Rafe Mendez, 62, retired wildland firefighter crew boss, had spent the first three hours of the Boise foothills fire department’s annual summer barbecue hauling folding tables, flipping brisket patties, and enforcing his self-appointed rule that no cheap light beer made it into the stocked cooler. The scar slashing across his left forearm, a souvenir from the 2017 Pine Ridge blaze that nearly took half his crew, glowed pink under the 82-degree sun, dust from the gravel parking lot caked in the frayed cuffs of his work jeans. He’d gone eight years without so much as a casual flirtation since his wife Karen died of ovarian cancer, had convinced himself that any interest in another person was a betrayal of the 34 years they’d spent together, that the quiet isolation of his off-grid cabin was all he deserved. He was wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his arm when she stepped up to the cooler, close enough that he caught the sharp, sweet scent of coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum over the smell of charcoal and burnt hot dog buns.
She was Lena Hale, the new county clerk who’d moved to town six months prior, divorced, no kids, the kind of woman who kept her utility knife on her keychain and wore scuffed hiking boots to city council meetings. He’d only spoken to her twice before, both times when he’d dropped off fire department permit paperwork at her office, had noticed then how she held eye contact longer than most people, didn’t flinch at the scar on his arm or his gruff, no-nonsense tone. She reached past him for a black cherry seltzer, her elbow brushing the bare skin of his bicep, and he flinched like he’d touched a live wire. “Took you long enough to restock the good stuff,” she said, grinning, popping the tab on the can, and the sound of her laugh sent a weird, warm jolt up his spine that he hadn’t felt since Karen was alive. He hated himself for noticing the freckles across her nose, the way her sun-bleached blonde hair fell in a loose braid over her shoulder, the callus on her index finger from holding a pen all day.
They stood there for 20 minutes talking, first about the barbecue, then about the trail closures up in the foothills after the small spring mudslide, then about how the local diner had burned their pancakes three times in a row that week. When he passed her a bag of salt and vinegar chips, their fingers brushed, and he yanked his hand back so fast he spilled half his beer on the grass. Part of him wanted to grab his keys and bolt for his truck, lock himself in his cabin for a week, berate himself for even entertaining the stupid, selfish idea of being interested in anyone else. The other part couldn’t stop staring at her mouth when she talked, couldn’t stop leaning in a little closer when she told a story about rescuing a stray dog from the side of the highway the week before. She asked if he knew where the hidden swimming hole up the dirt road past the old fire lookout was, said she’d been trying to find it for months but kept getting lost on the unmarked trails. He knew that spot better than the back of his own hand, had swum there alone every Fourth of July since Karen died, had never told anyone else where it was.
The barbecue wound down as the sun dipped pink and orange over the foothills, most of the families loading up their kids and coolers, the grill master dousing the coals with a bucket of water that sent up a cloud of hissing steam. She leaned against the side of her beat-up 4×4, twisting the tab of her third seltzer, and asked if he wanted to show her the swimming hole that night, said she had a cooler of more seltzer in the back and nobody waiting up for her. He hesitated for 10 full seconds, thinking of the framed photo of Karen on his cabin fridge, thinking of the way all the old ladies at the church bake sale already whispered about him being a permanent, reclusive widower, thinking of how long it had been since he didn’t feel like he was just going through the motions of living. He nodded. The drive up the rutted dirt road took 15 minutes, the trail down to the pool another 10, the water so cold it made his teeth ache when he dipped a hand in. They sat on the smooth granite edge next to the water, their shoulders pressed tight together, the sound of crickets and distant frogs filling the silence, and when she leaned over and kissed him, he didn’t pull away. He tasted peppermint and cherry seltzer, felt her hand brush the scar on his forearm gentle, like she was touching something precious, not a reminder of the worst day of his life.
They stayed there until the full moon hung high over the pine trees, the water glinting silver, talking about nothing and everything, no awkward lulls, no heavy unspoken guilt hanging over them. He drove her back to her small bungalow downtown, the streetlights glowing amber as he pulled into her driveway, and she asked him to come in for coffee. He turned off the truck, grabbed his hat off the dashboard, and followed her up the front steps, his boots scuffing the weathered wooden porch.
