Elias Voss, 62, spent 32 years manning remote fire towers in the Oregon Cascades before retiring to a creaky pine cottage outside Prescott last fall. His only consistent company for three decades had been a weather radio and a rotation of half-feral barn cats, and he’d carried that habit of isolation into his retirement, turning down every invitation to potlucks, poker games, and town hall meetings since he’d moved. His biggest flaw, if you asked the few people who’d tried to get close to him, was that he treated vulnerability like a wildfire: something to be stamped out before it burned through every carefully built boundary he had. He’d lost his wife to ovarian cancer eight years prior, and hadn’t so much as shared a cup of coffee with a woman that didn’t end with him making an excuse to leave early.
The only reason he was standing at the county chili cookoff judge’s table that Saturday was because the event organizer, a retired nurse named Darlene who’d brought him peach pie when he’d sprained his ankle clearing brush in January, had begged him. The air reeked of cumin, charred mesquite, and cheap beer, the crowd hooting and jeering as contestants hauled dented crockpots up to the folding table. He’d tasted 17 entries so far, all too salty, too sweet, or so loaded with habanero he’d had to chug half a glass of sweet tea to cool his tongue.
He spotted her halfway through the final round, hovering at the edge of the line with a navy blue crockpot held against her hip. Mara Carter, 48, the potter who’d moved into the cottage three doors down from him two months prior, ex-wife of the town’s widely loathed mayor, who’d pushed through a 30% property tax hike the year before before skipping town with his 28-year-old administrative assistant. The entire town had written her off by association, even though everyone knew she’d filed for divorce six months before the tax hike was announced. Elias had run into her once, two weeks prior, when she’d dropped a box of ceramic glaze jugs on her driveway. He’d helped her pick them up, their hands brushing when he handed her a jug streaked with emerald green, and he’d practically run back to his truck before he could say anything stupid, the faint smell of sandalwood and sage soap clinging to his flannel sleeve for hours afterward.
She stepped up to the table, setting the crockpot down with a soft thud, and leaned across to hand him a small paper sample cup. Her forearm brushed his, warm through the thin cotton of her t-shirt, and her hazel eyes, flecked with streaks of honey gold, held his for a beat longer than polite. He could hear a group of retired construction workers to his left muttering about how she had some nerve showing up, how she shouldn’t be allowed to compete. He ignored them, dipping the plastic spoon into the chili. It was rich, thick, with a hint of smoked chipotle and dark chocolate that lingered on his tongue, no over-the-top heat just for show. It was easily the best thing he’d tasted all day.
When the time came to announce the winner, the crowd went quiet, half of them expecting the first place prize to go to the local sheriff, who’d won three years running. Elias didn’t hesitate. He called Mara’s name, held up the dented, scratch-marked tin trophy and the crisp $200 cash prize, and ignored the soft boos that rippled through the back of the crowd. He walked over to where she was standing, half hidden behind a pop-up canopy, and handed her the items, his fingers brushing hers for the second time that day. This time, he didn’t pull away. He asked her if she wanted to drive up to the overlook three miles outside town, watch the sunset, split the rest of her chili and a six pack of the Mexican lager he had in his truck bed. She blinked, surprised, then grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and nodded.
They parked at the edge of the overlook, the valley stretching out below them streaked with orange and purple as the sun dipped low over the mountains. They sat on the tailgate of his beat-up 2004 Ford F150, passing a bowl of chili back and forth, their knees pressed together through their jeans, an old Johnny Cash album playing low on the truck’s radio. He told her about the fire towers, about the time a bobcat had snuck into his tower and stolen his sandwich, about how he’d moved to Arizona to get away from the Oregon rain that always smelled like his wife’s lavender shampoo. She told him about her pottery studio, about how she’d stayed in town even after the divorce because she loved the red clay that dug under her nails and never washed all the way out, about how she’d noticed he left sunflower seeds out for the jays that lived in the pine tree between their houses.
He didn’t feel the familiar urge to run, to shut down, to make an excuse and go home to his empty cottage and his quiet nights alone. The chili was still warm in his belly, the wind carried the sharp smell of pine, and her shoulder was pressed to his, warm and solid. He took a bite of chili, lets the heat settle in his chest, and doesn’t look away when she licks a smudge of melted cheddar off her lower lip.
