Moe Sorrentino, 63, spent 28 years leading wildfire hotshot crews out of central Oregon before he traded his flame-retardant gear for pruning shears and a 12-acre Christmas tree farm. His worst flaw, if you asked his older sister, was that he’d frozen himself in time the day his wife Mara died of ovarian cancer eight years prior. He turned down every dinner invite, every awkward set-up from the women at the local feed store, every chance to let anyone new get close, convinced any hint of joy outside the memory of his marriage was a betrayal.
He was camped out at the annual Deschutes County Harvest Festival the third weekend of October, selling hand-woven pine wreaths strung with dried sage and juniper berries, when he spotted her. The air was crisp enough to make his knuckles ache, the high school marching band blaring an off-key cover of John Mellencamp’s “Jack & Diane” from the stage at the end of the fairgrounds, kids screaming as they bounced on a hay bale mountain 20 feet away. She was carrying a stack of neon orange library event flyers, boots scuffing the dust, silver streaks running through the auburn hair he remembered from Mara’s family barbecues 20 years prior. It was Lila, Mara’s baby cousin, the one who’d been in college when he and Mara got married, the one he’d carried out of a lake after she’d had too many tequila sunrises at their 10th anniversary party.
He looked down at his boots, suddenly awkward. He hadn’t seen her since Mara’s funeral, when she’d hugged him so tight his ribs ached, told him if he ever needed anything to call. He’d never called. He’d even deleted her number off his old flip phone a week later, convinced reaching out would be crossing a line he had no business tiptoeing near.
She tripped over the metal leg of his folding table 30 seconds later, flyers going flying, and he reacted on the same muscle memory that used to make him yank rookie crew members out of the path of falling burnt trees. He grabbed her by the waist before she hit the hay bale seating next to his booth, one hand splayed across the soft lambswool of her cream sweater, the other catching her elbow. She smelled like cinnamon and pear cider, her hand brushing the hair off his forehead when she steadied herself, her hazel eyes holding his for three full beats longer than polite.
“Moe Sorrentino,” she said, grinning, the same gap between her two front teeth he’d always thought was unfairly cute. “I was wondering if that was you. I rented the old cottage on the west edge of your farm three months ago. The realtor said you barely check the mail, so I didn’t bother stopping by.”
He helped her pick up the flyers, their knuckles brushing when they both reached for the same one at the same time, a jolt running up his arm that he hadn’t felt since he was 22 and first kissed Mara behind a fire station. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that she was family, that he shouldn’t be noticing the way her jeans fit just right, the way her laugh made the noise of the fair fade to background static.
They talked for the next three hours, as the line for wreaths died down, as the sun dipped below the Cascade peaks, painting the sky pink and orange. She told him she’d moved back from Portland to take over as county library director, that she’d gotten divorced two years prior, that she’d missed the quiet of central Oregon more than she’d ever missed her ex-husband. He told her about the tree farm, about the new batch of fir saplings he’d planted that spring.
The first flurries of snow started falling as they packed up their booths, the air so cold their breath came out in white puffs. She pulled a beat up stainless steel thermos out of her tote bag, poured them both mugs of spiked hot cocoa, sweet enough to make his teeth tingle, spiked with enough peppermint schnapps to warm him from the inside out. They sat on the tailgate of his dented 2008 Ford F150, their shoulders brushing as they watched the fair crew take down the stage, the faint sound of bluegrass music drifting over from the beer tent.
“I talked to Mara a month before she died,” Lila said, quiet, turning her mug in her hands so she didn’t have to look at him. “She told me she was scared you’d shut yourself off from everyone once she was gone. Told me if I ever ended up back here, I should bug you until you stopped being an idiot.”
Moe froze, the cocoa halfway to his lips. Eight years of sharp, unforgiving guilt warred with the soft, steady hum of desire in his chest, the weight of Lila’s hand resting on his pine-sap stained, calloused one making every excuse he’d ever told himself feel thin and useless.
He drove her back to the cottage, snow sticking to the windshield, his truck’s heater blowing lukewarm air. He walked her to the door, boots crunching on frost-covered gravel, and she tilted her head, hand resting on the doorknob, the porch light gilding the edges of her hair.
“Would you come in?” she asked. “I can never get the damn fireplace to light right.”
He followed her over the threshold, the faint scent of pine from the wreath he’d given her, tucked in the pocket of her jacket, wrapping around them both as the door clicked shut behind him.
