Leo Rios, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had spent the four years since his wife Elara’s death holed up in his coastal Oregon garage sanding custom walnut cutting boards and turning down every community invitation that crossed his path. His biggest flaw was a stubborn, unshakable conviction that letting anyone new into his orbit counted as betrayal of the 38 years he’d shared with Elara. He only agreed to set up a stall at the annual coastal harvest block party because his 72-year-old neighbor Margot brought him homemade peach pie three weeks in a row begging, saying the craft fair needed more local makers instead of mass-produced coastal knickknacks.
He was wiping invisible sawdust off a finished cutting board when an elbow knocked hard into his left bicep. He looked up, ready to snap, and met warm hazel eyes fringed with silver lashes, framed by short auburn hair streaked with gray at the temples. She was holding a jar of wild blackberry honey, one corner of her mouth turned up in an apologetic grin, and he smelled lavender hand cream mixed with cinnamon sugar drifting from the churro stand two stalls over. “Sorry about that,” she said, leaning against the edge of his folding table, her knee brushing his frayed jeans when a group of kids darted past chasing a golden retriever. She didn’t shift away. “I’m Marnie. New librarian. I’ve been trying to track you down for weeks.”
His first instinct was to brush her off. He hadn’t set foot in the town library since he moved to the coast, hadn’t read a poetry book out loud since Elara’s last chemo session. “Not taking custom orders right now,” he said, going back to wiping the cutting board, even though its surface was already smooth enough to see his reflection in.
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that made his ears warm. “I don’t need a cutting board. The kids’ maker space workbench is split down the middle. Half the kids can’t clamp their birdhouse projects down without it wobbling. Half the town said you’re the only person within 20 miles who can fix something like that for free, no questions asked.”
He froze. Elara used to run a birdhouse building workshop for elementary kids back when they lived in Salem. The old, familiar resentment warped into something softer, something he hadn’t felt in years. He glanced up again, and she was still watching him, no pity in her eyes, just quiet curiosity. “I don’t do volunteer work anymore,” he said, but his tone was softer, less sharp than he’d intended.
She nodded, like she expected that. She pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of her thick wool cardigan pocket, slid it across the table to him. It was a poem, typed on faded pink paper, signed Elara Mae Carter, dated 2019, three months before she died. “Found it in the archives last week,” she said, her voice quiet. “It’s about the cabin you two had up by the Siuslaw River, right? The line about the way fog curls around the pine trees at dawn? It made me cry. I haven’t read something that honest in years.”
His throat tightened. He’d forgotten he’d submitted that poem to the small coastal literary journal for Elara, when she was too sick to send it herself. The conflict hit him sharp, split right down the middle: part of him wanted to crumple the paper up, tell her to leave him alone, that no stranger got to talk about his wife like they knew her. The other part was buzzing, light, like someone had just handed him a piece of a memory he thought he’d lost forever. He ran a finger over the typed lines, the paper soft from being folded and unfolded dozens of times. “You read a lot of poetry?” he asked, instead of the gruff dismissal he’d planned.
“Used to, before my ex left me for a 28-year-old hot yoga instructor in Portland,” she said, dry, no self-pity, just a sharp little grin. “Moved here to stop moping. So far, it’s working. Except for the broken workbench.”
The sun dipped below the ocean, and the string lights strung between the storefronts flickered on, gold and warm, painting little flecks of light in her hair. Someone turned on Johnny Cash’s *I Walk the Line* over the street speakers, the bass thrumming low through the pavement under their work boots. She nodded toward the food truck at the end of the block. “They’ve got cold IPA on tap. You wanna buy me a beer? I’ll tell you all about the workbench. No pressure to say yes. I just… think you’d like the kids. They’re a mess, but they’re good kids.”
He hesitated for half a second, then pushed himself up from the folding chair, his knees cracking a little. He tucked the poem into the pocket of his flannel shirt, right over his heart. When she stepped off the curb, she stumbled a little over a hay bale set out for seating, and grabbed his hand to steady herself. Her palm was warm, a little calloused at the fingertips from turning book pages, he thought, and he didn’t let go when she was steady. They walked the half block to the food truck, their hands laced together, fallen maple leaves crunching under their boots, no one saying a word.
He ordered two IPAs, handed her one, their fingers brushing when she took the cold glass from him. She tilted her head up, the fairy lights reflecting in her hazel eyes, and took a sip, her mouth curving up when she swallowed. He leaned against the side of the food truck, the cold metal biting through his flannel, and for the first time in four years, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for something bad to happen. He told her he’d be at the library Tuesday at 10 a.m., and he’d bring the extra cedar he had stacked in his garage for the birdhouse projects. She grinned, and bumped her shoulder against his, not pulling away when he rested his arm lightly around her waist. Some kid yelled as they ran past, a dog barked, the music switched to a Patsy Cline song, and he could taste cinnamon from the churros on the wind, mixed with lavender and sea salt. He took a slow sip of his beer, watching her laugh at a group of kids carrying giant swirly lollipops, and didn’t even realize he was smiling until she turned to look at him, and smiled back.
