Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 38 years hauling halibut and swordfish out of the North Atlantic before a blown-out knee forced him to hang up his slickers and open a tiny bait and tackle shop off Main Street in Stonington, Maine. He’s lived alone since his wife Eileen passed from breast cancer eight years prior, and his most consistent personality flaw is that he’d rather argue with a tangled fishing line than make small talk with anyone who isn’t a regular at his shop or the old crew he still grabs beer with on Friday nights. He only agreed to come to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his best friend, the fire chief, threatened to stop buying bait from him for the department’s annual fishing trip if he didn’t bring his famous smoked salmon dip.
He’s leaning against the bed of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, picking at a bowl of venison chili that’s so spicy it makes his eyes water, when he smells it: lavender hand cream mixed with the faint, sweet tang of wood smoke. He looks up, and she’s standing three feet away, holding a crumpled paper plate in one hand, silver streaks threading through the chestnut hair she’s pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of chili on the corner of her mouth. It’s Clara Hale, 58, the new part-time librarian who moved back to town six months prior, and the ex-wife of his old deckhand Jake, who he’d shared 12 years of brutal early mornings and storm-battered trips with back in the 90s. He’d had a stupid, unspoken crush on her back then, the kind he’d never dared act on, not when he was married to Eileen and Jake was the hardest worker he’d ever had on his boat.
She steps closer, close enough that her elbow brushes his bare bicep when she reaches for the stack of napkins resting on the truck’s tailgate next to his dip bowl. “Thought that was you,” she says, holding his eye contact longer than casual politeness demands, a half-smirk playing on her lips that makes the back of his neck heat up. “You still wear that same faded ‘North Atlantic Fishing Co’ cap you had on the day we moved to town in ‘97.” Ronan blinks, surprised she remembers. He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious about the salt stains on his flannel shirt, the calluses on his hands that are so thick he can barely feel the edge of his chili bowl. He’d spent the past eight years telling himself that wanting anyone other than Eileen was a betrayal, that he was too old for whatever this is, that getting involved with the ex-wife of an old crew mate was the kind of drama he didn’t need. The thought makes his stomach twist, half disgust at himself for even noticing how her jeans fit just right, half sharp, unnameable desire he hasn’t felt since Eileen was still alive.
They talk for an hour, leaning against the truck, the buzz of the cookoff fading into background noise as they swap stories. She tells him she left Jake in 2001, after he started drinking too much and missing trips, moved to Portland to work in a library, came back to Stonington to take care of her ailing mom. She teases him about the time he snuck her a beer at the crew Christmas party in ‘98, when Jake was passed out drunk on the living room couch and she was bored out of her mind. He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he doesn’t make often, and when he passes her a cracker slathered in his smoked salmon dip, his knuckles brush her wrist. He pulls back like he’s been burned, but she doesn’t flinch, her fingers lingering on his for half a beat before she takes the cracker. The contact sends a jolt up his arm, warm and electric, and he has to look away for a second to catch his breath.
The fire department announces the 50/50 raffle a few minutes later, and Ronan realizes they’d both bought tickets earlier, before they’d started talking. When the emcee calls Clara’s number, she whoops, grabs his hand with both of hers, and pulls him up toward the stage with her, no hesitation. He doesn’t resist, his calloused palm fitting against hers like it was made to be there. After they collect the check, she leans in close, her mouth next to his ear so he can hear her over the crowd, the warm air of her breath sending chills down his spine. “I’ve been stopping by your tackle shop twice a month for the past three months,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “Always asked about fly fishing gear I don’t even need, just to see if you’d talk to me. You always had your head buried in that old fishing log of yours.”
Ronan feels his face go red, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t try to hide it. He admits he noticed her, every time she came in, but he was too much of a coward to say anything, too scared he was betraying Eileen, too convinced he didn’t deserve to feel this light, this seen, after so many years of being alone. She nods, like she understands, like she’s felt the same weight on her shoulders too. The cookoff starts to wrap up as the sun dips below the ocean, painting the sky pink and orange, and she tilts her head toward the pier down the street. “You wanna walk down there?” she asks. “I haven’t seen the sunset over the water since I moved back. Figured you’d be the best person to see it with.”
Ronan nods, and when she tucks her hand into the crook of his arm as they start walking, he doesn’t pull away. The salt air stings his cheeks, the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocks mixes with the faint jingle of her keychain in her pocket, and he can feel the heat of her arm through the thin fabric of his flannel. He doesn’t overthink what comes next, not for the first time in eight years. He squeezes her hand where it rests on his arm, and she squeezes back, soft and sure.
