Roland Voss, 62, retired forest fire lookout, leans against a pitch-sticky Ponderosa pine at the Nevada City volunteer fire department beer garden fundraiser, swirling the last half inch of hazy IPA in his red plastic cup. He’s already run through three different polite excuses to leave, checked his beat-up 2018 Casio four times, and avoids eye contact with every woman in the 50 to 65 age bracket he knows is here on match-making missions from the local church ladies’ group. Eight years a widower, 28 years spent mostly alone 7,000 feet up in a Sierra fire tower, he’s got a well-earned reputation as a stubborn hermit who’d rather sharpen vintage crosscut saws in his off-grid cabin than make small talk. His old fire crew buddy talked him into coming tonight with the promise of free beer and a chance to yell at the current fire chief about his asinine logging plan for the Tahoe National Forest, but the chief’s tied up talking to a group of donors, and Roland’s already bored enough to consider hiking the half mile back to his truck early.
He’s just about to push off the tree when a woman leans into his line of sight, holding a paper plate stacked with fried onion rings, a smudge of pine sap bright on her left forearm. She’s Elara Marquez, 52, the new county arborist he’s seen quoted in the local paper tearing apart the same chief’s logging plan he hates. She says she recognized his scuffed work boots, the faded fire tower crew patch sewn to the shoulder of his worn flannel, because she’s been digging through 30 years of fire history reports for the county’s reforestation initiative, and his name’s on half the high-severity burn assessments from the 90s and 2000s. She sits down next to him at the splintered picnic table before he can offer, her thigh brushing his when she shifts to set the plate between them, warm through the thin denim of their jeans.
He’s immediately torn. Part of him tenses, ready to mumble an excuse and bolt—he doesn’t do small talk, doesn’t do casual hangs, and he knows for a fact she’s the chief’s ex-wife, a fact every local has gossiped about at the hardware store for the last six months. The other part can’t stop staring at the crinkle at the corner of her eyes when she laughs at his deadpan joke about the chief’s tendency to consult real estate developers more than foresters, the rough callus on her palm when she passes him a napkin and their fingers brush by accident. The bluegrass band off to the side picks up a fast, twangy tune, the smell of grilled bratwurst and pine mixes with the coconut scent of her sunscreen, and for the first time in years, Roland doesn’t feel the urge to check his watch.
They talk for 45 minutes, inching closer to each other across the bench without noticing, their knees knocking together every time one of them shifts to reach for a beer or another onion ring. She asks him about the fire tower, what it was like to watch storms roll over the Sierras for weeks at a time with no one else around, and he finds himself telling her stories he hasn’t told anyone since his wife died—about the time a baby bear climbed the tower steps and stole his peanut butter sandwich, about the way the sky turns pink and orange over the desert to the east at sunrise in September. He’s halfway through a story about the 2007 Rim Fire when she says it’s too loud by the band, asks if he wants to walk down the path to the creek to hear the rest.
The path is rutted and lined with wild blackberry bushes, the sound of the band fading behind them as they walk. She’s wearing scuffed hiking boots too, and she trips over an exposed oak root ten yards from the creek bank, lurching forward before he catches her, his hand firm on her waist, his other wrapped around her forearm to steady her. She doesn’t step back when she regains her balance, just looks up at him, her dark eyes glinting in the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the oak leaves, and he can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton of her work shirt. He doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t list all the reasons this is a bad idea, all the ways he’s too old, too set in his ways, too close to picking a public fight with her ex-husband next week at the county commission meeting. He leans in, kisses her slow, the faint taste of beer and salt and onion ring on her lips, and she kisses him back, her hand curling around the back of his neck, the rough callus on her palm scraping gently against the stubble on his jaw.
They walk back to the beer garden an hour later, their fingers brushing every few steps even when they don’t need to steady each other. She stops at the edge of the picnic area, pulls a crumpled receipt out of her jeans pocket, scribbles her cell number on the back in blue ballpoint, and shoves it into the front pocket of his flannel. She says she’s doing a survey of old fire breaks next weekend, asks if he wants to come along, says she’ll bring the peanut butter sandwiches to make up for the one the bear stole. He tucks the paper deeper into his pocket, nods, and watches her walk across the lawn to talk to the chief, who waves at her from the donor tent. He doesn’t feel the usual sharp twist of annoyance at the sight of the chief, doesn’t feel the urge to get in his truck and drive back to his quiet cabin alone. He picks up a fresh IPA from the drink table, leans back against the pine tree, and waits for her to come back.
