Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired Puget Sound ferry captain, had avoided the new waterfront taphouse for 18 months straight. It’d replaced his beloved dive, The Salty Spud, which closed after the owner passed, and Ronan’s stubborn streak ran so deep he’d rather drive 20 minutes inland for a lukewarm beer than set foot in a space that didn’t smell like old fryer grease and salt-stained work boots. His only real deviation from routine the past four years, after his wife Eileen died of ovarian cancer, was judging the annual town oyster shucking contest, a gig he’d held for 22 years running.
This year, his old shipmate Jeb practically dragged him to the taphouse after the contest, slapping a $20 down for two IPAs before Ronan could protest. The space wasn’t half bad, he had to admit—reclaimed cedar bar tops, string lights strung above the open garage doors that let in the crisp October brine, no cheesy pop blaring over the speakers, just old Johnny Cash and the low rumble of festival crowds. He leaned his shoulder against the bar, still wearing his frayed Coast Guard-issue wool jacket even though the temperature hovered at 62 degrees, and stared at the foam of his beer like it owed him money.
She reached past him 10 minutes later, her forearm brushing the rough wool of his sleeve as she grabbed a stack of napkins from the caddy beside his elbow. He caught the scent first: briny seaweed, a hint of lavender hand cream, and the sharp, bright tang of raw oyster liquor. “Sorry about that,” she said, pulling back, and Ronan looked up to see sun-streaked gray hair pulled back in a frayed braid, calloused hands dotted with tiny shucking scars, a faded navy flannel open over a waffle-knit shirt. He recognized her immediately: Clara Bennett, ran the oyster farm three coves over, used to beg him to let her haul 50-pound baskets of oysters on the ferry after the commercial cargo runs filled up, back when he was still working.
He’d given her a beat-up stainless steel shucking knife as a Christmas gift in 2019, right before he retired. She was holding that exact knife in her left hand, the handle wrapped in the same black electrical tape he’d used to patch it up.
“Still using that hunk of junk?” he said, before he could think better of it, and she grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She leaned against the bar beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed when she shifted her weight, and held up the knife to twist it in the light. “Best one I ever had,” she said. “Asked around about you after you retired. Heard you might’ve moved to Alaska to fish for king crab. Figured you’d left for good.”
Ronan’s throat went dry. He’d thought about leaving, more than once, after Eileen died. Couldn’t bring himself to do it, though—too many memories tied to the sound, too many mornings he’d stood on the ferry bridge watching her oyster boats head out at dawn. He’d avoided running into her on purpose, too, if he was honest. The few times he’d spotted her at the grocery store or the gas station, he’d ducked down another aisle, scared of the little jolt he’d get in his chest, scared he was betraying Eileen by even noticing another woman. That stupid, conflicting pull: half shame, half something warm and bright he’d thought he’d buried with his wife.
He didn’t duck this time. He told her he’d stayed, mostly kept to himself, fixed up the old 17-foot Boston Whaler he’d had since he was 30, cooked frozen meatloaf for dinner three nights a week. She teased him for still wearing that ratty wool jacket, told him she’d started a new line of triploid oysters that tasted like pear and sea salt, invited him out to the farm the next day to taste the first batch. He almost said no, almost mumbled some excuse about needing to change the oil in his truck, almost fell back into the safe, boring routine he’d wrapped around himself like a blanket.
He said yes.
The festival crowd thinned out as the sun dipped below the Olympic Mountains, the air turning sharp enough that Ronan was actually glad for the wool jacket. Clara walked him to his beat-up Ford F-150 parked at the end of the dock, her boots thudding against the weathered planks, her shoulder pressed to his the whole walk. He could feel the warmth of her through the jacket, hear the faint clink of the shucking knife in her work pants pocket, smell that lavender again every time the wind shifted. She stopped at his driver’s side door, leaned in just a little, and he didn’t pull away.
“Breakfast first tomorrow?” he said, suddenly, before she could say goodbye. “Diner on 5th, they make those cinnamon rolls big as your head. My treat.”
She laughed, and kissed him on the cheek, her lips warm against his cold skin. “I’ll be there at 8,” she said, and turned to walk back toward the taphouse, waving over her shoulder.
Ronan sat in his truck for 10 minutes after she left, engine off, not turning on the radio, just staring at the lights dancing on the water. He drove home, pulled into his driveway, and when he got inside, he hung his wool jacket on the hook by the front door instead of tossing it over the arm of the couch like he did every single night.
