Roland Voss leans against the chipped brick side of Mabel’s Tavern, sweating through the collar of his faded forest service jacket despite the crisp northern Michigan August air. He’s 62, three years removed from his last post manning a fire lookout tower in the Sierras, and he’d rather be splitting wood at his off-grid cabin 12 miles out of town than be caught dead at the annual Cherry Festival, but his 16-year-old niece had begged him to come watch her win the teen pie baking contest, and he’d never been able to say no to that kid. His calloused palms, scarred across the knuckles from a 2019 blaze that almost took his crew, wrap around a cold IPA, and he’s half considering sneaking out early when a woman stumbles over a runaway toddler’s stroller and slams straight into his chest.
She’s Elara Marlow, 58, the woman who bought the old general store on the edge of town six months prior to restore and sell vintage cast iron cookware, and he’s only ever seen her from across the grocery store produce aisle before. She’s got a smudge of flour on her left forearm, a strand of silver-streaked auburn hair stuck to her lipstick-stained mouth, and when he catches her elbow to steady her, her skin is warm even through the thin cotton of her flannel shirt. The cast iron skillet she’d been carrying clatters against his steel-toe boot, and she laughs, a low, throaty sound that cuts through the noise of the festival’s cover band. She doesn’t step back right away, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners as she apologizes, and Roland’s throat goes dry. He hasn’t been this close to a woman since his wife died eight years prior, and the part of him that’s spent nearly a decade deliberately walling himself off screams to step away, mumble a dismissive “no problem” and bolt for his truck.
Instead he bends to pick up the skillet, running a finger over the etched Griswold logo on the bottom before handing it back. Their fingers brush when she takes it, and he feels a jolt go up his arm that has nothing to do with the static that builds in the dry pine air. She notices the fire lookout patch on his jacket, and her face lights up, says her dad ran a fire crew in southern Oregon in the 80s, used to drag her up to the lookouts on weekends when she was a kid. She leans in when he talks about the 100 days a year he spent alone in the tower, 10,000 feet up, watching for plumes of smoke against the horizon, and her shoulder brushes his every time a festival attendee squeezes past them on the sidewalk. She makes a dumb joke about how the only fires she’s ever fought are burnt pie crusts, and he snorts, a loud, unplanned sound he hasn’t made since before his wife got sick.
Marge, the town librarian who’s made a career out of spreading gossip about anyone who doesn’t fit her idea of small town normal, walks past and gives them a pointed, raised eyebrow, and Roland tenses up. He’s avoided even the most casual interaction with anyone in town for three years specifically to avoid giving Marge and her friends something to chatter about over church bake sales, and for half a second he’s ready to make an excuse and leave. Elara just smirks, leans even closer, her breath warm against his ear, and says “Ignore her. She’s still mad I wouldn’t sell her a 1922 Griswold for 20 bucks and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.” The scent of cherry pie and lemon polish clinging to her hair wraps around him, and the tight knot of anxiety in his chest loosens. He doesn’t care what Marge thinks, he realizes, for the first time in years he doesn’t care what any of them think.
The sun dips below the pine trees as the festival wraps up, strings of fairy lights strung across the street turning the sidewalk gold. Elara tucks the skillet under her arm and asks if he wants to walk back to her shop, says she’s got a bottle of 10-year rye stashed behind the counter and an old fire spotter’s log book she picked up at an estate sale last month that she’s been dying to show someone who’d actually care. He hesitates for half a second, the old instinct to run, to retreat to his quiet cabin where no one can bother him, where there’s no risk of losing someone again, but then she brushes her hand against his, casual, like she’s been doing it for years, and he says yes.
The walk to her shop is quiet, the air thick with the scent of pine and leftover cherry cobbler from the festival food stalls, and their hands brush three more times before they reach the weathered wooden porch. She unlocks the door, turns to face him, the warm light from the porch lamp gilding the edges of her hair, and she kisses him, slow and soft, the faint taste of cherry Kool-Aid on her lips. His hands come to rest on her waist, the flannel of her shirt soft under his calloused fingers, and he doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t spiral into worries about grief or gossip or whether he’s too old to start over.
They step inside, the door clicking shut behind them, and she pours two glasses of rye while he flips through the tattered log book, pages filled with scribbled notes about wind speeds and smoke plumes and the occasional offhand joke about the local wildlife. She sits down next to him on the worn leather couch by the wood stove, propping her feet up on his lap, and he runs his thumb over a faded entry from 1978 about a bear that kept stealing the lookout’s peanut butter sandwiches. He doesn’t even think about the fact that half the town will be talking about the two of them by breakfast tomorrow.
