Rafe Mendez is 58, retired three years back from the U.S. Forest Service, where he spent 32 years running wildfire mitigation teams across the Pacific Northwest. His worst flaw is he’s clung to routine so tight since his wife Ellen died of breast cancer six years ago, he hasn’t let anyone outside his regular poker crew get within arm’s length of personal details. He’d planned to spend the first Saturday of October refinishing the 1972 felling axe he’d found at a garage sale the week prior, but his buddy Jim badgered him into stopping by the town’s annual harvest fair, if only for one beer.
He’s leaning against a splintered split-rail fence on the edge of the beer garden, cold amber ale in a plastic cup in his right hand, when someone slams into his left side. Spiced hard cider sloshes over the rim of their cup, soaking the cuff of his faded red flannel. He huffs, ready to brush it off and walk away, until he looks down.
She’s got dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, laugh lines fanning out from the corners of hazel eyes as she babbles apologies, dabbing at his sleeve with a crumpled napkin she pulls from her jacket pocket. He catches the scent of her shampoo first, pine and raw honey, mixed with the faint smoky tang of the food truck fire pits scattered across the fairgrounds. She’s Lila, his next door neighbor Karen’s niece, in town for a week to help Karen pack up her house before she moves to Arizona to be near her grandkids. She notices the faded Forest Service patch sewn to the breast of his flannel mid-apology, and stops short, says her dad did the same work for 28 years in Northern California, passed last spring from a lung condition he picked up fighting the 2018 Camp Fire.
The crowd surges a little when the bluegrass band on the main stage strikes up a fast tune, and she steps closer to avoid getting knocked again, her shoulder pressing firm to his bicep. He can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of his shirt, and for a second he freezes, like he’s been caught in a crossdraft on a fire line. He doesn’t pull away. She passes him a fresh napkin, and their fingers brush when he takes it. Both their hands are calloused, hers from building custom furniture, his from decades of swinging axes and prying apart charred timber, and the match makes something tight in his chest loosen a little.
She teases him when he admits he hasn’t been to the harvest fair since the year before Ellen got sick, calls him a grumpy hermit, says it’s a crime he’s missed the caramel apple stand’s new salted caramel dip three years running. He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months, and buys her a caramel apple to make up for the cider he made her spill. They lean against the fence together, eating their apples, watching a group of kids chase each other through a pile of fallen maple leaves, the crunch of sugar and apple under their teeth mixing with the twang of the banjo from the stage. He finds himself telling her about the decommissioned fire lookout tower he maintains on his property, 800 feet up the hill behind his house, the way you can see all the way to the coast on clear days. He hasn’t told anyone that besides Jim, not in years.
The sun starts to dip low over the western hills, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and she tilts her head up at him, holding his gaze so long his ears go warm. She asks if he wants to walk up to that overlook above town, the one with the old wooden bench, to watch the rest of the sunset. He almost says no, almost makes an excuse about his old hound dog waiting at home for his dinner, but the way she’s biting the corner of her lower lip, like she’s half afraid he’ll turn her down, makes him nod before he can overthink it.
The trail up to the overlook is packed dirt, littered with crumpled fall leaves that crunch under their work boots. Halfway up, she stumbles over a root, and he grabs her elbow to steady her, his hand wrapping around the soft worn fabric of her flannel shirt. She doesn’t let go of his hand when she’s steady, laces her fingers through his instead, and he lets her.
When they reach the top, the whole town is spread out below them, the fair’s string lights already twinkling like scattered stars against the darkening grass. She leans against the weathered guardrail, turns to face him, and says she’s been wanting to kiss him since he laughed at her dumb joke about burnt s’mores ten minutes after they met. He doesn’t say anything, just steps closer, his free hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair off her face, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek. She tilts her chin up, and he kisses her, slow at first, then deeper, tasting the spiced cider and salted caramel on her lips, the cold October air stinging his cheeks as his other hand comes to rest on her waist. The guilt he’d been expecting to hit him, the sharp twist of betraying Ellen, never comes. All he feels is warm, and light, like the weight he’s been carrying on his chest for six years just lifted a little.
They stay up there until the last sliver of sun dips below the hills, the sky turning deep indigo, the first faint stars popping out above the ridge. She squeezes his hand, says she’s only in town for three more days, asks if he’ll take her up to that fire lookout tomorrow, bring the thermos of black coffee he told her he brews at 6 a.m. sharp every morning. He nods, squeezes her hand back, doesn’t waste time worrying about what happens when she leaves.
He doesn’t know what comes after those three days, but for the first time in half a decade, he doesn’t care to map it out in advance.
