Rusty Pritchard, 64, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, had only dragged himself to the Madison County bluegrass cookoff because his granddaughter Lila had texted him 17 times in 48 hours begging him to watch her fiddle debut in the youth contest. He’d spent the last eight years holed up in his log cabin 12 miles outside town, only leaving for supply runs and Lila’s rec league soccer games, convinced any attempt at casual socializing would be a betrayal of his wife Diane, who’d died of ovarian cancer in 2015. He leaned against a gnarled white pine at the edge of the field, can of cheap lager in one hand, scuffed work boots planted in the clover, avoiding eye contact with every neighbor who waved. The air smelled like hickory-smoked pulled pork and cut grass, the sharp twang of a mandolin cutting through the low hum of the crowd.
The first collision was soft, just a shoulder to his bicep, before a splash of peach iced tea dotted the front of his faded Forest Service work shirt. He huffed, ready to snap a sharp no problem and turn away, until he looked down. Elara Marquez, 58, who’d opened the town’s only sourdough bakery six months prior, was patting at his shirt with a crumpled napkin, a sheepish grin on her face, a faint silver scar cutting across her left eyebrow from a college skiing accident. “My bad,” she said, her voice rough from years of singing backup in an Asheville classic rock cover band and a two-decade smoking habit she’d kicked three years prior. “I keep tripping over these damn lawn chairs. Let me buy you another beer to make up for it.”
He almost said no. The voice in his head sounded just like Diane, but meaner, telling him he didn’t get to have nice things anymore, that he was supposed to sit in his cabin and be lonely forever out of loyalty. But Lila was still mid-set on the small wooden stage, her small frame hunched over her scuffed fiddle, so he nodded. When she handed him the cold new can, her fingers brushed his for half a second, calloused from kneading dough 12 hours a day, and he felt a jolt go up his arm that he hadn’t felt since the last time Diane had kissed him before her first surgery. He shifted his weight, suddenly hyper aware of how close she was standing, her shoulder almost pressed to his, the scent of cedar wood polish and fermented rye starter clinging to her oversized flannel shirt.
They didn’t move apart when a group of teenagers carrying coolers squeezed past them, her hip bumping his, her hand brushing his elbow to steady herself. She pointed out the 10-year-old mandolin player missing his two front teeth, the way the sunset was painting the barbecue smoke pale pink at the edges, the way Lila’s foot tapped so hard when she played she was probably going to wear a hole in her cowboy boot. He found himself telling her about the 60-foot fire tower he’d manned for 22 years, 20 miles up a rutted dirt road outside town, how he’d bring Diane up there on clear nights to watch the stars, how they’d bring peanut butter crackers and boxed rosé and stay up until 2 a.m. talking about nothing and everything. He didn’t know why he was telling her all that. He hadn’t told anyone that stuff in years.
When Lila finished her set, the crowd cheered, and she ran straight over to him, flinging her arms around his waist. She looked up, noticed Elara standing next to him, and grinned so wide her dimples showed. “Grandpa, you should bring her to the fire tower sometime,” she said, like she’d read his mind. “You always say the stars are way better up there than anywhere else in the county.” Before he could stammer out a response, she ran off toward the snow cone stand, yelling over her shoulder that she’d be home with her mom later that night.
Elara laughed, leaning against the pine, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Is that invitation open?” she asked. He hesitated for two full seconds, the old guilt twisting in his gut, before he realized Diane would have yelled at him for being such an idiot, for wasting all these years being lonely when he could have someone to laugh with. “I was heading up there after this to watch the Perseid meteor shower,” he said, nodding toward the darkening indigo sky. “Got a wool blanket and a thermos of black coffee in the truck. You’re welcome to come, if you want.”
She followed him up the dirt road in her beat-up Subaru Outback, her headlights bouncing behind his dented old Ford F150. He spread the wool blanket he’d kept in the tower for decades across the truck’s hood, and she pulled a loaf of sourdough and a jar of whipped honey butter out of her canvas bag, setting it down next to the thermos. They sat shoulder to shoulder, passing the coffee back and forth, as meteors streaked across the dark sky, one after the other, leaving thin silver trails behind them. When she leaned her head on his shoulder, he didn’t pull away. He passed her the thermos, his thumb brushing the back of her hand, as a particularly bright meteor burned a silver line across the dark mountain sky.
