Roland Voss, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire lookout, had not set foot at the annual Maplewood Fire Department Chili Cookoff in seven years. The only reason he showed up this year was his old station captain showed up on his porch at 8 a.m. with a six pack of his favorite hazy IPA, and guilt tripped him into coming, muttering something about “stopping acting like you live in a lookout tower still, talking to squirrels more than people.” Roland’s biggest flaw, the one he’d never admitted out loud, was that he liked being alone too much, had gotten too comfortable with the quiet of his cabin on the edge of the woods after his wife passed eight years prior, hated the way small town gossip twisted every casual interaction into something salacious, every shared cup of coffee into a torrid affair.
He grabbed a bowl of extra spicy chili from the volunteer fireman’s table, the steam curling up to fog his wire rimmed glasses, snagged a can of root beer, and retreated to the farthest picnic table, set back under a canopy of Douglas fir, far enough from the crowd that he could watch without having to make small talk. His scuffed work boots propped on the lower bench, he picked at the chili, the burn of cayenne and smoked paprika settling warm in his chest, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Marnie Hale, 58, owner of the town’s only used bookstore, was walking toward him, a half empty glass of hard cider in one hand, a smudge of chili powder dusted high on her left cheek, her dark gray streaked hair pulled back in a messy braid. Roland’s jaw tightened. He’d avoided her for 12 years, ever since she divorced his old fire crew partner, Jesse, convinced that any interaction would read as betrayal, even after Jesse moved to Arizona five years prior and cut off contact with everyone in town. He’d always thought she was too sharp, too warm, too bright for Jesse, had thought that even back when they were all younger, but he’d never let himself say it, never let himself even hold eye contact for longer than two seconds.
She sat down on the bench next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his bicep when she leaned forward to set her cider on the table. He could smell lavender soap and pine and a hint of cinnamon from the cider she’d been drinking, and he had to fight the urge to lean in closer, disgusted with himself for reacting at all, for letting a woman he’d told himself was off limits for decades get under his skin before she even said a word.
“Took you long enough to show up to one of these,” she said, grinning, the laugh lines around her hazel eyes crinkling deep. She nodded at the faded forest service flannel he was wearing, the one with the singed cuff from the 2017 Grizzly Peak fire. “You still wear that old thing? I thought Jesse told you to throw it out after you got out of the hospital.”
Roland blinked. He’d never told anyone besides his late wife how he got the singed cuff, had never told anyone the exact fire he’d been on when he got the scar snaking up his left forearm. Before he could answer, she reached across the table to grab a stack of paper napkins, and her knuckles brushed the raised, pale pink edge of that scar, the one that still ached when the autumn air turned sharp. She paused, her fingers hovering over his skin for half a beat, like she was considering tracing the length of it, before she pulled back, wiping the chili powder off her cheek with a crumpled napkin.
“I brought you those chocolate chip cookies when you were in the hospital, you know,” she said, picking at the label on her cider glass. “Your wife told you they were from the whole crew, right? I baked them. Jesse didn’t even know I stopped by.”
That hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d eaten those cookies every night he was in the hospital, had thought they were from the guys, had no idea she’d been the one to drop them off. He wanted to ask why, wanted to ask why she’d never said anything, why he’d spent 12 years avoiding her for no reason, when the fire chief got on the loudspeaker to announce the annual raffle winners.
Roland had stuffed his ticket in his flannel pocket without thinking, had forgotten he’d even bought one, until the chief called his number, then hers, for the grand prize: a two person guided kayaking trip on the Umpqua River, donated by the local outfitter. The whole crowd hooted, a few of the younger firemen whooped and whistled, and Roland felt his face go bright red, his first instinct to say he couldn’t go, to give the ticket away, to run back to his cabin and hide from the gossip that would be all over town by sunrise.
He looked over at Marnie, and she leaned in, close enough that he could feel her warm breath against his ear, her shoulder pressed firm to his now, no accidental brush this time. “Don’t be an idiot,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear, no teasing edge to her voice now, soft, sure. “I’ve waited 15 years to stop pretending I don’t want to spend time with you. Don’t let a bunch of bored old people with nothing better to talk about ruin that.”
Roland stared at her for a long second, then nodded, the tight knot in his chest he’d carried for 12 years loosening all at once. He didn’t care about the gossip, didn’t care about the old loyalty he’d clung to for no reason, didn’t care that he was supposed to be too old for this kind of stupid, giddy excitement.
They showed up to the outfitter’s shop the next Saturday at 9 a.m., Marnie wearing a neon orange life jacket over a faded flannel of her own, holding a cooler stuffed with peanut butter sandwiches and more hard cider. The guide put them in a two person kayak, Marnie in the front, Roland in the back, and they pushed off into the slow, cold current of the Umpqua. The sun filtered through the fir trees lining the bank, the sound of kingfishers calling over the rush of the water, and when they hit a small class two rapid 45 minutes in, Marnie yelped, reaching back to grab Roland’s knee to steady herself. He put his hand over hers, his calloused fingers wrapping around her smaller, softer ones, and didn’t let go when the water smoothed out, when they were floating through a calm stretch of river, the sun warm on their faces.
The cold river spray kicked up against his cheeks, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel the quiet weight of being alone.
