Ron Hargrove, 62, spent 32 years manning remote fire towers in the northern Sierra Nevada before he retired two years prior, and he carried the quiet, watchful stillness of that work with him everywhere. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d locked himself off from any casual warmth after his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer eight years earlier, framing even a passing smile from a stranger as a betrayal of the 34 years they’d spent together. He showed up to the VFW fish fry every Friday out of nothing more than habit, ordering the same breaded cod, extra tartar sauce, side of vinegar coleslaw, and sitting in the same scuffed vinyl corner booth far enough from the pool tables to avoid the rowdy younger guys just back from deployments.
The spring air seeping through the cracked window carried the sharp smell of melting snow and pine, and the jukebox in the corner spun a worn Merle Haggard record so loud the salt shaker on his table vibrated a little. He’d spent that morning replacing a rotted rail on his cabin’s front porch, and a thin, deep splinter of cedar was lodged under the skin of his left thumb, throbbing every time he picked up his fork. He fumbled it mid-bite, the tines clattering against his plate, and before he could reach for it, a woman he’d never seen before was sliding a fresh fork across the table, a paper napkin wrapped around the handle.
She was the new line cook, he realized, the one the bartender had mentioned moved up from Reno to take care of her sick mom. Her dark hair was pulled back in a frayed elastic, a smudge of flour on her jaw, and when she leaned over to set an extra ramekin of tartar sauce down, her shoulder brushed his, warm even through the thick flannel shirt he wore. She noticed him picking at the splinter, and before he could protest, she’d curled her fingers around his wrist to tug his hand closer. Her palms were calloused, smelled like lemon dish soap and fried batter, and he froze, his first instinct to yank his arm away, his throat tight with that familiar, sharp guilt of even letting a stranger touch him.
“Got tweezers behind the bar,” she said, her voice low and rough like she spent half her day yelling over fryer noise, and she didn’t push when he pulled his hand back slowly, just nodded and wandered off to clear a table of empty beer bottles. He watched her as he ate, the way she laughed when a kid dropped his fish stick and she handed him a fresh one for free, the tiny, pale scar slicing across her left cheekbone from what looked like an old skiing accident. He hadn’t let himself look at a woman that long in years, and he alternated between feeling disgusted with himself and that faint, foreign buzz of curiosity he’d thought was long dead.
When her shift ended an hour later, she slid into the booth across from him, a bottle of cheap lager in each hand, and set one down in front of him. “Marge said you never talk to anyone,” she said, grinning, and the corners of her hazel eyes crinkled so deep he could see the faint lines fanning out from them. She told him her name was Carla, she was 58, she’d worked as a pastry chef in Reno for 20 years before moving up, and she’d already chased a black bear off her mom’s back porch twice that month. He told her about the time a bear climbed the 70 steps to his fire tower landing and stole his entire cooler of beer, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and he didn’t even feel guilty when he smiled back.
By the time the bartender flipped the open sign to closed and mopped the last of the floors, the sun had dipped below the mountains, and light, fluffy snow was dusting the porch rail outside. They stood out there together, Carla fumbling in her jacket pocket for a cigarette, her hands shaking a little from the cold. He reached into his own pocket for the old Zippo Linda had gotten him for their 20th anniversary, flipped it open, and steadied the flame for her, his fingers brushing hers when she leaned in to light the end. He didn’t pull away this time.
He told her about Linda, about how he’d thought he’d never have a conversation that didn’t revolve around fire reports or cabin repairs ever again, how he’d felt like he was doing something wrong just sitting there talking to her. She nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke off to the side, and told him her ex husband had left her for a 28 year old yoga instructor three years prior, that she’d thought all men were selfish idiots until she watched him help a veteran in a wheelchair carry his dinner to his table earlier that night.
She leaned in a little then, her breath smelling like peppermint gum and beer, and kissed him, soft, no pressure, like she was giving him time to pull away if he wanted. He didn’t. It lasted three seconds, maybe four, and when she pulled back she was smiling, not pushing for anything else.
He walked her to her beat up old Ford pickup, and she leaned against the door, twisting her key ring around her finger. “I make sourdough pancakes on Saturday mornings,” she said. “If you want to stop by. No pressure, if you don’t.” He said he’d be there at 8. He stood on the sidewalk long after her taillights had faded around the curve of the road, the cold snow melting on his cheeks, and he touched his thumb where the splinter had been, the faint throb long gone. He kicked a loose chunk of ice off the curb, already mentally making a note to bring the jar of wild blackberry jam he’d canned last summer.
