Clay Bennett, 58, retired wildland firefighter and owner of a one-man tree trimming service outside Missoula, had not set foot at the town’s annual summer beer fest in seven years. Not since his wife, Lila, had collapsed mid-laugh on the fairgrounds with a brain aneurysm no one saw coming. His greatest flaw was the brick wall he’d built around himself so thick even his old fire crew could barely chip through it, convinced any interest in another woman was a betrayal, convinced the entire town would whisper about him the second he so much as smiled at someone who wasn’t Lila. Post-pandemic, the small town gossip mill had run overtime, everyone starved for drama after two years of shut-in routines, so he’d avoided every community event like they served only spoiled beer and pity.
He was only there now because Jimmie, his former crew chief, had shown up at his workshop at 3 PM with a case of his favorite huckleberry lager and threatened to tow his work truck if he didn’t come. Clay had caved, mostly to get Jimmie off his back, and had planted himself by the fried onion truck an hour later, nursing a cold pint and ignoring every over-friendly greeting from people he’d known for 30 years. The plastic cup was slick with condensation, the air thick with the smell of charred bratwurst and pine drifting down from the mountains.
He stepped back to avoid a kid sprinting past with a corn dog dripping mustard, and his shoulder collided with someone hard enough to slosh half an inch of beer over the rim of his cup. The liquid splattered across the forearm of a woman in a worn linen button-down and jeans, cuffs rolled up to her calves, scuffed work boots on her feet. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” he said, grabbing a handful of napkins from the sticky counter next to him and dabbing at the wet spot before he could think better of it. His knuckles brushed the soft skin of her wrist, and he froze for half a second, his own hands rough with decades of hauling chainsaws and climbing pine, against her own faintly calloused fingers, like she worked with her hands too.
She laughed, a low, warm sound that didn’t have that sharp, performative edge most people used when they were trying to be polite to the grieving widower. “No harm done. I’ve had far worse spilled on me at the shelter. Last week a foster puppy peed on my favorite flannel.” She held out a hand, and he shook it, her grip firm. “Mara. I run the town animal rescue. Moved here two years ago.” He met her eyes, hazel with flecks of gold, and she didn’t look away, held his gaze steady like she could see every stupid, conflicting thought running through his head.
He recognized her then. He’d seen her at the hardware store three times in the last month, hauling bags of concrete for new kennel runs, once carrying a tiny orange kitten in the pocket of her jacket. He’d stared a little longer than he should have each time, then kicked himself for it on the drive home. “Clay. Tree service.”
They leaned against the rail of the food truck for the next 45 minutes, talking over the roar of the crowd and the twang of the cover band playing on the stage a hundred yards away. She leaned in when he talked, not far enough to be obvious, just close enough that he could smell the vanilla in her shampoo and the faint, sharp scent of cherry seltzer on her breath. Her knee brushed his every time someone pushed past them on the walkway, and neither of them shifted away. He found himself telling her about the fire season of 2017, when his crew had spent 21 days straight on the line, and she didn’t cut him off to say how sorry she was for Lila, how hard that must have been, like everyone else did. She just asked if he’d ever gotten that scar on his jaw from a falling branch, and laughed when he said no, he’d gotten it trying to teach Lila to ride a dirt bike when they were 22.
The conflict kicked in slow, a low hum in the back of his head. He knew who her ex-husband was. Everyone did. He was the new mayor, the guy who’d cut the wildfire prevention budget by 40% that spring, who’d called Clay “overly dramatic” when he’d showed up to the town council meeting to yell about it. Half the town hated the mayor, half loved him, and anyone seen with his ex-wife would be front page of the local weekly by Monday. Worse, he felt that spark, the same flutter in his chest he’d felt the first time he’d kissed Lila in the back of his beat up Ford F-150 after a high school football game. He was disgusted with himself at first, like he was cheating, like he was throwing away 30 years of marriage for a pretty woman who liked rescue dogs. He almost left twice, almost made an excuse about a dead tree he had to take down first thing in the morning, but every time he tried, she’d say something that made him laugh, and he’d stay.
When the sun started to dip below the mountains, painting the sky orange and pink, she nodded toward the trail leading down to the creek that cut through the park. “Wanna get away from the noise?”
He didn’t even think about saying no. They walked the half mile trail, boots crunching on pine needles, and kicked off their shoes when they got to the bank, dipping their feet in the ice cold glacial melt that made him wince. She told him she’d left the mayor six months prior, after she found out he’d been embezzling park funds to pay for his re-election campaign, that she’d been scared to say anything because half the town thought he hung the moon. He told her about Lila, about how he’d spent seven years convinced he’d never feel anything but empty again, about how he’d almost skipped the beer fest entirely.
She shifted closer on the smooth river rock they were sitting on, and her pinky brushed his. He didn’t pull away. He laced his fingers through hers, calloused palm against calloused palm, and didn’t care if anyone from town walked by and saw, didn’t care about the gossip, didn’t care about the mayor or the budget cuts or the stupid rules he’d made for himself to keep from hurting.
He walked her to her beat up Subaru 20 minutes later, crickets chirping loud in the grass around them, and she grabbed his wrist before he could turn to leave. She pulled him down for a kiss, slow and soft, tasting like cherry seltzer and mint, and he wrapped one hand around the back of her neck, the other resting lightly on her hip, like he’d been doing it for years.
Somewhere down the street, a firework went off early, painting the underside of the pine boughs pink as he smiled against her lips.
