Javi Mendez, 53, retired wildland fire crew foreman, had spent the last three years fixing up his late uncle’s dilapidated bait shop on the Oregon coast, never planning to stick around long enough to attend the town’s annual seafood cookoff. His most stubborn flaw? He’d rather spend three hours fixing a busted net reel alone than ask a neighbor for a 10-second hand, a habit he’d picked up after his wife Lena died in a car crash seven years prior. He’d only showed up that muggy July Saturday because his 12-year-old next door neighbor Mia had begged him to enter his smoked salmon chowder, swearing it’d beat the crab cakes the mayor made every year.
The smell of charred Dungeness crab and fried cod hung thick enough to taste, salt sticking to the back of his neck as he stirred the pot of chowder, cold IPA sweating through its red solo cup at his elbow. He was mid-joke with Mia about dumping extra hot sauce in the mayor’s entry when he saw her. Elara Voss, 48, the new county health inspector, clipboard pressed tight to her linen button-down, silver hoop earrings glinting in the sun as she wove through the crowd. Javi’s jaw tightened instantly. He’d butted heads with her twice already that month: once for keeping his bait shop cooler two degrees below the required minimum (he swore it kept the herring fresher for the striper fishermen), once for leaving a stack of old fire crew gear on his porch during a routine rental inspection. He’d written her off as another stuck-up Portland transplant who didn’t get how small coastal towns worked.
She stopped at his booth, leaning in just close enough that he could smell the coconut sunscreen on her skin, her boots scuffed at the toes exactly like the waterproof Keens he wore on hiking trips. “Mendez,” she said, nodding at the handwritten sign taped to his table that read *LENA’S SMOKED SALMON CHOWDER, NO WEIRD ADDITIVES*. “Figured I’d find you here skirting another rule. You got a temporary food handler’s permit for this?”
He crossed his arms, the scar on his left forearm from a 2019 blaze in the Siskiyous pulling tight when he moved. “Got it right here,” he said, tapping the laminated sheet taped to the side of the pot. “You gonna fine me for making chowder too hot for your city palate?”
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the hum of the crowd, and leaned in further to read the permit, her elbow brushing his bad arm by accident. He flinched before he could stop himself, and her smile softened. “That the fire scar you yelled at me for asking about last month?” she said, nodding at the raised, silvery tissue running from his wrist to his elbow.
He nodded, surprised she remembered. “Got it pulling a rookie out of a burn over. Idiot forgot his fire shelter.” He paused, then scooped a spoonful of chowder out of the pot, holding it out to her. “Wanna try it? No health code violations, I swear. Smoked the salmon myself out behind the shop.”
She took the spoon, her fingers brushing his when she grabbed it, and took a sip, her eyes widening a little as she swallowed, licking a stray drop of creamy broth off her lower lip. Javi’s throat went dry. He hadn’t felt that little jolt of something warm in his chest since Lena died, and he hated it for a second, angry at himself for even looking at another woman like that, like he was betraying the memory of the woman he’d married at 26.
“Holy shit,” she said, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “That’s better than any chowder I’ve had in Portland. You got any extra I can take home? I’ve been eating frozen dinners every night since I moved.”
He nodded, grabbing a paper takeout container, and filled it up, his hands fumbling a little when he passed it to her, their hands brushing again. “I, uh, I know you mentioned last week you were trying to find the trail to the hidden tide pools south of town,” he said, the words coming out faster than he planned. “Low tide’s at 6 a.m. tomorrow. I know the trail like the back of my hand. Half the markers are washed out, you’d get lost if you went alone.”
She paused, holding the container of chowder to her chest, and looked him dead in the eye, a little smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “You asking me on a hike, Mendez? I thought you hated all health department employees.”
“Only the ones that fine me for keeping my bait cold,” he said, grinning back at her, the tightness in his chest loosening a little. “I’ll bring extra blankets. The rocks get cold that early.”
She nodded, tapping her clipboard against her hip. “I’ll bring the coffee. Black, no sugar. You mentioned that’s how you drink it when you were yelling at me about the cooler last week.” She turned to leave, then glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t be late. I leave on time, even for guys that make good chowder.”
He stood there watching her walk through the crowd, the container of chowder tucked under her arm, until Mia elbowed him in the ribs, cackling that he looked like a kid who just got a new dirt bike for Christmas. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop smiling.
The next morning, he was parked at the trailhead 10 minutes early, the bed of his old Ford F150 stacked with blankets and a bucket for collecting agates, sun painting the ocean pink over the horizon. He saw her beat-up Subaru pull up 2 minutes before 6, her holding two thermoses in one hand, hiking boots laced up tight, and she waved when she saw him. He opened the truck door, hopped out, and walked over to meet her, the cool morning air stinging his cheeks, no weight on his chest for the first time in seven years.
