Ronny Marquez, 59, spent 27 years manning fire towers in the Deschutes National Forest before he retired, and the only flaw anyone who knew him would name was his stubborn refusal to accept help from anyone, for anything. His wife of 32 years had teased him about it right up until she died of ovarian cancer four years prior, and after she was gone, he leaned into the stubbornness harder, holing up in his off-grid cabin 20 miles outside Bend, only coming into town once a week for propane, cheap beer, and the Friday night fish fry at the Elks Lodge.
He’d kicked up a fuss the first three weeks Clara started running the fry line, loud enough that the other regulars had teased him about being a cranky old bear. She was the lodge manager’s niece, 47, moved up from Sacramento six months prior to help care for her mom who’d had a stroke, and she’d messed with Joe’s 22-year-old catfish batter recipe, added a dash of cayenne and a splash of buttermilk that Ronny swore ruined the whole thing. He ate the fish anyway, though, because it was the only hot meal he ate all week, and he’d rather complain than cook for himself.
That Friday in mid-September, his left knee was acting up worse than usual, twisted the week before on a hike to check his blackberry patches, and he limped into the lodge half an hour late, the hem of his flannel shirt dusted with pine needles. He expected to wait 20 minutes for his order, same as always, but Clara spotted him first, slid a heaping plate of catfish, hushpuppies, and vinegar coleslaw across the counter to him before the three guys in line ahead of him even got their drinks. When their fingers brushed as he grabbed the plate, he noticed her knuckles were dusted with cornmeal, a tiny, faded tattoo of a morel mushroom peeking out from the cuff of her rubber fry glove.
“Told you the cayenne grows on you,” she said, leaning in so he could hear her over the roar of the fryer and the guys yelling about college football at the next table. Her elbow brushed his bad knee when she reached for the empty ketchup bottle next to his seat, and he flinched, half from the jolt of pain, half from the warm buzz that shot up his spine at the contact. She held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smile, before she turned back to the fryer.
He ate slow that night, picking at the cobbler she’d slipped onto his tray unasked, peach, still warm, the crust flaky enough that crumbs stuck to his thumb. He’d brought a jar of the wild blackberry jam he’d canned the week before, meant to give it to Joe as a retirement gift when he came back to visit, but when Clara came over to clear his plate, he pushed it across the counter to her instead. “For the dessert table,” he mumbled, staring at the scuff on his work boot, too stubborn to meet her eye. “My wife’s recipe. Better than the store-bought stuff you guys have been serving.”
She turned the jar over in her hands, running a finger over the handwritten label he’d scrawled in blue Sharpie, and when he finally looked up, she was grinning. She slipped a crumpled paper napkin under his empty water glass before she walked away, and when he unfolded it, her phone number was scrawled on the back, along with a note: I’ve been looking for someone who knows the good mushroom spots. No charge for the cobbler.
His first thought was that he couldn’t. The Elks had an unwritten rule about members messing with the lodge staff, especially the manager’s family, and he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since his wife died, felt a sharp twist of guilt in his chest just thinking about texting her. He stuffed the napkin in his flannel pocket, paid his tab, and limped out into the parking lot, where it had started pouring rain, the asphalt smelling like wet tar and pine.
His knee gave out three steps from his truck, and he fell hard against the passenger side door, gritting his teeth so he wouldn’t yell. Before he could push himself up, the lodge door flew open, and Clara ran out holding a faded blue umbrella, her hair already sticking to the sides of her neck, her fry boots splashing in the puddles. She wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him up, her shoulder pressed to his chest, and he didn’t even argue when she helped him into the passenger seat, her hand lingering on his arm for a second after she got him settled.
“Look, I know the old guys around here like their rules,” she said, leaning in through the open door, the rain drumming on the umbrella above her. “And I know you still miss your wife. I’m not asking to replace anyone. I just want someone to hike with who doesn’t think a woman who knows how to batter catfish is a novelty.”
He stared at her for a long second, the jam jar he’d given her sitting on the dash where she’d set it when she helped him in, the napkin with her number crumpling in his pocket. “I’ll pick you up at 10 Saturday,” he said, before his stubborn brain could talk him out of it. “Wear waterproof boots. The trails get muddy this time of year.”
She grinned, leaning in to press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek before she closed the door, and stood there holding the umbrella over the door until he’d climbed over to the driver’s side and turned the key in the ignition. He waved as he pulled out of the parking lot, and she waved back, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear, the jam jar still rolling gently in the cup holder next to his half-empty beer.
