Roman Voss, 62, retired smokejumper turned antique lighthouse lens restorer, had let his buddy Jake drag him to the annual Salty Spur clam chowder cookoff exactly once before, back in 2017, and he’d left after 12 minutes when a widow from the local Methodist church tried to slip him her phone number written on a crab-shaped cocktail napkin. He’d spent the eight years since his wife Elaine died cultivating his hermit status, his workshop tucked into the ground floor of his cottage a mile up the coast, his only regular visitors the FedEx guy who dropped off glass polishing supplies and the stray tabby that napped on his workbench. He’d told Jake no three times before Jake showed up on his porch with a six pack of his favorite hazy IPA, saying if Roman didn’t get out and talk to a human being who didn’t beg for tuna treats he was gonna call adult protective services.
He was leaning against the bar by the draft tap, holding a bowl of chowder that tasted like someone had dumped a whole shaker of kosher salt into the pot, checking his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, when a woman’s shoulder collided with his bicep hard enough to slosh a dollop of creamy broth onto the cuff of his oil-stained gray flannel. She swore under her breath, grabbed a stack of napkins from the bar, and dabbed at the wet spot before he could protest, her calloused thumb brushing the pulse point on his wrist for half a second. He caught the scent of pine sap and peppermint lip balm on her, noticed the thin silver scar slicing across her left forearm, the faded “Oregon Parks” patch sewn to the breast of her own navy flannel, the freckles dusted across her nose that stood out against her warm, sun-kissed skin.
“That’s the third booth’s chowder, right?” She nodded at the bowl in his hand, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughed, the noise a little rough like she smoked a cigarette every now and then after a long day clearing trail. “I told them they went heavy on the salt. The fifth booth, the old commercial fishermen’s crew, they smoked their own cod for theirs. Tastes like heaven.” Roman stared at her for a second, half ready to make an excuse and bolt, half curious why she wasn’t giving him the sad, pitying look everyone in town gave him when they realized who he was, who he’d lost. The bar was loud, kids yelling as they ran between tables with overflowing paper bowls, jukebox playing Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* in the corner, so she leaned in a little closer to talk, her knee brushing his when someone squeezed past them carrying a stack of paper plates.
He told her his name, said he fixed old lighthouse lenses for the state historical society when she asked what he did for work. She lit up, said she was Elara Mendez, 58, the new county parks director, that she’d stopped by his cottage the week before to survey the old lighthouse point up the road, had spotted the half-restored Fresnel lens sitting in his workshop window. He’d spent years assuming no one but him cared about the scratched, heavy glass lenses, the way they split light into rainbow streaks when the sun hit them right, and the fact that she’d noticed it made his chest feel tight, like he’d been holding his breath for eight years and finally let it out. He felt guilty for it at first, sharp and hot, like he was betraying Elaine by even enjoying talking to another woman, but Elara didn’t push, didn’t mention his wife, didn’t give him that sad little head tilt he hated so much. She just teased him about wearing steel-toe work boots to a community cookoff, told him she’d once tripped over a root on a backcountry trail and landed face first in a patch of poison oak during a county event, and he laughed so hard he spilled a little more chowder on his jeans.
When the cookoff wrapped up, the sun hanging low over the ocean, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft pink, she nodded toward the weathered pier stretching out over the water. “Wanna walk down there? The tide’s coming in, you can see the seals sunning on the rocks if we get close enough.” He almost said no, almost made up an excuse about a 1890s lens he needed to finish polishing before the weekend, but then she tucked a strand of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear, and he saw the dirt under her fingernails, same as his, from hauling heavy equipment and working with his hands, and he nodded.
The pier boards creaked under their boots, cold salt spray hitting their ankles as they walked, the sound of waves crashing against the pilings drowning out the noise from the bar behind them. She leaned against the rail at the end of the pier, her arm brushing his, and pointed out three seals bobbing in the water a hundred yards out. He looked over at her, the sunset gilding the edges of her hair, a fleck of chowder crumb stuck to her lower lip, and he reached out without thinking, brushed it off with his thumb, his skin brushing hers for a split second. She didn’t pull away. She just turned to look at him, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a slow, warm smile, and she rested her hand lightly on top of his where it lay on the splintered wooden rail.
