over a decade, that he was rusty, that he’d convinced himself he was better off alone. She laughed, the sound mixing with the squawk of seagulls and the distant roar of a boat motor out on the water, and said she liked rusty, that her whole pottery style was based on embracing imperfections and scuffs and things that didn’t look like they came out of a catalog. She invited him over for dinner the next night after he dropped off the fishing gear, said she had fresh sourdough she’d baked that morning and a bottle of pinot noir she’d been saving for a good enough reason.
He nodded, couldn’t stop grinning even after she said goodbye and walked off toward the pottery booth at the other end of the festival, her rain boots slapping against the pavement. He sat there for another 10 minutes, finishing his taco, watching a group of kids chase each other with dripping popsicles, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t feel like going home to his quiet, empty house and a frozen pizza was the only safe, easy option.
