Clay Bennett, 58, spent 32 years fighting wildfires for the Idaho Forest Service before a 2021 blaze blew out his left knee and forced him into early retirement. He’s got a scar snaking 8 inches across his left forearm from a 2017 standoff with the Table Rock fire, a habit of leaving an extra coffee mug on his kitchen counter for his wife Elaine, who died of breast cancer three years prior, and a stubborn, unspoken rule that he won’t so much as flirt with a woman who’s even tangentially connected to his old crew. It’s not just loyalty to Elaine, though that’s most of it. He hates small town gossip, hates the idea of being the guy everyone whispers about over pancakes at the Main Street diner.
It’s 92 degrees on the August Saturday he breaks that rule, the air thick with clover and the sweet rot of overripe peaches at the downtown Boise farmers market. He’s halfway to his truck with a half-bushel of Elbertas when he spots Mara Carter’s salsa booth, the hand-painted wooden sign propped up next to stacks of mason jars full of red and green salsa, jalapenos strewn across the folding table. Mara is 52, ex-wife of his old crew chief Pete, who divorced her four years ago and has badmouthed her to every guy they know ever since. Clay’s avoided her booth for three years, but Elaine used to drive 45 minutes every Saturday just for Mara’s peach salsa, would eat it straight out of the jar with a spoon when she was going through chemo and nothing else tasted right.
He hesitates at the edge of the booth for 10 full seconds before she looks up, wipes a streak of sweat off her forehead with the hem of her faded linen button-down, and grins. She’s got sun-streaked brown hair shot through with gray at the temples, freckles across her nose, and a faint scar on her left cheek from a horseback riding accident when she was 16. “Thought you were avoiding me, Bennett,” she says, wiping her hands on her jeans. Her fingers are stained red from chopping tomatoes, a thick callus on the pad of her thumb from dicing jalapenos eight hours a day.
Before he can answer, the sky splits open. Thunder rumbles so loud it vibrates in his molars, cold rain pouring down so hard it stings his exposed arms. Everyone around them scrambles to pack up their booths, coolers sliding across wet asphalt, kids screaming as they run for cover. Clay doesn’t think before he grabs the two heavy coolers full of her jars, hefts them into the bed of her beat-up Ford Ranger like he’s still hauling fire hoses up a mountain. By the time they’re done loading, both of them are soaked to the bone, his tee shirt sticking to his shoulders, her hair plastered to her neck.
The Hitching Post, the dive bar two blocks over, is half empty when they duck inside, the smell of fried pickles and cheap beer wrapping around them like a blanket. They claim the last two stools at the far end of the bar, pressed close together so no one else can sit down, their knees brushing under the counter every time one of them shifts. The bartender slides them two frosty mugs of PBR, nods like he doesn’t see who they’re sitting with, and disappears to help a group of construction workers at the other end.
Mara laughs when she spots a smudge of red salsa on his left cheek, leans in without thinking, her thumb brushing the rough stubble on his jaw as she wipes it off. He can smell coconut shampoo and rain on her shirt, sharp and sweet under the bar’s permanent scent of grease and hops. The contact is so quick, so casual, but Clay’s skin tingles where she touched him, his throat going dry. He’s spent three years deliberately avoiding any kind of physical contact with women that isn’t a hug from a friend’s wife at a holiday party, and the sudden jolt of desire hits him so hard he almost knocks over his beer.
The conflict sits heavy in his chest for the next 20 minutes, as they talk over the jukebox blaring Johnny Cash’s greatest hits, the rain hammering the tin roof so loud they have to lean in to hear each other, their shoulders pressed together now. On one hand, he knows Pete would raise hell if he found out they were even sitting together, knows half the town will talk if they see him leave the bar with her, knows he’ll lie awake that night feeling like he’s betraying Elaine by even enjoying the sound of Mara’s laugh. On the other, she’s the first person in three years who hasn’t tiptoed around the subject of Elaine, who doesn’t look at him like he’s a broken toy every time he mentions her.
She tells him she volunteers at the same cancer support group he went to for six months after Elaine died, that she lost her sister to ovarian cancer two years back, that she used to bring Elaine jars of salsa when she was going through chemo, even though Pete told her not to. “I knew you were avoiding the booth,” she says, her knee pressing firmer against his under the bar, her eyes locked on his, no hesitation. “I just figured you’d come around when you were ready.”
Their hands brush when they both reach for the bowl of salted peanuts on the bar at the same time, and this time Clay doesn’t pull away. He laces his fingers through hers, her palm calloused and warm against his, the scar on his forearm tingling like it always does when he’s about to do something a little reckless, a little worth the risk. He asks her if she wants to get dinner at the taco truck down the street when the rain lets up, no strings attached, no pressure, just two people who know what it feels like to lose someone you love. She says yes before he’s even finished the sentence, grinning so wide the dimples in her cheeks show.
The rain stops 15 minutes later, the sun peeking through the clouds, painting the parking lot pink and gold when they walk outside. She stops by the door of her truck, reaches into the passenger seat, pulls out a jar of peach salsa, hands it to him. Her fingers linger on his for three beats too long when he takes it, the glass cool against his palm. He tucks the jar into the pocket of his flannel shirt, which he’d draped over his arm when they left the bar, and watches her pull out of the parking lot, her hand waving out the window as she turns onto Main Street. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, texts her the address of the taco truck, and leans against the bed of his own truck, taking a slow breath of the rain-wet air, the smell of clover and peach salsa drifting up from his pocket.
