Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 38 years running commercial salmon seiners out of Astoria’s Columbia River docks before a rotator cuff tear forced early retirement three years prior. His defining flaw, per his older sister Maureen, was that he’d turned “commitment allergic” after his wife left him for a Portland realtor 11 years back; he’d not so much as had a coffee date since, preferring the company of his scruffy terrier Mutt and the uncomplicated rhythm of mending nets and puttering around his small waterfront property. Maureen had badgered him into attending the local volunteer fire department’s annual summer crab feed for three straight weeks, saying he was “growing moss on his north side” if he didn’t leave the house for something that didn’t involve fishing gear. He’d agreed only when his 16-year-old niece said she’d drive, and he could leave whenever he wanted.
The cinder block community hall smelled like Old Bay, melted garlic butter, and rain seeping through the cracked metal siding, the hum of 70s country from the beat up speaker system mixing with the roar of 100 or so locals laughing and yelling over each other. Ronan had grabbed a cold Pabst from the cooler and was scoping the back exit, plotting his escape before Maureen could corner him into volunteering for the fire department’s auxiliary, when a woman bumped hard into his side, her iced green tea sloshing over the rim of her cup and soaking the left sleeve of his faded gray flannel.
“Christ, I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately grabbing a handful of paper napkins from the table beside them and dabbing at the wet fabric, her hand brushing his forearm as she worked. He could feel the faint, rough callus on the pad of her thumb, the kind you get from repeated work with small, sharp tools, and caught a whiff of lavender and cedar laundry detergent under the faint sweetness of her iced tea. He’d recognized her immediately as Elara Voss, the woman who’d moved into the old blue cottage three doors down from him two months prior; he’d waved at her from his skiff a handful of times, but never spoken to her, intentionally keeping his distance like he did with everyone new.
He started to brush her off, say it was fine, the flannel was already stained with fish guts and grease anyway, but stopped when he met her eyes: hazel, ringed with faint laugh lines, crinkled like she was half-amused even as she apologized. “I’m Elara,” she said, holding out a hand. “I live down the street from you. The neighbor lady with the overgrown rose bushes and the dock that’s half rotted away.”
Ronan shook her hand, his calloused fisherman’s palm swallowing hers. “Ronan. Yeah, I’ve seen that dock. Looks like it’d collapse if a seagull landed on it wrong.”
She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the hall. “You’d be right. My ex was supposed to come fix it last weekend, bailed because his new girlfriend decided she wanted to go wine tasting in the Willamette Valley instead. I’ve been told you know your way around lumber and power tools, though.” She raised an eyebrow, teasing, and he felt his neck heat up, the way it hadn’t since he was a teenager asking a girl to prom.
They ended up ditching the crowded hall, bringing their plates of crab and corn and a slice of peach pie she’d baked and brought as a potluck contribution out to the hood of his beat up 2008 Ford F150, parked at the far edge of the lot where the pine trees blocked the rain. The rain tapered off to a fine mist as they ate, their knees pressed together on the warm metal of the hood, the sound of the Columbia River’s current rushing a half mile away mixing with the faint music from the hall. She told him she ran a vintage linen restoration business, fixing old tablecloths and wedding dresses and handkerchiefs for people all over the country, that she’d moved to Astoria to get away from the chaos of Seattle, that she loved getting up early to watch the sea lions fight over fish on the docks. She teased him that she’d seen him out on his skiff every morning at 6 a.m., pretending to fish but really just drinking coffee and staring at the water, and he didn’t even bother denying it.
For the first time in years, he didn’t feel the urge to run, to make an excuse to leave, to shut down the conversation before it got too personal. He’d spent 11 years convinced any kind of connection would only end in disappointment, that letting someone in meant giving them the chance to leave, and he’d been too tired to handle that kind of loss again. But sitting there with her, the butter from the crab still on his fingers, her knee warm against his even through their jeans, that fear felt smaller, dumber, like something he’d outgrown if he’d just stop clinging to it.
She leaned in when he was mid-sentence about the time a sea lion climbed onto his boat and stole 20 pounds of salmon right off the deck, her fingers brushing his chin to wipe away a crumb of peach pie stuck to the corner of his mouth, her touch lingering for half a beat longer than necessary before she pulled back. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just held her gaze for a second, the air between them thick enough to taste, sweet with pie and rain and the salt off the river.
“Y’know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’ve got extra lumber in my garage. All the tools I’d need to fix that dock. I could come over next Saturday, if you want.”
She smiled, slow, and nudged his shoulder with hers. “I’ll make you smoked salmon quiche for lunch. And cold beer. No strings attached, unless you count the string I use to tie up the rose bushes.”
He walked her to her little Subaru when she said she had to head home, her hand brushing his the whole walk across the parking lot. She paused before opening her car door, leaned in, and kissed him soft on the corner of his mouth, quick enough that he almost didn’t have time to process it, before she slid into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window. “9 a.m. Saturday. Don’t be late,” she said, grinning, before she pulled out of the lot.
Ronan stood there in the damp parking lot, holding the leftover half-slice of peach pie she’d pressed into his hands before she left, Mutt whining in the cab of his truck waiting for a bite. He reached up, touched the corner of his mouth where her lips had been, still warm even in the cool evening air, then unlocked the truck door to hand Mutt a bite of the peach pie before heading home to pull his power tools out of the garage that night.
