Manny Ruiz, 57, spent 31 years as an antique nautical map restorer before retiring last fall, and he’s already counting the minutes until he can leave the Astoria Seafood and Wine Festival. The gravel under his scuffed work boots is dusted with crushed oyster cracker crumbs and discarded corn dog sticks, the air thick enough with grilled shrimp fumes and cheap rosé that he can taste both when he breathes. He’d caved to his older sister’s begging three days prior, agreed to stop by for an hour, even though he’s spent the 8 years since his wife died avoiding every gathering she hosts or invites him to, convinced every single one is a poorly disguised setup with one of her widowed or divorced friends. His biggest flaw, the one his sister yells at him for every Sunday dinner, is that he’s convinced no one outside of his small circle of fellow map nerds could possibly care about the things that matter to him: the faint crackle of 18th century vellum, the way iron gall ink fades to a soft silver when exposed to salt air, the quiet of his cottage at dusk when the only noise is the foghorn off Tillamook Head.
His phone buzzes in his jacket pocket, a text from his sister saying her golden retriever ate a whole bag of chocolate chips and she’s rushing him to the emergency vet, can he swing by the smoked salmon booth three rows over and pick up the pound she already paid for, her friend Lena will have it waiting for him. He sighs, drains the last of the hazy IPA he didn’t even want, and trundles down the row, weaving around groups of screaming kids and couples making out against food truck sides.
Lena’s behind the booth when he gets there, wiping fish grease off her hands on a well-worn flannel apron, gray streaks woven through the dark braid pulled over her shoulder, a thin silver scar curling across her left cheek from a boat winch accident a decade back. She looks up when he calls his sister’s name, holds eye contact for two full seconds longer than most people bother to, no polite fake smile plastered across her face. She grabs the vacuum-sealed bag of salmon off the counter behind her, passes it over, and their fingers brush when he takes it. He feels the rough calluses on her palm, the same kind he has across his fingertips from holding tiny restoration brushes for hours at a time, and he flinches a little, unused to casual touch from anyone who isn’t his sister’s overexcited dog.
He should leave. He knows he should. But she holds up a small paper plate with a slice of peppered smoked salmon on it, says it’s a new recipe she’s testing, no one’s given her honest feedback all day. He leans against the side of the booth, out of the way of the crowd, and takes a bite. It’s good, smoky, just spicy enough to burn the tip of his tongue a little, and he tells her so. They talk for 20 minutes first about salmon brining times, then about the storm that rolled through the week prior that knocked power out for half the town, then about his map restoration work. She ducks under the counter, pulls out a tattered 1972 nautical chart of the Columbia River Bar, water stained along the edges, ink bleeding where it got soaked when her husband’s boat sank in 2017. She says she’s had it tucked in her truck’s glove compartment for six years, didn’t know who to ask to fix it.
He leans in to look at the damage, their shoulders pressed tight together, and he can smell cedar smoke and coconut shampoo on her shirt, the roar of the festival crowd fading to a low hum in the background. He admits he’s been avoiding events like this for years, thought he was done talking to new people, thought that part of his life was over when his wife passed. She laughs, low and warm, and says she did the exact same thing for three years until her late husband’s old fishing buddy yelled at her for wasting good sunny days sitting inside watching old westerns alone. He feels that tight, constant ache in his chest he’s carried for 8 years loosen just a little, no urge to make an excuse and run home to lock himself in his workshop like he usually does when conversations get too personal.
The sun dips low over the Columbia by the time she closes up the booth, pink and orange streaks painting the sky above the cargo ships bobbing out at the bar. She slings her tote bag over her shoulder, locks the booth’s metal door, and asks him if he wants to walk down to the pier to watch the sunset. He tucks the water damaged map under his arm, the bag of salmon in his other hand, and nods. When she slips her hand into his as they cross the grassy stretch between the festival grounds and the pier, he laces his calloused fingers through hers without hesitation.
