Mose Thorne is 61, spent 34 years as a U.S. Forest Service fire spotter manning the remote Mount Storm King tower in Olympic National Forest. His wife Ellie died in 2016 when her car slid off an icy forest service road, mid-trip to bring him his favorite pecan pie for their 25th anniversary. He retired six months later, bought a two-bedroom cabin outside Port Angeles, and has spoken to more wild deer than people in the seven years since. His old ranger buddy Jeb showed up at his door three days before the annual fall harvest pop-up at The Sawmill Tavern, shoved a free beer ticket in his hand, and threatened to leave a dozen feral barn cats on his porch if he didn’t show. Mose hated cats. He showed up.
The tavern was packed when he got there, string lights strung across exposed rafters, the air thick with the smell of smoked brisket, dill fried pickles, and pine-scented candles set on every scuffed Formica table. He grabbed his beer from the bar, wedged himself into a corner by the back exit, and planned to finish the pilsner in 10 minutes flat before bolting for his truck. Then the crowd shifted, and he spotted her behind a folding table stacked with frosted amber glass bottles.
Clara Maeve, 58, runs the Wild Root Apothecary on Main Street. He’d seen her a handful of times when he drove into town for chicken feed, but he’d never spoken to her, had always looked away quickly when their eyes met. She wore a faded olive flannel, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, freckles dusting her nose, a thick streak of silver running through the dark brown braid slung over her shoulder. When she looked up and caught him staring, she didn’t glance away. She smiled, wiped her hands on her worn denim jeans, and walked over holding a small plastic cup of golden liquid.
“Try my new wild blackberry mead,” she said when she got close enough that he could smell clover honey and crushed sage on her clothes. She was standing so close his forearm brushed hers when he reached for the cup, close enough he could see the tiny laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes. He took the cup, his calloused fingers brushing hers, and sipped. It was sweet but not cloying, with a sharp, bright bite of berry at the finish. It was better than any drink he’d had in years, even the homebrewed stout he and Jeb used to make in the tower basement.
“Good,” he said, surprising himself by meaning it. He told himself he was just being polite, that he didn’t care that she leaned against the cinder block wall next to him, that their shoulders pressed firm together when a group of teens carrying heaping plates of cornbread squeezed past. He told himself it was wrong, that he was betraying Ellie, that he was too old for the stupid, fluttery feeling building in his chest, the same nervous buzz he’d gotten the first time he’d asked Ellie out to the local drive-in back in 1989.
They talked for 20 minutes, at first about the mead, then about the forest, then about the time she got lost hiking up Mount Storm King when she was 22. He told her he’d been manning the tower that year, that he’d been the one who spotted her bright red rain jacket through the fog and radioed her location to search and rescue. She laughed, a low, warm sound, and clapped her hand on his bicep, leaving it there a full second longer than necessary. “I owe you my life, then,” she said, looking at him in a way that made the tips of his ears burn.
That’s when the panic hit. He mumbled a half-assed excuse about feeding his chickens, grabbed his truck keys out of his jacket pocket, and turned to leave. She caught his wrist before he could take two steps, her fingers wrapping around it firm but not tight, the calluses on her palm from digging up plant roots rough against his skin, still rough from decades of climbing tower ladders and chopping firewood.
“Wait,” she said. “I’ve been trying to find someone who knows the forest well enough to show me where the wild blueberry patches are up above Lake Crescent. I need them for a limited-edition mead for the holiday market. Would you… would you be up for taking me sometime? I’ll pay you, and bring as much pecan pie as you can eat.”
Mose froze. Pecan pie was Ellie’s favorite, the one she’d been carrying the day she died. For a split second he felt sick, like he was doing something unforgivable. Then he looked at her, at the way she was biting her lower lip, nervous like she already expected him to say no, and he realized Ellie would have yelled herself hoarse at him for wasting seven years sitting alone in his cabin, rotting while the world kept turning.
“9 a.m. next Saturday,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at your shop. Don’t wear nice shoes. The trail’s muddy this time of year.”
She grinned, pulled a crumpled napkin out of her back pocket, scribbled her cell number on it in bright blue ink, and pressed it into his palm. Her fingers lingered on his for three slow beats, long enough that the warmth of her skin seeped into the lines of his hand. “I’ll bring extra pie,” she said.
He drove home slowly, windows rolled down, cool fall air blowing in off the strait, the napkin folded tight in the pocket of his worn work jacket. When he got inside, he set the bottle of mead he’d bought from her on the kitchen counter, next to the framed photo of Ellie on their wedding day, grinning and covered in cheap confetti. He unfolded the napkin, typed her number into his beat-up flip phone, and sent a text that just said Mose. 9 a.m. Saturday. A minute later, his phone buzzed. Can’t wait, it read, followed by a tiny honey bee emoji.
He poured a few fingers of mead into a chipped mason jar, sat down at the kitchen table, and took a slow sip. Outside, a great horned owl hooted from the pine tree at the edge of his property, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel the heavy, empty quiet of being alone.
