Manny Rocha is 62, retired commercial abalone diver, calluses so thick on his palms he can pick up a hot cast iron skillet without a potholder, and he’s hated every minute of the coastal Oregon summer beer fest for the last three hours. His buddy talked him into hauling his abalone shell jewelry booth out here, promising free beer and enough sales to cover the new bilge pump for his 1978 Boston Whaler, but so far he’s sold one pair of earrings to a teen girl who paid in crumpled ones and kept glancing at her phone the whole time. He’s halfway through his second IPA, sun searing the back of his neck, the twang of a cover band’s off-key “Friends in Low Places” drilling into his eardrums, when the woman setting up the booth next to him leans into his space.
Her elbow brushes his forearm first, soft through the frayed cuff of his fishing flannel, and he catches a whiff of lavender hand lotion mixed with the citrus seltzer she’s holding in her other hand. “Mind passing me one of those folding chairs behind your table?” she says, and when he looks up he’s caught off guard by her hazel eyes, gold flecks catching the sun like the iridescent inside of an abalone shell, dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid. She’s got a county library sticker on her canvas tote, a smudge of blue ink on her left cheek.
He grunts, grabs the chair, passes it over, expects her to mumble thanks and ignore him the rest of the day like most people do when they realize he’s not much for small talk. Instead she sits back, nods at the half-carved shell on his workbench. “Abalone?” she says. “My dad harvested those off Mendocino back in the 90s. I still have an ankle scar from slicing it open on a reef when I was 12, trying to follow him out.”
Manny blinks. Most people who stop at his booth think the shells are just pretty rocks, don’t know about the 40 pound weight belt you wear to dive 30 feet down in 50 degree water, don’t know how easy it is to get tangled in kelp or have a sea lion decide you’re trespassing. He finds himself telling her about the time a 700 pound sea lion bit a chunk out of his left calf 10 years back, had to stitch himself up on the boat because the coast guard was an hour out. She doesn’t flinch, just laughs, says her dad once punched a seal in the nose to get it to stop stealing his catch.
He learns her name is Clara, 54, just moved to town three months ago to run the local library, still hasn’t found a decent fish taco place in the county. She hates country music as much as he does, reads two western novels a week, used to race dirt bikes in her 20s. By the time the sun dips low over the ocean, the crowd’s thinned out, he’s forgotten all about his sales, even let her try carving a small shell pendant, her hand brushing his when he shows her how to hold the blade right.
The first raindrop hits his bare arm without warning, then the sky opens up, cold hard rain pouring down so fast it stings his face. Clara yelps, grabbing for a stack of free used books she’d set out for the adult summer reading program, wind blowing half of them across the grass. She steps forward to grab one, slips in a mud puddle, and Manny reacts without thinking, wrapping his arm around her waist to steady her. She’s pressed up against his chest, both soaked through, her hands fisted in the front of his flannel, faces inches apart. He can feel her breath on his lips, taste the peach seltzer she’d been drinking on the air between them, and for half a second he panics, ready to pull away, mumble an apology, go back to his empty house alone like he always does.
They pack up fast, laughing when a gust blows Clara’s library sign into a puddle. Manny offers to drive her back to his place to dry off, says he’s got a dryer and a pot of chili simmering on the stove he made last night, and she nods, no hesitation, no awkward back and forth. They stop at the taco truck on the edge of the parking lot on the way, order three carnitas tacos each, eat them standing under the awning while the rain slows to a drizzle.
He opens the passenger door of his beat-up 2004 Ford F150 for her, waits until she’s settled in before climbing into the driver’s seat. The radio plays an old Johnny Cash song he hasn’t heard in years, heat blowing warm air through the vents, the smell of rain and pine and lavender still clinging to her clothes. He reaches over the center console, laces his calloused fingers through hers, and doesn’t let go when they hit the pothole at the edge of town.
