Rafe Murillo is 58, retired wildland fire crew boss, left the job three years prior after a rotator cuff tear put him on light duty that felt like a personal insult. His only hard rule for the past decade was avoiding every county-sponsored event on the books—he still carried a chip the size of a ponderosa pine against the board that denied his late wife Lila’s experimental cancer coverage back in 2013, had thrown three of their official mailers directly into his wood stove unopened. The only reason he’s leaning against a chipped folding table at the county summer food fair right now is his 16-year-old granddaughter Marnie begged him to man her FFA tamale booth while she ran to the port-a-potty, so he’d caved, stuffed his usual scowl in the back of his mind for her sake.
The air smells like fried oreos, charred carne asada, and pine drifting down from the national forest edge a half mile out. A mariachi trio plays off-key on the bandstand, kids scream as they chase each other through the crowd with glow sticks, and the asphalt under his scuffed work boots is soft enough from the 87-degree heat that he can feel the tackiness through the thin soles. He’s just stacking a fresh pile of corn husk wrappers when a woman’s low, warm voice pulls his gaze up, and his jaw tightens so fast he hears a click in his molars.
It’s Clara Voss, 54, current county administrator, the only member of that 2013 board still in local government. He’d only seen her in grainy news clips and official meeting photos before, but he’d recognize that sharp, blunt bob and the scar slashing through her left eyebrow anywhere. She’s wearing faded denim overalls over a plain white tee, no blazer, no fancy makeup, has a smudge of bright red cherry pie filling streaked across the line of her jaw, and when she holds out a hand to introduce herself to the FFA vendors, he can see calluses on her palm, dirt under her fingernails, not the polished, fake nails he’d pictured. He doesn’t reach for her hand at first, his whole body tensed like he’s staring down a fast-moving grass fire, but a seven-year-old in a dinosaur costume barrels past, knocks a stack of paper takeout trays off the edge of the table, and they both lunge for them at the same time. Their hands brush, hers cool from holding a cold can of seltzer, and he feels a jolt shoot up his arm that has nothing to do with anger.
She blinks, holds up the half-caught stack of trays, and says she remembers him, remembers Lila, how she brought peach pies to every fire station within 20 miles every August, how she’d sat in three separate board meetings begging for coverage, how Clara had voted for it, fought the other four members for an hour after the meeting adjourned, quit the board entirely three weeks later when they refused to revisit the decision, only came back to the county job last year to push through a new rule covering all experimental care for local residents. He stares at her, dumbfounded, for ten full seconds, the anger he’s carried for a decade feeling suddenly heavy, misplaced, like holding a log that’s already burned through to ash.
The sky opens up without warning then, fat, cold raindrops slamming down so fast the crowd yelps, scrambling to cover their booths with tarps. A gust of wind catches the corner of Clara’s pie booth tent, yanks the stake out of the ground, and he moves before he thinks, jogging over to grab the flapping pole, holding it down while she fumbles for a new stake and a mallet. They’re huddled under the edge of the tent while the rain pours, shoulders pressed tight together, the thin flannel of his shirt sticking to his skin where it touches hers, and he can smell lavender shampoo in her hair, the sweet, buttery scent of cherry pie drifting out from under the tarp covering her pies. She looks up at him, her brown eyes bright with rain, and he doesn’t think, just lifts his thumb, wipes the smudge of cherry filling off her jaw. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just holds his gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching up into a small, knowing smile.
The rain stops as fast as it started, leaving the air smelling like wet grass and diesel, a rainbow stretching faint over the forest line. Marnie runs back, her hair sticking up in damp clumps, asks if he wants a pork tamale, extra salsa. He says he’ll be right back, walks over to Clara’s booth, and she’s already cutting a slice of cherry pie, sliding it across the counter to him with a dollop of fresh whipped cream on top, no charge. He takes a bite, sweet and tart on his tongue, and realizes he hasn’t felt this light since Lila died.
