Royce Hargrove, 59, makes his living restoring antique ship’s compasses out of a 12×12 shed on the Astoria pier, and he’s spent the last eight years perfecting the art of dodging casual conversation. His flaw, if you ask the old dock regulars who’ve known him since he ran his salmon charter outfit, is that he’s convinced any flicker of happiness unrelated to his late wife Lila is a betrayal. He hasn’t so much as had a cup of coffee with another woman since she died, even when the widows from the local church dropped off casseroles and not-so-subtle hints every Sunday for the first two years.
He’d only come to the end-of-summer pier cookoff because his old first mate begged him, said the smoked salmon contest had a pot of $500 that’d cover his brass polish budget for six months. He’s tucked in the back corner of the picnic area, boots propped on a splintered table leg, when he spots her walking over. Marnie Carter, 41, the new parks and rec coordinator who’s been slipping dog adoption flyers under his shop door every Wednesday for three months. He’d always thought of her as the lanky 14-year-old who sold Girl Scout cookies on the pier every year, who’d beg him to let her hold the wheel of his charter boat for 10 minutes when her mom was busy at the fish market.
She’s carrying two plastic cups of spiked hard cider, salt crusted in the ends of her wavy auburn hair, and she grins when she spots the smudge of brass polish on his left jaw that he missed when he washed up before leaving the shop. He tenses like he’s about to step back, make an excuse about needing to check on his salmon entry, but she’s already stopping right in front of him, close enough that he can smell coconut shampoo and briny sea air on her sweatshirt.
“Got you a cider,” she says, holding one out. Her fingers brush his when he takes it, calloused from hauling picnic tables and planting native dune grass, and his skin tingles like he just touched a live wire. He’s already mentally kicking himself for the reaction, for even noticing how the sun caught the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, for the stupid little jolt in his chest when she sits down across from him, their knees bumping under the table when she shifts to get comfortable.
She teases him about the polish smudge first, reaches out to wipe it off with her thumb before she thinks, the pad of her finger brushing the rough silver stubble on his jaw. He freezes, half convinced he’s going to turn bright red, half convinced he should pull away, tell her this is inappropriate, that she’s almost 20 years younger than him, that he still wears Lila’s wedding ring on a chain around his neck under his flannel. But he doesn’t move. He just holds her gaze, and for a second, the noise of the cookoff fades out: no yelling kids, no grill sizzle, no old men arguing about fishing limits. Just the crash of the waves against the pier posts, and the sound of her breath catching a little like she didn’t mean to touch him either.
She tells him she’s been coming by his shop for months, that she didn’t want to bother him, that she has her grandpa’s old compass in her car, the one he gave her the day she graduated high school, the one that got cracked when her ex-husband threw it against the wall during their final fight six months ago. She says she didn’t know who else to take it to, that everyone on the pier says Royce is the only person who can fix a compass like that without ruining the original patina. He teases her back, says she could’ve just asked instead of leaving 12 dog adoption flyers on his counter, that he’s not getting a dog, no matter how cute the golden retriever puppies are in the photos.
She laughs, loud and warm, and leans in a little more, her shoulder brushing his when a group of kids runs past, yelling about fireworks starting soon. He notices her ring finger is bare, no silver band he’d seen on her last Christmas at Lila’s family dinner, and she confirms it, says the divorce was finalized last week, that she’s staying in Astoria, not moving to Portland like her ex wanted. She says she always thought he was the coolest guy on the pier when she was a kid, that she used to make up stories about him sailing to Tahiti and back, that she had a silly little crush on him when she was 16 that she never told anyone about.
The fireworks go off right then, red and blue and gold bursts lighting up the sky over the ocean, and the crowd around them cheers. She doesn’t move away. Her shoulder stays pressed to his, warm through the thin fabric of their sweatshirts, and she tilts her head up to look at him, the light from the fireworks painting pink streaks across her cheeks. He feels that familiar tug of war in his chest: the part of him that’s disgusted, that thinks he’s being a creep, that thinks Lila would be mad at him for even entertaining this, and the other part, the part that’s been cold and empty for eight years, that feels lighter than it has since the day Lila took her last breath. He reaches up, slow, like he’s approaching a skittish deer, brushes a strand of windblown hair off her face, his fingers brushing her cheek. She doesn’t flinch. She leans into the touch, just a little.
When the last firework fades, the crowd disperses, heading back to their cars or the bars downtown. He walks her to her beat-up Subaru, the one with the “Save the Oregon Coast” bumper sticker on the back, and she pulls a tattered canvas bag out of the passenger seat, hands it to him. The compass is inside, wrapped in an old bandana, cracked glass and all. She asks if he wants to come over for dinner tomorrow, says she’s been testing a clam chowder recipe that’s almost as good as Lila’s used to be, and he doesn’t even hesitate before he says yes.
He tucks the canvas bag under his arm as he watches her pull out of the parking lot, the sound of her radio drifting out the open window until she turns onto the highway, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel guilty for looking forward to tomorrow.
