Mace Rainer is 58, a retired wildland fire crew boss who left Idaho for the hilly, green quiet of eastern Tennessee last year, after his uncle left him a weather-beaten log cabin at the edge of the national forest. His biggest flaw, the one he won’t admit out loud, is that he’s spent eight years actively shutting out anyone who tries to get close, ever since his wife died in a car crash while he was out on a six-week fire deployment in Montana. He’s got a scar slashing across his left eyebrow, calluses so thick on his palms he can hold a hot coffee mug without a sleeve, and a bum right shoulder that acts up every time he splits more than a cord of firewood, which he’s been doing a lot of lately, to keep his hands busy and his head quiet.
It’s 92 degrees at the county farmers market on Saturday, sweat beading under the brim of his faded 2018 Bootleg Fire crew cap, which he’s pushed back off his forehead. He’s got a crumpled paper bag in one hand stuffed with dill pickles and a loaf of sourdough, and he’s been deliberately avoiding the herbal apothecary booth at the end of the row for three weeks, ever since he wandered over looking for arnica rub, and the woman running it caught him wincing so hard he thought his teeth would crack, gave him a free sample of a homemade blend, and he mumbled a half-assed thank you and practically ran off before she could ask his name.
Today his shoulder is throbbing so bad he can barely lift his arm to scratch the back of his neck, so he sucks it up and walks over. She’s leaning against the side of the wooden booth, wiping a streak of wildflower honey off her wrist from the beekeeper’s stand next to hers, silver streaks glinting in her dark wavy hair where the sun hits it, wearing a linen button-down that’s unbuttoned at the collar, the skin at her throat dusted with freckles. She grins when she sees him, and he feels his ears heat up, which hasn’t happened to him since he was 16 and asked a cheerleader to prom.
“Was wondering when you’d come back,” she says, pushing off the booth to reach under the counter for a small amber jar. “Mixed a stronger batch for that shoulder of yours. Figured you’d be out splitting wood all weekend.” He blinks, surprised she even remembered him, let alone guessed what he’d been doing. He leans against the booth to take the jar from her, and their elbows brush, the soft fabric of her shirt catching on the scratchy hair on his forearm, and he feels a jolt go all the way down to his fingertips. She mentions she saw his 1978 Ford F-150 parked at the auto co-op downtown last week, says her dad had the exact same one, same faded blue paint, same rust spot over the rear wheel well.
They talk for 15 minutes, the din of the market fading into background noise: kids screaming chasing a chicken that escaped the 4-H booth, a bluegrass band playing off to the side, the smell of fried green tomatoes wafting from the food truck at the entrance. She laughs at his dumb story about how his old crew used to hide Cheetos in their fire packs to keep bears away, and her hand brushes his when she passes him a tiny tin of lavender lip balm, says his lips look chapped from working outside in the sun all day. He tucks the tin into his jeans pocket without thinking, every part of him that’s spent years convincing himself he’s better off alone screaming to leave, but he can’t make himself move.
When the market starts closing down, vendors folding up their tables, she tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and says she’s got a peach pie cooling on her counter back at her cottage, two blocks away, and if he wants, she can show him how to apply that muscle rub properly so it actually sinks in, no awkward half-assed rubbing that misses the knot right at the base of his neck. He hesitates for two full seconds, his throat tight, then nods.
Her cottage smells like lavender and cinnamon when they walk in, the screen door slapping shut behind them. She has him sit on the edge of her couch, pulls his flannel shirt off his shoulders, her fingers warm when she presses into the tight knot at the base of his neck, and he groans without meaning to, loud enough that he’s embarrassed for half a second before she chuckles soft, says he carries way too much tension for a guy who’s supposed to be retired. He admits he hasn’t let anyone touch him like this since his wife died, and she pauses for a beat, just rests her palm flat against his shoulder, says that’s okay, they can go as slow as he wants.
They eat pie on her back porch later, the sun dipping below the tree line, fireflies flickering in the tall grass at the edge of her yard. She leans her shoulder against his, warm through his thin t-shirt, and he doesn’t move away. He reaches over, laces his fingers through hers, her smaller, softer hand fitting perfectly between his calloused ones. He takes a bite of the warm peach pie, crumbs sticking to his lower lip, and doesn’t even bother wiping them off, because he knows she’ll reach over and brush them away with her thumb a second later.
