Clay Bennett is 58, retired 18 months from the U.S. Forest Service after 32 years on hotshot crews, the scar snaking up his left forearm a souvenir from the 2018 Camp Fire, his biggest flaw a stubborn streak so thick he’d gone seven years without so much as a coffee date after his ex-wife moved to Portland with a retired dentist who drove a Tesla. He’d spent the three weeks since 42-year-old Mara Hale moved into the blue bungalow next door actively avoiding her, still sore he’d gotten a $75 fine for his unpermitted back patio fire pit, convinced younger women who worked for the state environmental regulatory board had nothing but judgment for guys who still wore steel-toe boots to the farmers market and drove a dented 2006 Ford F-150 with a dog decal on the back window.
The August sun sat low and golden over the Redding market that Saturday, the air thick with the smell of grilled peach skewers, dill brine from the pickle stand, and faint twang of bluegrass from the temporary stage at the far end of the gravel lot. Clay was leaning against a oak barrel stacked with pint jars of pickled okra, half-listening to the old guy running the stand rant about county zoning laws, when he felt a presence at his elbow, warm and close enough he could smell lavender shampoo mixed with pine sap before he looked over.
It was Mara, holding a jar of wildflower honey in one hand, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder printed with a drawing of a spotted owl, her sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a loose braid that fell over her collarbone. He tensed automatically, ready to make a snarky comment about fire code, when her arm brushed the scar on his forearm as she pointed to the label on the honey jar, the contact sharp, warm, unexpected enough he flinched like he’d touched a live wire. “That’s the good stuff,” she said, holding his gaze longer than was strictly polite, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smile. “Beats the grocery store garbage by a mile. Also, for the record, I didn’t report your fire pit. The dipshits in the duplex behind you were burning pallets every night, and I specified yours was small, well-contained, just caught up in the sweep.”
Clay blinked, his irritation fizzling out faster than a damp match. He’d spent three weeks picturing her typing up the complaint over a matcha latte, and here she was, calling the guys next door dipshits, her knee brushing his where they stood side by side by the barrel. He nodded, fumbling for a second for something to say, when she nodded at the peach grill stand 20 feet away. “You hungry? I was gonna get a skewer, they’re big enough to split. My treat, to make up for the hassle of that stupid fine.”
He said yes before he could talk himself out of it, already fighting the voice in his head that said she was too young, that people would stare, that he was making an idiot of himself for even wanting to spend time with her. They walked over to the stand slow, her shoulder brushing his every other step, the gravel crunching under their boots, the bluegrass growing louder as they got closer to the stage. They sat at a splintered pine picnic table off to the side, the seats close enough their knees touched under the table, the warm peach juice running down his wrist when he took his first bite. She laughed when he fumbled for a napkin, and when a piece of peach skin stuck to the corner of his mouth, she reached over without hesitation, her thumb brushing the spot soft and quick, the contact sending a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt in a decade.
For 45 minutes they talked, first about the fire pit, then about his time on hotshot crews, then about her work tracking old growth forest stands up in the Trinity Alps, her eyes lighting up when he told her he’d fought a fire up there back in 2007, that he knew the exact stand she was talking about. He’d spent so long assuming anyone half his age would find his stories boring, that they’d see the scar on his arm and the calluses on his hands and write him off as another old redneck, but she leaned in when he talked, asked follow up questions, didn’t flinch when he described what it was like to be 10 miles from the nearest road with a fire line moving 30 miles an hour toward you.
The sun was dipping below the oak trees lining the lot when they packed up their things, Mara tucking the honey jar into her tote, Clay grabbing the jar of pickled okra he’d bought earlier. They walked the three blocks back to their street slow, no rush, the air cooling off enough he could see his breath when he exhaled. When they got to their shared driveway, she stopped, turning to face him, her hand brushing the cuff of his flannel shirt for a second before she pulled back. “I made cornbread this morning,” she said, holding his gaze, no trace of shyness now. “It’s real good with that honey. You wanna come over later? And for the record, the city emailed me yesterday, they dropped the fine. You can even bring the fire pit, as long as you fill out the permit I left in your mailbox Tuesday.”
Clay laughed, reaching into the back pocket of his work jeans to pull out the crumpled permit application he’d picked up from city hall on his way to the market that morning, the edge already smudged from him folding and unfolding it a dozen times. “Already filled most of it out,” he said, and she grinned, wide and bright, before she pulled the honey jar back out of her tote and held it out to him to hold until later.
He takes the jar of honey she holds out to him, his fingers brushing hers for three slow beats before he tucks it into the pocket of his work jacket.
