Rico Marquez, 62, retired wildland fire crew lead, only hit the Bend area farmers market once a month at most, and only then for the sourdough loaf the old Mennonite couple baked in a wood-fired oven. He’d spent 28 years chasing blazes across the Pacific Northwest, his hands crisscrossed with scar tissue from falling embers and broken tree limbs, his left ear half-deaf from a backfire that exploded too close to his position in 2011, the same year his wife Elaina got her ovarian cancer diagnosis. Since she died eight years prior, he’d made a point of keeping to himself, convinced needing anyone else was a flaw he couldn’t afford. He avoided neighborhood cookouts, turned down invitations to fish with his old crew, even left his porch light off on Halloween so kids wouldn’t knock.
The market was louder than usual that Saturday, a bluegrass trio picking a fast tune near the entrance, the air thick with the smell of grilled sausage, cut clover, and ripe stone fruit. He was halfway back to his beat-up 2004 F-150, the sourdough tucked under one arm and a 12-inch cast iron skillet he’d picked up from the blacksmith booth held in the other, when his boot hit a puddle of spilled wildflower honey. He slipped, arms windmilling, and crashed shoulder-first into the edge of a stacked peach stand, sending three dozen perfectly ripe fruits rolling across the asphalt.
Heat crawled up his neck before he even looked up. He hated making a scene, hated being the center of attention even for 10 seconds. He set the skillet and sourdough down carefully, already kneeling to grab the peaches, when a soft laugh stopped him. “Easy there, fireman. Don’t go breaking your back over a few peaches.”
He looked up. The woman running the stand was leaning against the rough cedar support, sun gilding the auburn streaks in her dark brown hair, her work boots caked in garden mud, the sleeves of her linen work shirt rolled up to show freckled, calloused forearms. He’d seen her before, lived three properties down from him on the dirt road that cut through the pine trees, had watched her pull weeds in her vegetable garden at dusk more than once, but he’d never stopped to say hello. He’d always assumed she was married, or would find him too gruff to bother with.
He mumbled an apology, already reaching for a fuzzy golden peach at the same time she did. Their hands brushed, the soft fuzz of the fruit caught between their palms, and he froze for half a second. Her skin was warm, a faint smudge of dirt on her thumb, and he could smell jasmine perfume mixed with the sweet, heady scent of the peaches all around them. She didn’t pull away fast, her hazel eyes flecked with gold holding his, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “You’re Rico, right? The guy who fixes his truck in his driveway at 7 a.m. every Saturday. I’m Lila. I’ve been leaving extra peaches on your fence post for a month. You never said anything.”
He blinked, heat rising higher. He’d thought the peaches were left by some kid playing a prank, had thrown the first two away before he started leaving them on his counter to ripen, eating them over the sink while he drank his morning coffee. He’d even used a few to make a cobbler a week prior, had eaten the whole pan by himself over three days. “I didn’t know they were from you,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “I thought… I don’t know. Stray deer, maybe.”
She laughed again, loud and bright, cutting through the noise of the market. A few regulars glanced over, and Rico tensed, half-worried someone he knew would see him talking to her and spread gossip around the tiny town, half-giddy at the idea that everyone would know he wasn’t just the reclusive widower who never left his property. That internal war tugged at him, the old, hard part of his brain sneering that he was being stupid, that letting someone in would only lead to more grief he couldn’t survive, and the newer, softer part that ached for someone to talk to, someone who didn’t see him as only the guy who survived fires and lost his wife.
She picked up the biggest peach on the stand, wiped it off on the edge of her apron, and held it out to him. “On the house. To make up for you almost breaking your neck on that honey spill.” He took it, his fingers brushing hers again, and took a big bite. Sweet juice ran down his chin, dripping onto the front of his faded fire department hoodie, and he swore under his breath, reaching for the back of his hand to wipe it off before she did it first, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, soft and deliberate.
He didn’t pull away. He stood there, peach juice sticky on his chin, the bluegrass band playing a slower, twangy love song now, the smell of peaches and jasmine wrapping around him, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel the urge to run. He told her he had a grill on his back porch, that he had fresh corn in his fridge and the cast iron skillet he’d just bought to make cobbler, if she wanted to come over that night. She said yes, pulling a pen out of her overalls pocket, scribbling her phone number on a crumpled brown paper bag, tucking it into the front pocket of his work flannel.
He picked up his sourdough and his skillet, grabbed the bag of peaches she handed him for the cobbler, and walked back to his truck. The paper bag crinkled against his chest, the peaches heavy and warm in his other hand, the faint tingle of her thumb on his jaw still lingering even as the warm mountain wind blew through his graying hair.
