Ronan O’Malley, 58, spent 32 years manning fire lookout towers in the northern Sierras before he retired three years prior. His greatest flaw, one he’d never admit to out loud, was clinging to unspoken bro code rules long after the men he’d made those pacts with had thrown them out the window. He’d avoided the town’s annual summer block party for seven straight years, ever since his wife died of ovarian cancer, only agreeing to show up this year because his granddaughter had begged him to help man her high school environmental club’s lemonade stand for an hour.
He was leaning against a splintered cedar fence half an hour after his shift ended, sipping a cheap lager he’d grabbed from the beer tent, when he caught the scent of lavender and pine soap cutting through the thick smell of grilled bratwurst and citronella candles. He turned, and Clara Marlow was standing six inches from his boots, holding a chipped paper plate stacked with two slices of peach cobbler. She was 54, ran the town’s used bookstore, and had been married to his old fire crew partner Jake for 18 years before they split a decade prior. Ronan had avoided her for 20 years, mostly because he’d thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen the first time Jake brought her to a crew cookout, and he’d told himself touching a friend’s wife, even an ex-wife, was a line he’d never cross.
She held the plate out, and when he reached for it, their fingers brushed. He felt the raised callus on her index finger, the one she got from turning thousands of book pages a week, and he yanked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. The corner of her mouth tugged up in a teasing smirk, like she knew exactly why he’d reacted that way. She was wearing faded overalls and a white tank top, flecks of cerulean paint dotted her left wrist, leftover from touching up the bookstore’s hand-painted sign that morning, he realized. He’d driven past the store at 7 a.m. on his way to the lumber yard, and had seen her on a ladder, hair pulled back in a messy silver braid, singing along to a Patsy Cline track blaring from a portable speaker.
They made small talk for ten minutes, him leaning against the fence, her standing close enough that their shoulders brushed every time a kid ran past and jostled her. She mentioned Jake had texted her the week prior, telling her he’d moved to Pensacola with his 28-year-old girlfriend, a fishing charter hostess he’d met on a guys’ trip last spring. Ronan felt the tight knot of guilt he’d been carrying around for 20 years loosen a little, but it didn’t go away entirely. He still felt like he was breaking a rule, even if Jake had bailed on every other promise he’d ever made, including showing up to their crew’s 25th reunion two years prior.
He felt his face heat up, something he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager fumbling through his first date. He admitted he’d been coming to see her, but had been too stubborn to break the stupid rule he’d made for himself back when he was 28 and thought loyalty meant ignoring what you wanted for the sake of someone who didn’t care half as much as you did. She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise around them, and shifted closer, so her knee was pressed against his denim-clad thigh.
“Jake never cared if anyone looked at me,” she said, her voice lower now, no teasing edge left. “Half the time he forgot we were married when he was out on trips. I’ve been waiting for you to stop being an idiot and say something for six months. I got tired of waiting, so I tracked you down here.”
He sat down on the curb next to her, the rough asphalt digging through the thin seat of his work jeans, and reached out to brush a fleck of paint off her wrist. She didn’t pull away. They talked for another hour, ignoring the people waving at them as they walked past, the cobbler sitting forgotten on the curb next to them, until the sun started to dip below the pine trees lining the street, painting the sky pink and orange. He asked her if she wanted to drive up to the old fire lookout he used to man the following Saturday, bring sandwiches and a bottle of that peach wine she sold at the bookstore’s front counter, watch the sunset. She said yes, no hesitation.
He tucks a stray strand of silver hair that had fallen loose from her braid behind her ear, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting something that has nothing to do with his old job or his grief.
