Elias Voss, 62, retired wildland hotshot crew boss, dragged his boots across the gravel parking lot of the town park like he was heading into a 100-foot flame line instead of the annual fire department fundraiser BBQ. He’d spent four years holed up in his off-grid cabin 10 miles outside town, only leaving for grocery runs or backcountry hikes, turning down every invitation from his old crew, convinced every friendly overture was pity for the guy whose wife died of ovarian cancer halfway through their 35th year of marriage. His old second-in-command Javi had shown up on his porch at 2pm that day, beer in hand, and practically dragged him out, saying the new 19-year-old recruits had begged to meet the legend who pulled a family of three from a burning Mount Hood cabin in 2017.
He leaned against the trunk of a gnarled oak at the edge of the crowd, holding a lukewarm Pabst, wearing his faded 2015 crew hoodie frayed at the cuffs and scuffed steel-toe boots. The air reeked of charred hamburger patties, hickory smoke from the cast iron grill, and pine blowing down from the surrounding woods. Kids shrieked on the playground slide, a local country band tuned up their guitars by the picnic tables, and he kept his eyes fixed on the dirt at his feet, avoiding small talk like it was poison oak.
The smell of cinnamon and ripe peaches hit him before she spoke. He looked up, and Marnie Hale was standing so close their elbows brushed when she held out a plastic tray of cobbler squares. 58, owner of the town’s community garden, he’d known her since 1994, when she married his crew mate Ray. She was wearing a sunflower print sundress that hit just above her knees, work boots caked in dark garden soil, silver hoop earrings, and a messy braid streaked with honey blonde that stuck out from under a frayed baseball cap. Freckles dark from summer sun dusted her nose, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she grinned.
“Took me six months of leaving okra on your porch to finally catch you in public,” she said, her voice warm, familiar, the same one that used to yell across campfire circles at end-of-season crew parties back in the 90s. He’d noticed the jars of pickled okra, heirloom tomatoes, and peach preserves on his porch step every other week, but he’d never worked up the nerve to thank her, convinced reaching out would cross some invisible line, that Linda would be disappointed he was leaning on someone she’d had coffee with every Saturday for 20 years.
He took a cobbler square, his fingers brushing hers. Her knuckles were rough, calloused from pulling weeds and turning soil, warm even against the cool plastic of the tray. The crust was flaky, the peaches sweet and still warm from the oven, and he made a quiet noise of approval that made her laugh. She leaned against the oak next to him, crossing her ankles, and said she and Ray had finalized their divorce two years prior, right before Linda got sick, she’d not said anything because she knew he had enough on his plate. A sharp, warm twist hit his gut, half guilt, half a spark of desire he hadn’t felt in four years, the quiet voice in his head screaming that this was wrong, that he didn’t get to be happy this soon, that everyone in town would talk.
The band struck up “Chattahoochee,” that old Alan Jackson track that had been everywhere on their 1993 fire season, the same one he and Linda had danced to at their wedding reception, the same one Marnie had slurred off-key around a campfire that year after three too many cheap beers. She held out her hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled. “C’mon,” she said. “You owe me at least one dance for all the produce I’ve hauled up your rutted dirt driveway.”
He hesitated for half a second, glancing around. No one was watching, most people were busy chasing kids or arguing over who brought the better potato salad. He laced his fingers through hers, her palm warm and a little sweaty, the calluses on her fingers matching his from decades of hard work. They swayed on the patchy grass, not too close at first, then she stepped in, resting her head on his chest for a beat, and he could feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of her dress, his hand settling light on her waist. The noise of the BBQ faded to a hum, the smoke curling up into the orange-pink sunset, and he realized the voice screaming he didn’t deserve this was just his own fear, that Linda had always told him to stop punishing himself for every bad thing that happened, that she’d rather he laugh again than rot alone in that cabin.
When the song ended, they wandered over to the split rail fence at the edge of the park and sat down. She pulled a cold mason jar of peach lemonade out of her canvas tote, twisted the lid off, and passed it to him. It was tart, sweet, cold enough to make his teeth ache. “I made wild blackberry jam last week,” he said, staring at the sun dipping below the pine treeline. “Got a couple ribeyes in the deep freeze. You could come over tomorrow, if you want. I’ll even tape a thank you note for the okra to the front door.”
She laughed, loud and bright, nudging his shoulder with hers, and said she’d be there at 6, don’t burn the steaks. He grinned, taking another sip of lemonade, the warm summer breeze tangling the ends of his gray hair, and for the first time in four years, he didn’t feel the urge to run.
