Elias Voss, 62, spent 30 years as a forensic accountant picking apart embezzlement schemes for small Oregon coast towns before he retired three years back, now spends 10 hours a day in his garage workshop restoring vintage fishing reels for the local bait and tackle shops. His biggest flaw, if you ask his only close friend Ray, is that he’s spent the 8 years since his wife left him for a golf pro in Arizona deliberately walling himself off from anyone who ever knew the two of them as a couple. He’d turned down every invitation to the annual Newport firemen’s chili cookoff until last week, when Ray promised him a free case of his favorite pale ale if he helped man the booth for two hours.
The rain spits cold and fine through the gaps in the canvas tent when he shows up, jeans cuffed against the mud, the air thick with cumin, smoked paprika, and the acrid tang of burnt hot dogs from the food truck at the end of the row. He’s halfway through his first beer, pretending to listen to Ray rant about the judging criteria, when a woman stepping back to avoid a sprinting kid holding a sloshing paper bowl of chili bumps hard into his side. Her hip presses to his for two full seconds, warm even through both their flannel shirts, and when she turns to apologize he recognizes her immediately: Mara Hale, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the one he’d shared exactly three awkward conversations with at family weddings back when he was married, the one he’d caught himself staring at more than once even when he’d had no business looking.
She doesn’t miss a beat when she sees him, smirks like she’s been waiting to run into him, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Her left sleeve is smudged with chili grease, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, a silver ring shaped like a salmon on her index finger. She smells like cedar and dark cherry lip balm, and when she reaches out to tap the faded Oregon Ducks logo on his jacket, her knuckles brush his wrist and he feels a jolt go up his arm that has nothing to do with the cold.
He’s immediately torn between turning on his heel and walking away and leaning in closer. He’s spent 8 years treating anyone tied to his ex like they carry a contagious disease, convinced any connection to that part of his life will only bring back the humiliation of coming home to an empty house and a note taped to the fridge. But Mara doesn’t mention his ex, doesn’t ask how he’s been, just holds out a small paper cup of her chili for him to try, says she entered the contest this year just to beat Ray, who’s won three years running.
The chili hits his tongue hot enough to make his eyes water, loaded with habanero and smoked brisket, and he coughs a little, reaching for his beer. She laughs, a low, rough sound like she smokes half a pack of Camels a day on her porch after work, and he finds himself laughing too, something tight in his chest loosening he didn’t even know was there. They talk while people mill past, sampling chili, dropping dollar bills in the tip jars for the fire department, and every time a group squeezes through the narrow gap between the booths they have to press closer together to make room, their shoulders brushing, his arm grazing hers every time he lifts his beer. He finds out she’s been single for 5 years, her ex-husband left her for a yoga instructor in Bend, she runs the small pet grooming shop two blocks from his workshop, she’s had a 1960s Penn reel sitting in her garage for two years she’s been meaning to get fixed.
The rain picks up without warning, wind whipping the canvas tent so hard the aluminum pole next to their booth snaps with a sharp crack. Mara grabs his forearm without thinking, yanking him out of the way before the heavy canvas can collapse on top of them, and they end up huddled under the overhang of the bait shop 20 feet away, soaked through at the cuffs, rain dripping off the brim of his baseball cap onto her shoulder. She doesn’t let go of his arm right away, her fingers warm even through his wet jacket, and she leans in so her mouth is close to his ear, her breath warm against his cold skin, says she’s been wanting to talk to him for 8 years, that his ex’s choices were never his fault, that he doesn’t have to feel guilty for wanting something good now.
He doesn’t say anything for a second, just stares at her, the sound of people yelling and laughing as they fix the tent fading into the background. He’d spent so long convincing himself he was better off alone, that any kind of connection would only end in disappointment, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him like she does, like she sees him, not just the guy his ex left. He asks her if she wants to come back to his workshop, says he has a bottle of good bourbon stashed under his workbench, he can take a look at that Penn reel of hers tonight if she brings it by.
She grins, nods, says she has it in the back of her Subaru right now. He walks her to his beat up 2004 Ford F150, holds the passenger door open for her, and her hand rests light on his forearm when she climbs up into the cab. He catches the faint smell of cherry lip balm on her hair as he pulls the truck door shut behind her, the sound of the cookoff’s distant announcer fading as he turns the key in the ignition.
