Rafe Mendez, 59, retired wildland firefighter crew lead, had avoided the annual Darby, Montana, community fair for six straight years. The only reason he showed up this time was his great-nephew Jax begged him to be in the stands for his mutton busting run, and Rafe had never been able to say no to that kid’s gap-toothed grin. He’d lingered long enough to clap so hard his palms stung when Jax took second place, slipped the kid a $20 bill for snow cones, then peeled off toward the quiet end of the fairgrounds where the craft booths huddled away from the roar of the Tilt-a-Whirl and the thick, greasy smell of fried cheese curds. He was just about to head back to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150 when the scent of wild huckleberry hit him, sharp and sweet, exactly like the jam his wife Elara used to simmer on their wood stove every August before she died in a 2016 car crash.
He stopped in front of the booth lined with mason jars glinting in the golden late afternoon sun, and the woman behind the counter looked up from labeling a jar of strawberry rhubarb and smiled. Rafe knew who she was: Lila Marlow, 48, ran the small u-pick berry farm three miles west of his property, had moved to town two years prior after her ex-husband left her for a waitress in Missoula. The whole town had gossiped about it for months, and Rafe had tuned most of it out, too busy trimming trees and cutting firewood to pay attention to other people’s business. He’d seen her a handful of times at the grocery store, though, had noticed the streak of silver running through the front of her dark brown hair, the way she laughed so hard her eyes crinkled shut when the cashier made a bad joke.
“Looking for something specific, or just browsing?” she asked, wiping her hands on the faded blue flannel shirt tied around her waist. The sleeves were rolled up, showing freckled forearms dotted with tiny scratches from berry thorns. Rafe shifted his weight, the worn leather of his work boots scuffing the gravel underfoot. He’d gotten so used to only speaking to gas station attendants and Jax over the past few years that small talk felt foreign, clumsy, like he was fumbling with a stuck fire hose in zero-degree weather.
“Used to make huckleberry jam with my wife,” he said, nodding at the stack of jars filled with deep purple preserves. “Haven’t found any that tastes right since she passed.” Lila’s smile softened, no pity in it, just quiet recognition, and Rafe felt a tightness in his chest he hadn’t expected. She reached under the counter, pulled out a small sample jar with a plastic spoon stuck in the lid, and held it out. He reached for it at the same time she did, and their hands brushed: hers was warm, softer than he expected, even with the callus on her index finger from holding pruning shears all day. The jolt that ran up his arm was so sharp he almost dropped the jar.
He fumbled for the spoon, scooped out a bite, and it tasted exactly like Elara’s, sweet and tart, like summer and pine and the rain-scented air after a thunderstorm. He didn’t realize he was smiling until Lila laughed, leaning across the counter a little, and he caught the faint scent of lavender laundry soap and berry juice on her shirt. The neckline of her white tank top slipped a fraction, and he spotted a tiny, dark freckle just above her collarbone before he looked away, heat rising up the back of his neck. He’d not looked at a woman that way in seven years, and he felt a sharp, stupid twist of guilt, like he was cheating on Elara, even though he knew she’d tell him he was being an idiot for closing himself off for so long.
They talked for 20 minutes, the noise of the fair fading into a low background hum. She told him about a black bear that kept breaking into her berry patches this summer, he told her about the time he and his old crew had to outrun a 30-foot wall of flame outside of Salmon, Idaho, back in 2012. She kept leaning in closer every time she spoke, until their faces were only a foot apart, and she held eye contact long after each sentence was done, like she was really listening, like what he had to say mattered more than the people coming up to the booth asking for samples. A group of local church ladies walked past, and he saw them glance over, eyebrows raised, and he almost pulled away, almost made an excuse to leave, but Lila didn’t even seem to notice them. She just kept talking, grinning when he made a dry joke about the town’s obsession with everyone else’s love life.
“Last of the crowd’s heading out,” she said, glancing over his shoulder at the emptying fairgrounds as the sun dipped below the Bitterroot Mountains, painting the sky streaks of pink and tangerine. “I’m closing up in 10. There’s a creek down at the edge of the property, no one goes there during the fair. Wanna walk? I got a cooler of hard seltzer in my truck, if you’re interested.” Rafe hesitated for half a second, all the old excuses popping up: he had to get home to feed his hound dog, he had a load of firewood to split early the next morning, people would talk. Then he looked at her, the way she was biting her lower lip a little, waiting for his answer, and he nodded.
She locked up the booth, slung a canvas tote bag over her shoulder, and they walked side by side down the dirt path to the creek, their shoulders brushing every few steps. The air had cooled down, sharp with pine and the faint smell of wood smoke from someone’s nearby campfire, crickets chirping in the tall grass on either side of the path. When they got to the creek, she sat down on a flat, smooth rock, patting the spot next to her, and he sat, their knees pressing together through their jeans, neither of them moving away. She pulled two seltzers out of the tote, handed him one, and their fingers brushed again, this time on purpose.
He didn’t know who leaned in first, but one minute they were talking about the best time of year to pick huckleberries, the next her lips were on his, soft, tasting like strawberry jam and mint gum. His calloused hand cupped her jaw, and she tangled her fingers in the short gray hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and he forgot all about the guilt, forgot all about the town gossip, forgot every stupid reason he’d given himself for staying alone for the past seven years.
They stayed there for an hour, talking slow, kissing every few minutes, until the first firework burst above the treeline, bright red, lighting up the whole creek bed. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her tight, like he was scared she’d vanish if he let go. He made a mental note to drop off a load of free, seasoned oak firewood at her farm next week, before the first frost hit, knew she’d need it for her kitchen stove to simmer jam through the winter. A burst of gold fireworks reflected in her eyes when she turned to smile up at him, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to end.
