Eli Voss, 59, retired smokejumper turned wildfire mitigation consultant, has carried a chip on his shoulder about casual social interaction since his wife Lila died in a 2015 backcountry fall. He turns down every party, fundraiser, and neighborhood invite that doesn’t come with an invoice attached, and only showed up to the local fire department’s summer beer garden fundraiser because the chief, a guy he’d pulled out of a 2017 Deschutes National Forest blaze, had begged. Eli didn’t owe many people favors.
The July air hangs thick with pine resin and the charred-sweet smell of grilled brats, string lights strung between ponderosa pines glowing gold as the sun dips below the Cascades. Eli leans against a split-rail fence, half-empty IPA in one hand, scuffed work boots planted in dust dotted with fallen pine needles, doing his level best to avoid eye contact with every neighbor who tries to wave him over. He’s already made up his mind to leave in 10 minutes, tops, when a golden retriever puppy bolts past his legs, yanking a squealing seven-year-old behind it, and the woman carrying a stack of raffle tickets just ahead stumbles sideways to avoid tripping over them.
Eli reacts on 22 years of muscle memory, reaching out to catch her before she hits the dirt. His palm lands flat on the warm, sun-kissed skin of her waist, just above the waistband of her frayed high-waisted denim shorts, and the movement jostles his beer, sending a cold splash of hoppy ale directly onto the front of her faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee. He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, already apologizing, already reaching for his wallet to offer to pay for the shirt, already gearing up to mumble an excuse and bolt for his truck.
She doesn’t get mad. She laughs, a rough, warm sound like she’s spent half her life cheering at outdoor concerts, and swipes at the damp spot on her shirt with the back of her hand. “Well, that’s a bolder opening line than most guys around here use,” she says, tilting her head up to look at him. Her hazel eyes have flecks of gold in them, crinkled at the corners from years of sun, and there’s a tattoo of stacked book spines curling up her left forearm, a tiny flame doodled on the spine of the top one. She introduces herself as Clara, the town’s new librarian, moved out from Chicago six months prior to escape the grind of city administration.
Eli mumbles his name, still flustered, and offers to buy her a replacement shirt from the fire department merch tent set up at the far end of the beer garden. She agrees, and they walk side by side, their elbows brushing every few steps as they weave through groups of chatting locals. He notices she’s limping slightly, favoring her left leg, and asks about it when they stop to let a group of kids run past with dripping blue raspberry snow cones. She says she tore her ACL hiking the Tumalo Falls trail last month, slipped on a loose patch of gravel near the upper overlook.
Eli’s chest tightens. That’s the same trail Lila fell on. He doesn’t say that at first, just nods, says he knows the trail well, used to hike it every weekend with his wife. Clara’s face softens, and she stops walking, rummaging in the deep pocket of her shorts. “I found something up there that day, before I wiped out,” she says, pulling out a small, dented brass locket strung on a thin silver chain. The front has a tiny engraving of a pine tree, the same one Eli had custom made for Lila for their 20th anniversary, the one he’d lost when he’d hiked the trail for 12 straight hours looking for her after she didn’t come home.
He stares at it for a full 10 seconds, his throat tight, before he reaches out to take it. His fingers brush hers as he wraps his hand around the cool, worn metal, and for a second the noise of the fundraiser fades completely: the chatter, the country song playing from the portable speaker, the crackle of the grill, all gone, just the sound of both of them breathing, the faint smell of coconut sunscreen on her skin mixing with the pine in the air. He’d spent 8 years feeling guilty anytime he even looked at another woman for longer than two seconds, like he was betraying Lila, but in that moment all he feels is light, like someone just lifted a 100-pound weight off his chest.
He tells her it’s his wife’s, tells her the story of losing it, and she listens, leaning in a little, her shoulder brushing his, no pity in her eyes, just quiet understanding. When he’s done, he tucks the locket into the breast pocket of his worn navy flannel shirt, right over his heart, and looks up at her. The string lights catch the gold flecks in her eyes again, and he finds himself asking if she wants to get al pastor tacos at the food truck down the road after the fundraiser wraps up, no pressure, just if she’s hungry.
She grins, tucking a strand of wind-tousled honeyed hair behind her ear. “Only if you let me pick the toppings,” she says, grabbing his elbow to steady herself as they step over a loose cinder block at the edge of the tent. He doesn’t pull away.
