Elias Voss, 62, retired forest fire spotter, had only agreed to show up to the Bend volunteer fire department’s annual fundraiser at the Mill Street Taphouse because his old crew had showed up on his cabin porch two days prior, bearing a six pack of his favorite IPA and a threat to hide all his favorite fire spotting binoculars if he bailed. He’d spent 38 years manning a 60-foot lookout tower deep in the Deschutes National Forest, living alone for weeks at a stretch, and the four years since his wife Helen passed had only hardened his preference for silence over small talk. His biggest flaw, if you asked his old crew, was that he’d convinced himself any spark of interest in anyone else was a betrayal of the 37 years he’d had with Helen, a sad, desperate grab at connection he was too old to indulge.
He leaned against the far back wall of the bar, work boots caked with pine sap, wool flannel frayed at the cuffs, half-empty beer sweating in his hand, and watched the crowd mill around. The air smelled like roasted salted peanuts, citrusy hops, and the weathered cedar the bar’s walls were built from, and a country cover band in the corner plucked through a slow, twangy version of a Johnny Cash song he’d danced to with Helen at their wedding. He’d planned to stay an hour max, slip out before anyone could corner him to ask the same tired questions about the 2002 Crater Lake fire he’d been the first to spot.
He didn’t see her coming until she was two feet away, holding a stack of worn leather-bound journals tied with twine. Mara Carter, 58, owned the used bookstore downtown, had a tattoo of a ponderosa pine peeking out from the cuff of her denim jacket, and he’d only spoken to her once before, six months prior, when he’d come in looking for old logging maps of the national forest. She leaned in to hand him the journals, and her shoulder brushed his, warm through the thin flannel, and he caught a whiff of lavender lotion and old yellowed paper, the same smell Helen used to have when she’d bring home armfuls of used books from garage sales. “Heard you’re the only guy in town who’d care about these,” she said, grinning, and her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, silver streaks in her dark hair catching the string lights strung across the bar. “Found them in an estate sale last week. Belonged to a fire spotter who worked your tower back in the 70s.”
Elias’s throat went dry. He flipped open the top journal, and the first page had a hand-drawn sketch of the view from his tower, the Three Sisters mountains peeking over the treeline exactly as he’d seen it every morning for 38 years. He reached for the journal’s cover, and his fingers brushed hers, calloused from turning book pages and stacking boxes, and he froze, half embarrassed, half furious at himself for how much that tiny jolt of contact made his chest feel tight. He told himself he was being an idiot, a sad old man leering at a woman who was just being nice, and he almost mumbled a thank you and turned to leave right then. But she didn’t pull her hand away for a full beat, just tilted her head, like she was waiting for him to say something.
He found himself telling her about the time a black bear had broken into his tower, stolen half his granola bars, and knocked over his coffee all over his own log books. She laughed, loud and bright, and rested her hand on his forearm for half a second when he described the bear sitting on the steps of the tower eating his granola like he owned the place. He didn’t flinch. For a second, he forgot to feel guilty for laughing, for enjoying the way she leaned in a little closer when he talked, like what he was saying was actually interesting, not just a boring old war story he’d told a hundred times.
They both reached for a peanut from the bowl on the stone ledge next to them at the same time, and their knuckles knocked together again, and this time she smiled, slow and teasing, like she knew exactly how flustered he was. “You know,” she said, nodding at the journals in his hand, “I’ve got a whole box of old national forest maps and guides back at the store. I’ve been meaning to sort through them, but I don’t know a ponderosa from a Douglas fir if it fell on me. Could use a second pair of eyes, if you’ve got time.”
Elias’s first instinct was to say no. To tell her he was busy, that he liked being alone, that he didn’t have time to hang around town sorting books with a stranger. But he looked at her, at the ink stain on her thumb, at the way she was biting her lip a little like she was nervous he’d say no, and the tight, guilty feeling in his chest softened. He’d spent four years shutting everyone out, convinced that feeling anything other than grief for Helen was wrong, that he didn’t deserve to have fun anymore, and for the first time, that felt stupid, not loyal.
“I’ve got time tomorrow,” he said, and he was surprised at how steady his voice was. “If you want to get coffee first, before we sort through the maps. There’s a place on Oak that makes the best cinnamon rolls west of the Cascades.”
She lit up, and she slipped her phone out of her pocket to swap numbers, and her shoulder pressed against his again as she typed his name into her contacts. The band switched to a faster song, and the crowd got louder, but he barely noticed, too focused on the way her thumb brushed the back of his hand when she handed him her phone to put his number in.
They stayed at the bar for another hour, talking about the journals, about her last road trip up to Washington to buy a collection of old nature books from a retired park ranger, about the time he’d hiked 12 miles in a snowstorm to get to a medical clinic when he’d sliced his hand open with an axe. When the fundraiser wrapped up, they walked out into the parking lot together, the night air crisp and cold, pine scent drifting down from the mountains on the breeze. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and he could feel the warmth of her through his flannel, the rough texture of her denim jacket against his wrist. When she leaned in to hug him goodbye, her hair brushed his cheek, and he could still smell lavender and old paper on her, and he found himself already counting the hours until he met her for coffee the next morning.
