Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 28 years perched in 100-foot lookout towers scanning Oregon’s old growth for the first wisp of wildfire smoke, so he noticed the woman before she tripped. He’d been strong-armed into manning the local fire department’s safety booth at the annual Hood River cider festival for an hour, a favor for his niece who ran the department’s community outreach, and was already counting down the minutes until he could drive back to his quiet cabin in the woods, no small talk required. The air reeked of spiced cider, fried donut grease, and the faint, sharp tang of fermenting apple pomace stacked behind the barn. A bluegrass trio off to his left twanged a slurred cover of *Folsom Prison Blues*, and kids darted between tent legs with caramel apples sticky enough to pull shoe soles loose.
She was carrying a wooden crate of jam jars, bandana tied around her chestnut hair streaked with three thick silver stripes, when her boot caught on a tent stake. She grabbed his forearm to steady herself, calloused palm warm through his faded wool flannel, a smudge of deep purple blackberry juice left on the cuff when she pulled back. “Shit, sorry,” she said, grinning, sun spots dark on her cheekbones, eyes the color of rain-soaked pine. “These jars are heavier than they look. Mara, I run the community garden on the west side.” Ronan’s first instinct was to mumble a dismissive no problem and turn back to the stack of fire safety pamphlets he’d been ignoring. He’d avoided casual conversations with women for eight years, ever since his wife Eileen died of ovarian cancer, convinced any flicker of interest was a betrayal of the 32 years they’d had together. But he noticed the wildfire crew lanyard around her neck before he could look away.
“My son was on the Eagle Creek fire crew in 2017,” she said, nodding at the faded fire lookout patch sewn to his jacket chest. “Came home with a scar up his forearm from a falling Douglas fir branch, still complains about it when it rains.” Ronan blinked. He’d been perched on the Mount Hood lookout that entire summer, had radioed in the first report of that fire when it was just a thin curl of smoke 12 miles out. He told her that, and her grin softened, no pitying wince or awkward “I’m sorry for your hard work” line he hated from people who’d never spent three months alone in a tower eating canned beans. She held out a jam sample on a saltine, their fingers brushing when he took it, sweet blackberry followed by a slow burn of habanero that made his eyes water a little. He found himself telling her about Eileen, how she’d canned 40 jars of blackberry jam every summer, how he still had three unopened jars in his cabin pantry left from the summer before she died. Mara didn’t push, didn’t tell him it was okay to move on, just nodded and said she still had three of her late husband’s favorite flannel shirts hanging in her closet, hadn’t had the heart to donate them.
The sun dipped below the gorge rim as they talked, string lights strung between the oak trees blinking on, the bluegrass trio switching to slow, wobbly waltzes. A couple of teens stumbled past, laughing, and Mara shifted closer to avoid them, her shoulder pressing against his, the faint smell of lavender shampoo and jam sugar drifting off her. “I’ve been coming to this festival for 12 years,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear, “and I’ve never danced. Always too busy selling jars.” Ronan hesitated, his chest tight, the familiar voice in his head screaming that he was being disloyal, that Eileen would be angry. Then he thought of the unopened jam jars on his shelf, how Eileen had always teased him for being too stubborn to try new things. He held out his hand.
Mara slipped her calloused hand into his, and he led her to the small patch of packed dirt the festival had marked as a dance floor. He rested his hand light on her waist, hers on his shoulder, and they swayed off beat, his boots scuffing the dirt next to hers. He could feel the heat of her through her flannel shirt, hear her laugh when he stepped on her toe by accident, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty for smiling. He pulled her a little closer when the wind picked up, carrying the sharp, sweet scent of apple cider across the field.
