Rafe Ortega, 62, retired Albuquerque public works lineman turned small-scale Christmas tree farmer, had been dragged to the Flagstaff annual fall chili cookoff against his better judgment. His next door neighbor had showed up on his porch at 10 a.m. with a six pack of Coors Banquet and a threat to leave old produce in his truck bed if he didn’t stop hiding out on his 40 acre plot with only his border collie Mabel for company. Rafe had caved, but only after the neighbor promised no one would try to set him up with the recently widowed nurse from the urgent care, a rumor that had been floating around town for three months that made Rafe want to move to a cabin in the San Juans with no cell service.
He stood on the edge of the white canvas tent, paper bowl of green chili in one hand, half empty beer in the other, watching kids dart between picnic tables with sticky sno cone drips running down their wrists. The air smelled like cumin, cinnamon, burnt mesquite, and the sharp cold of upcoming October snow that hung low in the pines surrounding the fairgrounds. He was just mentally mapping his exit route, figuring he could slip out before the bluegrass band started their slow set, when a seven year old in a dinosaur costume barrelled toward him, holding a cup of cherry Kool Aid so full it was sloshing over the sides. Rafe stepped back fast, shoulder crashing into someone behind him, a dollop of pork green chili sloshing over the edge of his bowl onto the cream colored linen button down the woman was wearing.
“Christ, I’m so sorry,” he said, fumbling for a napkin in his jeans pocket, his face hot enough to match the Kool Aid the kid was now guzzling ten feet away. He’d been avoiding human contact for so long the simple act of bumping into someone felt like a felony.
The woman laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the crowd and the twang of the band tuning up. “Relax, I stained this shirt with red wine last week, chili’s a way better accessory.” She was 58 if he had to guess, streaks of silver in her dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of chili powder on her left cheek, calloused fingers brushing the stain on her shirt like it was no big deal. He learned fast her name was Clara, she’d moved to town three months prior to run the small public library downtown, she did woodworking in her garage on weekends, and she’d already eaten three bowls of chili that afternoon, each spicier than the last.
They stood at the edge of the tent for 45 minutes, talking over the noise of the crowd. She didn’t ask him about the nurse, didn’t mention the rumors she’d heard about the grumpy tree farmer who never came to town events, just laughed when he told the story about falling off a 30 foot power pole in 2011 because he’d skipped his safety harness to rush home and watch a Broncos playoff game, breaking his ankle in three places. She leaned in when he talked, elbow brushing his every time someone walked past them on the narrow path, her eye contact steady, no pity, no awkward “you poor thing” remarks, just teasing him for being an idiot who put football over not shattering his bones.
Rafe spent the whole time fighting two conflicting instincts: run to his truck and lock the doors, or lean in a little closer, see if the lavender he smelled in her hair was as soft as it seemed. It had been 15 years since his ex-wife left him for his 28 year old crew partner, 15 years of assuming he was too gruff, too set in his ways, too used to waking up at 5 a.m. alone to be worth anyone’s time. He kept telling himself this was just a friendly chat, that she’d get bored of his stories about tree blight and old lineman war stories and leave to talk to one of the younger, more put together guys from the fire department who kept glancing her way.
When the band struck up a slow, twangy waltz, a guy from the rotary club yelled into a mic asking for any couples brave enough to dance. Clara tilted her head, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile, and brushed her hand against his forearm, the callus on her thumb catching on the frayed edge of his flannel shirt. “You dance, tree farmer?”
He almost said no. Almost made up an excuse about his bad ankle acting up, almost lied and said he had to get home to feed Mabel. But then she squeezed his arm once, soft, and he nodded, letting her pull him into the open patch of dirt in front of the stage. His boots scuffed the dirt, he stepped on her work boot once two minutes in, and he was pretty sure his hands were sweating so bad they were leaving marks on her denim jacket, but she didn’t care. She pulled him a little closer when the chorus hit, her head almost resting on his shoulder, and he could smell that lavender again, under the chili and beer and pine smell, her hand warm and steady in his.
The song ended five minutes later, but neither of them moved for a second. When they stepped apart, Clara wiped the smudge of chili off his cheek with her thumb, the rough pad of her skin catching on his stubble. He walked her to her beat up 2008 Tacoma parked at the edge of the fairgrounds, his boots crunching on the gravel, and asked her if she wanted to come out to his farm next weekend, pick pumpkins from the patch he’d planted that spring, eat apple pie he’d baked himself with apples from the tree his mom planted in Taos back in 1972. She pulled a sparkly purple pen out of her purse, scribbled her phone number on a crumpled napkin, and pressed it into his palm, leaning up to kiss his cheek, her lips warm against his cold skin.
He stood there holding the napkin until her taillights disappeared around the curve of the dirt road, Mabel’s dog tag jingling in his pocket where he’d stuffed it that morning, the cold October wind nipping at his ears.
