Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired smokejumper turned part-time wild foraging guide, only showed up to the neighborhood block party because his 17-year-old granddaughter threatened to hide all his favorite chanterelle foraging spots if he bailed again. He’d spent the last eight years self-isolating since his wife of 34 years died of ovarian cancer, convinced any new connection would be a slight to her memory, so he’d planted himself against the trunk of the big oak at the edge of the street, cold IPA in one hand, worn work boot propped on an exposed root, avoiding eye contact with every neighbor who tried to wave him over to the grill. The air smelled like charred bratwurst, cut Kentucky bluegrass, and the acrid tang of citronella torches keeping the mosquitos at bay, and he was already counting down the minutes until he could sneak back to his quiet cabin half a mile up the road.
The first time she bumped into him, he was so focused on ignoring the guy who ran the local hardware store that he didn’t see her coming until her hip slammed hard into his side, her free hand flying out to grip his forearm to steady the tray of lemon bars she was carrying. Her palm was warm, calloused at the fingertips like she worked with her hands, and she smelled like lavender and pine resin, no cloying heavy perfume that made his sinuses burn. She laughed, a low, throaty sound that didn’t sound forced, and held his eye contact for three full beats before she apologized, hazel eyes flecked with gold crinkling at the corners. She said her name was Clara, she’d moved into the old lake house two months prior, ran a vintage map restoration shop out of the front room, and she’d already had three near misses with kids’ skateboards left scattered across the street that night.
Ronan mumbled a greeting, fully expecting her to nod and walk off to join the group of women waving her over by the bake sale table, but she didn’t. She leaned against the oak next to him, set the lemon bar tray on the root by his boot, and asked if he was the guy who sold foraged mushrooms at the Saturday farmers market, said she’d been hunting for good morel spots to test a wild mushroom risotto recipe she’d been tweaking since she moved. He blinked, surprised most people in town couldn’t tell a chanterelle apart from a toxic jack o’lantern, and found himself talking before he could stop himself, listing the south-facing slopes that got enough sun this time of year, warning her to avoid the patches near the old logging road where the soil was contaminated with lead. He even told her about his wife, how she’d loved morel risotto, how she’d been the one who taught him to identify mushrooms back when they were first dating, when he was still jumping fires for the forest service.
The sky was turning deep indigo by the time the local fire department set off the small fireworks show for the kids, the whole neighborhood crowding into the middle of the street to get a better view. A screaming kid in a neon soccer jersey darted between them, and Clara stepped closer to avoid getting run over, her shoulder pressing firm against his bicep, her arm brushing his when they both reached down at the same time to grab the napkin that blew off her tray. Their fingers tangled for half a second, and Ronan froze, that old, familiar voice in his head screaming that he was doing something wrong, that he was betraying the woman he’d spent half his life with, but then he looked down at Clara, and her face was lit up pink by the first firework bursting overhead, and he realized that quiet didn’t have to mean lonely.
She asked him if he wanted to go for a hike next Saturday, said she’d pack lemon bars and cold brew coffee, if he’d show her the morel spots. He hesitated for two full heartbeats before he said yes. She scribbled her phone number on a crumpled napkin, drew a wobbly little morel mushroom next to the digits, and handed it to him before she walked off to help her elderly neighbor carry a cooler of soda back to his truck. Ronan stood there for another ten minutes, watching the last of the fireworks burst red and gold over the roof tops, and tucked the napkin into the breast pocket of his worn wool flannel, the paper still warm from where her hand had held it.
