Ronan O’Malley, 61, spent 29 years as a forest fire spotter for the Olympic National Forest, perched 80 feet up in pine towers for 12-hour shifts, scanning the treeline for the first wisp of smoke that could turn into a blaze. His biggest flaw, the one he’d never admit out loud, is that he’s spent the 12 years since his wife Elaine passed from ovarian cancer actively avoiding any connection that didn’t involve cutting cedar or reconditioning old aluminum canoes. He’d convinced himself any new warmth would be a betrayal, a stain on the 28 years they’d had together. He only left his cabin outside Port Angeles twice a week: once for groceries, once for the low-key bluegrass jam at The Salty Spur bar, where he never stayed longer than an hour.
The annual Port Angeles Seafood and Artisan Festival wasn’t on his usual calendar, but his old neighbor had begged him to help haul crab pots for the rotary club booth, so he’d showed up in faded Carhartts, work boots caked in mud, a flannel shirt unbuttoned over a worn white undershirt. The air smelled like grilled salmon, fried calamari, and briny salt off the Strait of Juan de Fuca, kids screaming as they chased each other with cotton candy sticks, a bluegrass band plucking a fiddle in the far corner of the park. He’d finished hauling the pots by 2 p.m., his throat scratchy from wind and dust, so he veered toward the honey stand tucked between a jewelry booth and a guy selling hand-carved cutting boards.
He didn’t recognize Marnie Carter at first, not until she looked up from labeling jars of wildflower honey and laughed, a low, throaty sound he hadn’t heard in 15 years. She was 58, ex-wife of his old fire crew partner Jake, the woman he’d carried a quiet, unspoken crush on for decades, back when both of them were married, when the four of them would go camping in the national forest every summer. Her dark hair had streaks of silver pulled back in a braid, there was a tiny laugh line crinkling at the corner of her left eye, the same scar above her eyebrow from when she’d tripped over a root on a hike in 2007. She leaned across the wooden stand, her forearms resting on the weathered planks so close to his he could smell the lavender soap she used, the faint, sweet scent of clover honey clinging to her clothes.
“Ronan O’Malley. I’d know that scowl anywhere,” she said, her gaze locking onto his, no hesitation. He froze for half a second, his brain scrambling for a response that didn’t sound like a nervous teenager. He reached for the jar of honey she held out, his calloused fingers brushing hers, and he yanked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire, heat crawling up his neck. Part of him screamed that this was wrong: this was Jake’s ex, he was supposed to still be grieving Elaine, he had no business feeling a jolt run up his arm from a single accidental touch. The other part of him, the part he’d buried for 12 years, lit up like a match.
They talked for 45 minutes, standing there next to the honey stand, people brushing past them with paper plates of food. She told him Jake had moved to Arizona three years prior, remarried a retired schoolteacher, they barely spoke. She’d retired from ER nursing two years ago, kept 12 beehives on her property outside town, sold honey and homemade mead at local festivals. When she mentioned she remembered how he’d bring her wild blackberries from the fire tower access road back in the day, how he took his coffee black no sugar, how he hated the sound of plastic straws crinkling, his chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing his heart. No one had remembered those tiny details about him since Elaine died.
When the festival started wrapping up, the sun dipping low over the Strait painting the sky pink and orange, she wiped her hands on her jeans and bit her lower lip, her hand resting on the stand two inches from his, so close he could feel the heat coming off her skin. “I got a porch with a perfect view of the water,” she said, her voice quieter now, no teasing edge. “Got a batch of mead I just bottled last month. You should come over. No pressure. We can just talk, if you want.”
He almost made an excuse. Almost said he had to feed his cat, even though he didn’t own a cat, almost said he had to finish sanding a canoe he was working on, almost turned and walked back to his truck like he’d done every other time he felt the smallest hint of connection in the last 12 years. But he looked at her, at the way she was waiting, no expectation on her face, like she’d understand if he said no, and he nodded.
He stopped at his cabin on the way, grabbed a jar of blackberry jam he’d canned the previous summer, wrapped it in a paper towel. When he pulled up to her house, she was already on the porch, holding two glasses, string lights strung above the Adirondack chairs, the air smelling like cinnamon and apple from the pie she had cooling on the windowsill. He sat down next to her, and when she passed him the cold glass of mead, her shoulder brushed his, and he didn’t pull away. He lifted the cool glass to his lips, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting to stay.
