Clay Bennett, 57, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, has worn the same faded red flannel to the Ada County Fair smoked brisket contest every year since he moved to Boise. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2018 wildfire, a photo of his late wife Diane tucked in the breast pocket, and a stubborn streak a mile wide that’s kept him from so much as sharing a burger with another woman since Diane died of ovarian cancer eight years prior. He’s here as a guest judge, plate piled high with fatty, peppery brisket, boots crusted in rodeo arena dirt, when he turns for a napkin and slams straight into someone holding a cup of iced lavender lemonade.
The cold drink seeps through the flannel over his bicep, and he huffs a laugh before he looks up. He’d recognize that chipped mint green nail polish, that smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, anywhere. Marnie Hale, 54, who worked summer trail crew for his district back in 1996, who was married to his supervisor’s son at the time, who Diane had teased him for staring at so hard he’d tripped over a fallen aspen on a routine patrol. Back then, Diane had made him swear he’d never be alone with her, had called her reckless, the kind of woman who’d break a steady man’s routine for fun. Clay had avoided her for the rest of that summer, had written her off as off-limits, a temptation he had no right to indulge.
She dabs at the wet spot on his sleeve with a crumpled paper napkin, her hand warm even through the damp fabric, and he can smell vanilla and cut grass on her, the faint sweet tang of the peach pie she’s carrying in a wicker basket to enter in the baked goods contest. She teases him for still wearing flannel in 90 degree heat, for still holding his brisket plate like he’s afraid someone’s gonna steal it, and he finds himself laughing before he can stop himself. They end up at the same splintered picnic table, the hum of the fair rides and the crackle of the nearby barbecue pit filling the space between them, and when she leans in to hear his story about his seven-year-old grandson sneaking a goldfish into the old ranger station water cooler last month, her knee brushes his under the table. He can feel the heat of her leg through his worn denim, and he freezes for half a second, half ready to jump up and leave, half wanting to press closer.
He tells himself he shouldn’t be here. That Diane would be mad, that Marnie’s still the kind of woman he’s supposed to stay away from, that letting himself want anything right now is a betrayal of the 32 years he had with his wife. But Marnie doesn’t push, doesn’t flirt too hard, just tells him about moving back to town to take care of her mom, who’s got early stage dementia, about opening a tiny pie shop on 13th Street, about how her second husband died in a backcountry skiing accident five years ago, how she’s been sleeping on a couch in the back of the shop for six months because she can’t stand the quiet of a house alone. She holds eye contact a beat longer than polite every time he speaks, like she’s actually listening, like his stupid stories about trail maintenance and his grandson’s soccer games matter. The sun dips below the treeline, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and the fair neon flickers to life, hot pink and electric blue painting the side of her face.
She asks him if he wants to walk down to the Boise River, away from the crowds and the loudspeaker announcements, and he hesitates for three full seconds, his hand brushing the photo of Diane in his pocket. He can still hear her voice, 27 years prior, teasing him about his little crush, telling him to stay away. Then he nods.
The gravel crunches under their boots as they walk, the distant roar of the fair crowd fading behind them, replaced by the gurgle of the river and the chirp of crickets in the brush. Halfway down the bank, her hand brushes the back of his, calloused from rolling pie crust and chopping peaches, and she laces their fingers together before he can overthink it. He doesn’t pull away. She tilts her chin up, and he leans down, kisses her soft at first, then deeper, the taste of peach iced tea on her lips, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, her thumb brushing the old scar he got from a falling pine when he was 42. All that guilt, all that stubborn insistence that he didn’t deserve to feel anything good again, melts away for a minute, like butter on warm pie crust.
They pull back, and she grins, says she saved the best peach pie from her entry batch, stashed in a cooler in her truck, no one else has to know if he wants to split it with her. He smiles, a real, unforced smile he hasn’t let himself have in years, and squeezes her hand. They turn back toward the parking lot, their shoulders brushing as they walk, the neon fair lights painting streaks of pink and blue across the gravel at their feet.
