Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 38 years running a gillnetter out of Astoria’s Tongue Point Marina before he sold the boat two years back, and his biggest flaw is that he’s spent the seven years since his wife Ellen passed treating all social invitations like they came with a side of expired crab meat. He only showed up to the fire department’s annual summer barbecue because his 10-year-old granddaughter had begged him to enter the cornhole tournament, said all her friends’ grandpas were competing and she wanted bragging rights. He’s propped against the dented stainless steel beer cooler, half-empty IPA in one hand, faded oilskin work jacket still zipped halfway even though the July sun’s pushing 72, when he catches a whiff of coconut sunscreen and yellowed paper stock before he sees her.
Mara Carter, Ellen’s first cousin, 48, moved back to the coast six months prior to take over the tiny independent bookstore on Commercial Street, and Ronan has gone out of his way to avoid every single run-in she’s tried to orchestrate since she got to town. She reaches past him for a black cherry seltzer from the cooler, her bare forearm brushing the exposed skin of his wrist, and he jolts like he touched a live wire. She pulls back with a slow, knowing grin, dark eyes holding his for three beats too long for polite family interaction, and teases that he’s still wearing that ratty jacket, like he’s scared someone will forget he used to haul salmon for a living. He can’t think of a snappy comeback, just nods, and takes a too-big sip of beer that goes down the wrong pipe, making him cough so hard his eyes water. She pats him on the back, her hand lingering between his shoulder blades longer than necessary, and says the kid running the tournament just paired them up, since her original partner bailed to go chase his toddler around the bounce house.