Jake Marlow, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, has manned the homebrew booth at Silverton’s annual Fall Beer Fest for 12 straight years. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2011 grizzly encounter, a habit of chewing pine resin when he’s annoyed, and a stubborn streak a mile wide: he hasn’t so much as had coffee with a woman since his wife, Ellen, died of ovarian cancer seven years prior. He considers any flicker of attraction to anyone else a betrayal, even when it tugs at the back of his throat unbidden, even when the woman in question is the one who’s been making his life hell for six months.
The air reeks of roasted peanuts, fried cheese curds, and pine smoke when he spots her pushing through the tent crowd. Clara Bennett, 56, the town’s first new mayor in 18 years, the one pushing the wilderness preservation bill that Jake’s been yelling about at every town council meeting. He’d spent three decades cutting and maintaining the backcountry trails the bill’s supposed to close, and he’d stormed out of the last meeting when she’d cut him off mid-rant. He’d avoided her ever since, ducking down the cereal aisle at the grocery store when he saw her truck pull into the parking lot, pretending he didn’t hear her call his name at the hardware store.
She’s not in the frumpy blazer she wears to meetings tonight. She’s got on a faded plaid flannel rolled to her elbows, scuffed hiking boots caked with mud, and a thin silver chain around her neck that glints under the string lights strung across the tent. She leans against the edge of his booth, close enough that he can smell lavender lip balm over the sharp tang of hops in the air, and smirks like she knows he’s been avoiding her. “Spruce tip ale, please,” she says, nodding at the tap marked with a hand-drawn pine tree. “Heard you’ve been bragging it’s your best batch yet.”
Jake grunts, grabs a sample cup, and fills it halfway. He passes it across the counter, and their fingers brush when she takes it. His skin prickles. He yanks his hand back like he touched a hot stove, and she huffs a quiet laugh, sipping the ale. “You run faster than a spooked elk every time you see me,” she says, wiping a drop of beer off her chin with the back of her hand. “Thought you’d at least let me try your beer before you hide. For the record, I never wanted to close those old ranger trails. You never stayed long enough after the meetings to read the fine print.”
Jake blinks. He’d skimmed the first two pages of the bill, saw the “trail closure” header, and lost his cool. He’s embarrassed, heat creeping up his neck, and he doesn’t have a snappy comeback. Before he can say anything, a group of drunk 20-somethings from Denver jostle Clara from behind, and she stumbles forward into the booth. Jake reaches out on instinct, his hands wrapping around her waist to steady her. She’s solid, warm, the flannel soft under his palms, and she doesn’t step back when she finds her footing. Her hazel eyes are flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners like she’s laughing at him even when she’s not, and he realizes he’s still holding her. He lets go fast, but she stays close, her shoulder brushing his across the counter.
“I know Ellen was your whole world,” she says, quiet enough that no one else can hear over the roar of the crowd and the bluegrass band playing by the tent entrance. “I’m not trying to replace her. I just think you’ve been punishing yourself long enough. I like listening to your stories about the backcountry. I like that you leave sunflower seeds out for the chickadees at the town park. I’ve been waiting for you to stop being mad at me long enough to notice.”
Jake’s chest feels tight. He’s spent seven years convincing himself that wanting anything other than the quiet, lonely routine he’s built is wrong, that any flicker of desire is a slap in the face to the woman he spent 32 years married to. But standing there, with the smell of her lip balm in his nose and the sound of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” drifting through the tent—the song he and Ellen danced to at their wedding—he doesn’t feel guilty. He feels light, like a weight he didn’t know he was carrying just slipped off his shoulders.
He grabs a full pint glass, fills it to the brim with the spruce tip ale, and slides it across the counter to her. “Fest ends at eight,” he says, not meeting her eyes for half a second before he looks back up, stubborn as ever. “I got a cooler stowed by the picnic tables down by the river. We can talk about the bill, or we can not talk about work at all. Your call.”
Clara grins, picking up the pint, and this time she deliberately lets her fingers rest on his for three full beats before she pulls her hand away. “I brought a bag of those apple cider donuts from the farm stand on Route 55,” she says, tilting her head. “You mentioned once at a meeting that they’re your favorite. I’ll meet you there.”
She turns and walks back through the crowd, and Jake watches her go, the line of her hips swaying a little in her well-worn jeans. He reaches under the counter, grabs a cold six pack of the spruce tip ale he’d stashed earlier to take home alone, and tucks it next to his jacket to bring to the river.
