Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial salmon fisherman, had dragged himself to the Astoria volunteer fire department’s annual chili cookoff only because his 16-year-old niece had begged him for three weeks straight. She’d entered her first competition that year, and said his famous smoked salmon chili was the only entry that could take down the fire chief’s overhyped brisket version. For seven years, since his wife Moira died of ovarian cancer, Ronan had avoided every public gathering that didn’t involve baiting hooks or fixing boat engines down at the marina. He hated the small talk, the pitying looks from neighbors who knew his story, the quiet urge he’d started to push down anytime he saw a woman who made his chest tighten the way Moira used to.
The cookoff lot smelled like charred meat, cumin, and pine drifting off the nearby coastal evergreens, the air sharp enough to make his nose run a little. He’d just set his crockpot on the folding table marked #17 when a woman leaned in past his shoulder, her dark auburn hair streaked with a single thick strand of silver catching the weak October sun. Her elbow brushed his forearm when she reached for a sample cup, the wool of her cream cardigan soft against the faded sun-weathered skin of his arm. “Smoked salmon?” she said, tilting her head up to look at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, holding his gaze a full beat longer than casual politeness demanded. “I haven’t had a good salmon chili since I quit working the Alaskan fishing tenders back in the 90s.”
Ronan froze for half a second. He recognized her. Elara Voss, 58, the new librarian who’d moved to town three months prior, who he’d seen lingering in the seafood section of the grocery store twice, always picking the same sockeye he preferred. He’d never worked up the nerve to say hello, had scolded himself for even noticing the way her jeans fit, the little scar at the corner of her mouth, like she’d been hit with a fishing hook once as a kid. “Got enough black pepper in there to clear a fogged wheelhouse,” he said, nodding at the crockpot, and she laughed, loud and unselfconscious, the sound cutting through the chatter of the crowd around them.
He told himself he should walk away, go check on his niece’s entry, go sit in his truck and listen to old Johnny Cash records until the event was over. The guilt hit sharp, the same old voice in his head saying he was betraying Moira by even enjoying talking to another woman. But Elara was already scooping a bite of chili into her mouth, humming low in her throat when she swallowed, and she leaned in a little closer, their shoulders brushing now, the heat of her body seeping through his flannel shirt. “That’s better than any I had on the tender,” she said. “You gonna stand here and guard your crockpot all afternoon, or you wanna go sit at that empty picnic table over by the fence?”
Ronan hesitated, his boots planted to the gravel, then nodded. They walked over side by side, their arms brushing every few steps, and when they sat down, her knee brushed his under the table, light at first, then staying pressed there when she told him she’d moved to Astoria to get away from the chaos of Portland after her partner of 22 years died in a motorcycle crash. He told her about Moira, about the last fishing trip they’d taken together two weeks before she got her diagnosis, about how he’d sold his boat a year later because he couldn’t stand being out on the water without her. He didn’t know why he was telling her all that, didn’t tell anyone that stuff, but she didn’t look at him with pity, just nodded, sipping her lemonade, her knee still heavy and warm against his.
By the time the awards were announced, the sun was dipping low over the Columbia River, painting the sky pink and orange. Ronan’s chili took second place, his niece’s took first, and Elara cheered so loud the people at the next table turned to look. She stood up, brushing crumbs off her jeans, and tilted her head toward the river path at the edge of the lot. “Wanna walk down to the water? I haven’t gotten to watch the sunset over the river since I moved here.”
For half a second, that old guilt flared again, the voice saying he shouldn’t go, that he didn’t deserve to have fun this way. Then he looked at her, the sun gilding the edges of her hair, the faint scar at her mouth lifting in a small, hopeful smile, and he nodded. They walked the half mile to the riverbank in comfortable silence, their shoulders brushing every few steps, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore getting louder as they got closer.
Elara stopped by a cluster of smooth river rocks, bent down, and picked one up, flipping it in her hand. “I used to skip stones with my dad down at the Willamette when I was a kid,” she said, and she flicked her wrist, the stone bouncing four times across the surface before sinking. Ronan picked up a flatter, thinner stone, lined up his shot the way Moira had taught him when they were 20, and sent it skittering across the water, bouncing six times before it disappeared.
Elara huffed playfully, shoving his shoulder lightly with her hand. “Cheater. You’ve had way more practice out here.” Ronan laughed, a real, deep laugh he hadn’t let out in seven years, and he didn’t flinch away when she laced her fingers through his, her palm warm and calloused from turning pages and hauling boxes of books, as they stood there watching the last of the sun sink below the horizon.
