Elias Voss, 58, spent 22 years as a remote Sierra Nevada fire spotter before retiring last fall, and he still defaults to the edges of any room, any crowd, any space where more than three people are gathered. He only showed up to the town’s annual chili cookoff because his 82-year-old neighbor left a free entry ticket tucked under his doormat with a scrawled note threatening to stop bringing him homemade sourdough if he hid inside all weekend. He’s holding a paper bowl of brisket chili so spicy it’s making his eyes water, a sweating can of pilsner crimped in his other calloused hand, and he’s already mentally mapped the exit route through the crowd of screaming kids and line dancers, planning to be back on his porch with his hound dog and a tattered western novel in 12 minutes flat.
The country band covering 90s country hits off to the side is so loud he doesn’t hear her approach until her shoulder bumps his elbow, sloshing a half ounce of cold beer down the front of his faded gray flannel. He yelps a little, fumbling the chili bowl, and she laughs, warm and throaty, grabbing a crumpled paper napkin from the pocket of her high-waisted jeans before he can react. She’s Marnie, 54, runs the used bookstore on Main Street he’s been sneaking into once a month to buy Louis L’Amour paperbacks, always paying cash and booking it out the door before she can strike up a conversation. She dabs at the beer stain on his sleeve first, her fingers brushing his wrist when he reaches to take the napkin from her, and the contact sends a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in seven years, not since his wife took her last breath in the hospital bed. She’s standing so close he can smell lavender hand lotion mixed with cinnamon on her breath, and she holds eye contact for two beats longer than polite, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a teasing smirk. “You look like you’d rather be fighting a 10-acre wildfire than here,” she says, and he blinks, surprised she even remembers him.
The conflict hits him square in the chest right then, sharp as a pine needle to the palm. Half of him is disgusted with himself for even noticing how her white t-shirt fits across her shoulders, for how his chest feels tight when she grins at him, like he’s betraying the wife he loved for 32 years by even letting another woman stand this close. The other half is curious, hungry, for the first time since the funeral, for something that isn’t silence and burnt toast and the same three western movies on repeat. He tries to mumble an excuse to leave, but she holds up a glass jar full of peach cobbler topping, glistening with sugar and bits of golden crust, and says she brought two spoons, the cookoff is too loud, the river down the street is quiet this time of night, would he want to come with her? He hesitates for 17 full seconds, then nods, his throat too tight to speak.
They walk the two blocks to the river in easy silence, the sound of the band fading behind them, replaced by the gurgle of the Deschutes over smooth river rocks and the distant chirp of crickets waking up for the night. They sit on a weathered fallen ponderosa log half-buried in sand, and she passes him a chipped metal spoon, their knees knocking when they both lean in to dip into the jar. The cobbler is sweet, tangy, warm even in the cool evening air, and she tells him she’s noticed he always buys the same beat-up westerns, always tucks them into the inside pocket of his work jacket like they’re something precious. He admits he’s been scared to talk to anyone new, scared that if he lets himself be happy again, he’s erasing the memory of his wife. She nods, tells him her husband left her for a 28-year-old bartender 10 years ago, and she spent six years refusing to go on a single date because she thought wanting to be loved again meant she was weak, that she’d failed at her marriage. He reaches out without thinking, brushes a strand of wind-tousled auburn hair off her face, his palm resting on her soft cheek for a full three seconds, and she doesn’t pull away, just leans into his touch a little, her eyelashes fluttering shut.
They finish the cobbler as the sun dips below the Cascade foothills, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and she leans her head on his shoulder for two quiet minutes before she stands up, brushing sand off her jeans. She says she has to open the store at 7 a.m. tomorrow, pulls a faded bookmark printed with a drawing of a pine tree out of her bag, scribbles her phone number on the back in blue ink, tucks it into the breast pocket of his flannel. She tells him he can stop by anytime, even if he doesn’t want to buy a book, even if he just wants to sit in the back reading nook and drink the bad coffee she brews every morning. He tucks his hand into his pocket, pressing the bookmark flat against his chest, and watches her walk back toward town, her boots crunching on the gravel path. He doesn’t feel guilty, not even a little, for the first time in seven years. He stays on the log for another 10 minutes, listening to the river rush past, before he stands up, adjusts his worn Stetson, and heads for home, already timing his arrival at the bookstore for 10 minutes after she unlocks the front door the next morning.
