Leo Marquez leans against a splintered pine picnic table, plastic cup of Pabst sweating in his calloused left hand, the scar slashing across his knuckles a souvenir from the 2019 Deschutes National Forest blaze that put him in the hospital for three weeks. He’s 62, retired wildland fire crew boss, and he’s spent the last three hours jawing with old crew members while handing out samples of his award-winning green chili at the local volunteer fire department’s annual fundraiser. The air smells like smoke, roasted cumin, and pine, the sound of classic rock bleeding from a beat-up speaker next to the cookie booth mixing with the shouts of kids chasing each other across the gravel lot.
He spots her the second she cuts through the crowd, linen blazer too crisp for the 82-degree heat, dark jeans cuffed at the ankle, red-painted toenails peeking out of strappy leather sandals. That’s Marnie Hale, the new city council member who voted to slash the fire department’s operating budget last month. Leo’s jaw tightens. He’d spent three hours ranting about her to his grandson the night before, calling her a pencil-pusher who didn’t care if half the west side of town burned down because she lived in the fancy new development by the golf course.
She walks straight to his booth, no hesitation, and leans in so close her shoulder brushes his bicep when she sniffs the pot of chili simmering on the propane burner next to him. He freezes. He hasn’t been that close to a woman who wasn’t his daughter or daughter-in-law in four years. The scent of jasmine hits him, soft, not cloying, similar enough to the perfume his wife used to wear that his chest aches for half a second before he remembers who she is.
“Heard this is the only booth that doesn’t serve chili that tastes like it came out of a can from the dollar store,” she says, holding his eye contact longer than strictly polite, one corner of her mouth tilted up in a smirk that makes him feel like she’s in on a joke he hasn’t heard yet. She’s 58, he remembers reading in the local paper, moved to town two years ago after a career as a physical therapist in Portland.
“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, considering you voted to take half our operating budget last month,” he says, sharper than he means to, turning to stir the chili so he doesn’t have to look at her. The silver ring he wears on his right hand, engraved with his old crew number, clinks against the side of the pot.
She snorts, leaning her hip against the picnic table next to him, close enough that he can feel the heat off her leg through his denim jeans. “You didn’t read the full amendment, did you? The cut was reallocated from the unnecessary new truck fund to the crew training budget and the new senior center meal delivery program. Your guys are getting more money for gear and wildfire response, not less. Someone just fed you the wrong soundbite.”
Leo blinks. He’d skipped the full council meeting, only watched the 30-second clip a friend sent him of the vote. His face heats up. He hates being wrong, hates that he jumped to a conclusion without checking the facts, the same flaw that got two of his crew members stuck in a burn zone for six hours back in 2017. He never learned to stop and ask questions before he got mad.
She holds out a plastic spoon, wiggling it between her fingers. “Can I get a sample, or are you gonna keep grumping at me for a mistake you made?”
He hands her a scoop of chili, and their fingers brush when she takes the bowl from him. The jolt is so sharp he almost drops the ladle. She blows on the spoon, takes a bite, and hums, low in her throat, the sound going straight to the base of his spine like a spark to dry tinder. “Told you it was good,” he says, quieter now, no bite left in his voice.
A clap of thunder cuts off her response, and fat, cold raindrops start pouring out of nowhere, the crowd scrambling for cover under awnings and tree canopies. Leo grabs her wrist on instinct, pulling her under the awning of the nearby taco truck before she can slip on the gravel, and they end up pressed shoulder to hip, her back against the metal side of the truck, his arm half curled around her to keep her out of the rain. Her hair is damp at the ends, a stray curl sticking to her forehead, and when she tilts her head up to look at him, her lips are parted, her breath warm against his neck.
“I know you ran the crew that saved my sister’s house in the 2020 blaze,” she says, soft enough that only he can hear it over the sound of the rain hitting the awning. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for six months. Just didn’t know how to bring it up without you biting my head off.”
He laughs, a rough, rusty sound, he hasn’t laughed that easy in months. “I’m not that bad,” he says, and when she brushes a fleck of chili off the front of his faded fire crew flannel, he doesn’t pull away, lets her hand linger on his chest for a full three seconds before she drops it.
They stand there for ten minutes while the rain passes, talking about his old crew, the rescue golden retriever she adopted last year, his 10-year-old grandson who wants to be a wildland firefighter when he grows up, the senior center program that delivers hot meals to 70 homebound seniors every week, the one she fought to get funded for six months. The tension between them shifts, sharp and warm, no longer anger, something softer, something he thought he’d never feel again after his wife died.
When the sun comes out, painting the sky pink and orange over the mountains, she pulls her phone out of her blazer pocket and hands it to him. “Put your number in,” she says, no teasing now, her voice steady. “I’ll take you to that steakhouse on the west side next week, walk you through the full budget line by line, and if you’re not still mad at me by the end of dinner, you can bring that chili over to my place so I can have a full bowl. No pressure.”
Leo types his number in slowly, his scarred knuckles brushing the screen, and when he hands the phone back to her, he lets his thumb brush the back of her hand on purpose, slow, deliberate, no accident this time.
