Clay Bennett, 58, spent 32 years with the Idaho Forest Service, retiring after a wildfire burned three acres of his left forearm, leaving a scar that still tightens when the humidity drops. His wife Linda died of ovarian cancer seven years prior, and he’d filled every day since with splitting firewood, fixing up his 1998 F150, and avoiding any situation that might require small talk with a woman he found attractive. He’d convinced himself that any interest in someone new made him a disloyal widower, that the guys from his old crew would rib him into next week for chasing “drama” at his age. He’d shown up to the town Fourth of July fair only because Jake, his old crew chief, had begged him to bring the homemade dill pickles he’d been brining all spring.
He was leaning against the wooden support pole of the local bar’s pop-up tent, cold IPA in one hand, half-eaten corn dog in the other, when someone bumped his elbow hard enough to slosh beer down the front of his faded fire department hoodie. He looked down first, at the golden stain spreading across the gray fabric, then up, and met the eyes of Mara Hale. 56, owner of the native plant nursery on the edge of town, ex-wife of his former crewmate Tyler who’d moved to Montana three years prior, the subject of so much town gossip Clay had heard a dozen different versions of why she’d kicked Tyler out, most painting her as a cold, man-eating hellion who’d broken his old friend’s heart for fun. She was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a well-worn flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, sun streaks in her chestnut hair, a dirt smudge on the side of her jaw like she’d been planting right up until she showed up.
“Shit, my bad,” she said, grinning like she wasn’t sorry at all, and held out a napkin she pulled from her back pocket. Her forearm brushed his when she passed it over, warm from the July sun, and he caught a whiff of damp potting soil and peppermint lip balm, a scent that hit him like a punch to the chest, nothing like the lavender lotion Linda used to wear, sharp and alive. She didn’t step back after handing over the napkin, leaned her shoulder against the same pole, close enough that her bicep pressed against his scarred forearm when a group of screaming kids ran past chasing an ice cream truck. She offered to buy him another beer, and he hesitated, glancing over at the cornhole set where Jake and the rest of his old crew were watching, snickering like they’d placed bets on how fast he’d turn her down. He almost said no, almost made up an excuse about needing to get home to his hound dog, but then she raised an eyebrow, like she knew exactly what he was thinking, and he found himself nodding.
They talked for 40 minutes before the fireworks started, first about the fair, the terrible country cover band playing by the gazebo, the way the price of corn dogs had gone up a dollar since last year, then about the ponderosa pine saplings he’d been trying to plant on the south slope of his property, half of which had died after a late frost in May. She gave him specific, no-nonsense tips, told him to mulch with pine needles instead of store-bought bark, to plant them deeper than the nursery tag said, and he found himself leaning in, hanging on every word, laughing when she made a joke about the local hardware store selling “tree killer” fertilizer to every idiot who walked through the door. She gestured with her hands when she talked, calloused fingers, a silver pinecone ring on her index finger, dirt still crusted under her nails, and once, when she laughed so hard she snort-laughed at a story he told about a rookie firefighter who’d accidentally set his own boot on fire, her hand landed light on his knee, stayed there for three full seconds before she pulled it back, her cheeks going pink like she hadn’t meant to do it.
The first firework went off with a boom that shook the ground, red sparks exploding across the sky, and the crowd around them cheered so loud he could barely hear himself think. She leaned in, her mouth inches from his ear, and he could feel her warm breath against his neck, the faint tingle of peppermint on his skin. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for months,” she yelled over the noise, “Saw you carry that hit deer off the road back in January, sat with it until the animal control guy showed up. Knew you weren’t like every other asshole in this town who thinks I’m a villain just ‘cause I didn’t want to stay married to a guy who drank all my beer and forgot my birthday three years in a row.” He froze, his first instinct to pull back, to remember the gossip, to remember the guilt that had sat in his chest every time he’d even thought about asking a woman out since Linda died. But then he looked at her, the fireworks painting blue and gold streaks across her face, her eyes bright, and he realized he’d spent seven years punishing himself for something Linda would have laughed at him for. She’d told him a month before she died to find someone who made him laugh, not to mope around the cabin forever.
He didn’t care that the guys from his crew were watching, didn’t care that half the town would be talking about this by tomorrow morning. He leaned in, close enough that he could taste the peppermint on her breath when he spoke. “Wanna get out of here?” he asked, “I got those pine saplings at my place. You can show me how to plant ‘em right. And I got a six pack of that hazy IPA you like in the fridge.” She grinned, squeezed his forearm, and nodded. They walked past the cornhole set, Jake yelled a loud, teasing “Atta boy, Clay!” and he flipped him off over his shoulder, not even bothering to look back. She slid into the passenger seat of his F150, kicked her boots up on the dash, and turned the radio on, Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” blaring from the speakers. She hummed along, her hand resting light on his thigh as he pulled out of the fair parking lot, the distant boom of fireworks fading behind them.
