Elroy Voss, 62, retired 18 months prior after 32 years as a U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, spent most of those years stationed alone in a steel tower 45 minutes outside the small Oregon town he now called home. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admitted to anyone, was that he still carried the weight of a 2001 blaze that killed his crewmate Jake Marlow, and he’d avoided any situation that might force him to confront Jake’s family, or the guilt he’d wrapped around himself like a second skin. He’d only come to The Pine Tap’s annual fall festival because his cousin had begged him to make an appearance, and he’d already turned him down three years running.
He leaned against the cinder block back wall, half-empty bottle of amber lager in one calloused hand, frayed work gloves stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, when the crowd shifted and she had to squeeze past. Her hip brushed his, firm and warm through the thick red flannel she wore, and she smelled like cinnamon gum and pine sol, the same scent he remembered from the day of Jake’s funeral, when he’d stood 20 feet away from her, too ashamed to say a word. She mumbled an apology, glancing up, and her hazel eyes locked onto his for half a beat longer than necessary before she recognized him. “Elroy?”
He froze, his throat going tight. He’d seen Mara Marlow around town a dozen times in the last two years, since she moved back to take over the county library branch after her mom got sick. He’d always crossed the street, or ducked into a hardware store, before she could spot him. Now there was nowhere to go, the crowd of line dancers pressed so tight to his left he could feel the shoulder of a teenager’s cowboy shirt digging into his bicep. The air around him smelled like fried cheese curds and hickory smoke from the pork butt the bar staff was smoking out back, and the jukebox blared old George Strait between sets. He nodded, his voice rough when he said, “Mara. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
He hesitated for half a second, then pulled the stool out for her. The psychological whiplash hit him the second she sat down: part of him wanted to run out the back door before he had to talk about Jake, part of him couldn’t look away from the little flecks of gold in her eyes, the thin scar across her left wrist he’d heard Jake talk about a hundred times, earned on a backcountry hike the summer before they got married, the way her chipped navy nail polish glinted under the neon Pabst sign above the bar. He was disgusted with himself for even noticing, for feeling a spark of something for the woman he’d spent 22 years thinking he owed a lifetime of apologies to.
They talked about the weather first, about the early frost that killed half the valley’s apple crop that year, about the feral cat colony she fed behind the library. He didn’t realize 45 minutes had passed until the band switched to a slow, waltzing Johnny Cash deep cut, and the crowd shifted to pair up. When she mentioned Jake, he tensed, waiting for the anger, the blame he’d been expecting for decades. Instead she leaned forward, her forearm brushing his on the worn Formica table, and said, “I never blamed you, you know. Jake always said you had his back more than anyone else on that crew. The wind shifted so fast no one could’ve called it. I wish you’d told me you were living here a year ago, instead of hiding.”
He blinked, the tight knot in his chest he’d carried for two decades loosening so fast he felt lightheaded. He was about to say something when she grinned, stood up, and held out her hand. “You dance?”
He snorted, shaking his head. “Haven’t danced since my sister’s wedding in ‘89. I’m terrible.”
“Good.” She tugged on his hand, her palm warm and soft against his calloused skin, and pulled him toward the edge of the dance floor, far enough away from the crowd that no one would watch them step on each other’s feet. He rested his hand on her waist, could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin flannel, and she rested her other hand on his shoulder, their fingers laced together at their sides. They swayed slowly, off-beat, and when she leaned in to talk over the music, her breath was warm against his ear. “I’ve seen you watching me from your porch when I’m working in my yard. I’ve watched you too. I was hoping you’d talk to me eventually.”
He froze for half a second, then pulled back enough to look at her. There was no judgment in her eyes, no anger, just a quiet, teasing warmth that made his chest feel tight for an entirely different reason. He didn’t say anything, just pulled her a little closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder for the rest of the song.
When the song ended, they grabbed their coats from the hook by the door, and he handed her his faded Forest Service hoodie when she shivered at the cold October air hitting her bare wrists. It was too big on her, the sleeves hanging past her knuckles, and she laughed when she pulled it on, saying it smelled like campfire and pine, exactly like she thought it would. She asked him if he wanted to come back to her place for coffee, said she had that sourdough starter in her bag, they could drop it off at Mrs. Henderson’s on the way. He said yes.
They walked down the dark residential street, the glow from the porch lights lining the sidewalk gilding the fallen red and gold maple leaves under their feet. Their hands brushed every three or four steps, until he worked up the nerve to lace his fingers through hers. The crickets chirped loud enough to cover the quiet, relieved huff of breath he let out when she squeezed his hand back.
