Rudy Gallegos, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, had avoided the downtown Placerville farmers market for three straight months after a tourist had knocked his favorite wide-brimmed hat off his head and tried to apologize with a lukewarm craft beer he didn’t drink. He only showed up this Saturday because the local orchard he bought peaches from was only selling at the market that week, and peach pie was the only thing that still felt like a safe, quiet ritual seven years after his wife Carol had died of ovarian cancer. His biggest flaw, one his old crew had ribbed him for for 38 years manning fire towers across the Sierras, was that he hated owing anyone anything, even a stray apology or a kind gesture. He’d spent seven years turning down every dinner invitation, every set-up from the ladies at his church, every offer to help fix his leaky gutters, convinced letting anyone new in would be a betrayal of the 34 years he’d had with Carol, the worn leather bracelet with her initials stamped into it never leaving his left wrist.
The peach stand was wedged between a honey seller and a jam booth run by a woman he’d never seen before, name tag pinned to her faded denim apron reading Marnie, 58 if he had to guess, silver streaks woven through the dark braid slung over her shoulder, a thin white scar curling around her left wrist like a tiny bracelet. She was laughing at a kid who’d stuck his finger in a jar of strawberry jam, wiping the sticky residue off his cheek with the edge of her apron, and Rudy stopped short for half a second before he could step around her to the peaches. His boot caught on the leg of a folding table, jostling a full jar of blackberry jam off the edge, and it shattered on the asphalt at his feet, dark purple splatters streaking the toe of his scuffed work boots and the hem of her apron.
They both reached for the roll of paper towels stacked on the table at the same time, their knuckles brushing hard, and Rudy flinched like he’d touched a live wire. He felt the rough callus on the pad of her middle finger, worn there from years of twisting canning lids tight, and a jolt of something hot and sharp shot up his arm, a feeling he hadn’t had since he was 22 and kissing Carol for the first time behind the Pine Ridge fire tower. He pulled his hand back fast, face burning, already fumbling for his wallet to pay for the jar, half angry at himself for being clumsy, half disgusted at the stupid flutter in his chest, like he was some dumb teenager sneaking around behind his wife’s back.
Marnie waved his wallet away, already dabbing at the jam on his boot with a paper towel, leaning in so close he could smell lavender hand cream mixed with the sweet, sharp scent of cooked berries in her hair. “Don’t even worry about it,” she said, nodding at the handwritten sign taped to the front of her table that said 50% of all sales go to Caldor Fire survivor relief. “It’s a write off for the cause, anyway. My sister lost her whole place outside Grizzly Flats last year, so a little spilled jam is the least of our problems.” She held out a small wooden spoon dipped in peach jam to him, her fingers steady, no hint of awkwardness, and he hesitated for ten full seconds before he took it.
It tasted exactly like the jam Carol used to can every August, sweet and tart, no extra sugar, and he had to blink hard to keep from tearing up right there in the middle of the market. He told her he’d been a fire spotter for almost 40 years, had watched the Caldor Fire blow up from his tower on the ridge before he retired, and she leaned in a little more, her elbow brushing his bicep as she pointed to a polaroid taped to the table of a group of firefighters sitting on a pile of charred lumber, grinning and holding jars of her jam. “I brought 300 jars up to the fire lines last summer,” she said, and her eyes were bright, no pity, no sad looks, just recognition, like she knew exactly how heavy it felt to carry all those memories of smoke and ash around with you.
She asked him if he was coming to the fire relief potluck at the community center that night, and his first instinct was to say no, to grab his peaches, go home, bake his pie alone, watch the same John Wayne movie he watched every Saturday night. He opened his mouth to turn her down, and then he looked at her, at the way she was biting her lower lip a little like she was nervous too, at the gold flecks in her hazel eyes catching the sun, and he said yes before he could talk himself out of it.
He spent the whole drive home spiraling, angry at himself for even agreeing, convinced Carol was rolling in her grave, that he was being unfaithful to the only woman he’d ever loved. He pulled the framed photo of Carol off his kitchen counter, the one where she was holding a jar of peach jam she’d just canned, grinning so wide her dimples showed, and he remembered the last conversation they’d had in the hospital, when she’d grabbed his hand and told him he better not spend the rest of his life hiding in their house, that he deserved to have someone to laugh with again. He sat on the kitchen stool for 20 minutes, twisting the leather bracelet on his wrist, then put the peach pie he’d been planning to eat alone all week in a Tupperware, grabbed his keys, and drove to the community center.
Marnie was by the dessert table when he walked in, holding a plate of fried chicken, and she waved him over, grinning so wide the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened. He sat down next to her at the picnic table, and her knee brushed his under the table, warm through the thin denim of their jeans, and he didn’t move away. He passed her the Tupperware with the pie in it, and she took a bite, closing her eyes for half a second before she looked back at him, and told him it was the best peach pie she’d ever tasted. He reached across the table to grab a napkin for her when a crumb stuck to her chin, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her jaw, and he didn’t flinch this time.
