Rafe Marino, 62, spent 28 years as a U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, perched alone in 100-foot towers across Oregon’s Willamette National Forest, watching for plumes of smoke on the horizon. His worst flaw? He’d spent the 8 years since his wife’s pancreatic cancer death turning down every invitation to cookouts, holiday dinners, even the annual fire department fundraiser he’d once helped run, convinced accepting any small kindness meant he was betraying the memory of the woman he’d loved for 34 years. He’d only showed up this year because his old crew showed up on his porch with a six pack of his favorite IPA and refused to leave until he agreed, grumbling the whole drive into town.
The sun hung low enough to gild the tops of the ponderosa pines lining the park, the air thick with the smell of charred bratwurst, charcoal lighter fluid, and the sharp, sweet tang of the huckleberry bushes growing along the fence line. Rafe leaned against the dented metal beer cooler, calloused fingers wrapped around a frosty can, avoiding eye contact with everyone who passed. He’d meant to slip out after an hour, but then the cooler door creaked open next to him, and a woman’s shoulder brushed his hard enough that he almost spilled his beer.
He turned to snap an apology, and froze. Elara Mendez, 58, owned the Main Street pie shop that had been in her family for three generations, and he’d not spoken to her since her husband’s memorial service 12 years prior. Her husband had been a hotshot crew lead, killed in a controlled burn wind shift Rafe had missed by 90 seconds, even though the official investigation cleared him of all fault. He’d carried that guilt like a stone in his pocket ever since, and he’d avoided any place he might run into her for more than a decade.
She wore faded Levi’s, a white t-shirt streaked with flour, and a red flannel tied around her waist, silver streaks in her dark curly hair pulled back in a messy braid. Flour dust coated the knuckles of her right hand, and she smelled like cinnamon and lemon Pledge, the same scent he remembered from the day she’d hugged him after the service and told him she didn’t blame him. He’d run from that hug then, too scared of the way her warmth had seeped through his uniform shirt, too scared of the flicker of something he’d felt that he’d thought was off limits forever.
“Rafe Marino,” she said, grinning, holding eye contact long enough that he felt heat climb up the back of his neck. “I knew the boys would drag you out eventually. I saved you a slice of huckleberry pie. You mentioned once, at the service, that it was your favorite. I’ve saved one for you every year, just in case you showed up.”
A group of kids darted past, chasing a golden retriever with a half-eaten hot dog in its mouth, and she stumbled into him, her hand landing on his forearm to steady herself. He could feel the heat of her palm through the thin cotton of his work shirt, the rough callus on the side of her index finger from lifting pie tins for 30 years, and he didn’t move away. He’d spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched without it being a doctor prodding him for a checkup or a crewmate clapping him on the back after a long shift.
He tried to mumble some excuse about needing to head home, but she shook her head, laughing, the corners of her dark eyes crinkling. “Don’t you dare. I spent three hours picking those huckleberries myself last weekend. You owe me at least a bite, and a story about where the hell you’ve been hiding all these years.”
The stone in his pocket felt lighter, suddenly, the guilt he’d carried for 12 years warring with the quiet, warm hum of desire he’d not felt since his wife got sick. He wanted to run, to go back to his quiet cabin in the woods where no one expected anything from him, where he didn’t have to admit that he was lonely, that he was tired of eating frozen dinners alone, that he’d spent more nights than he could count wondering if he’d ever feel like he deserved to be happy again.
She reached for his wrist, her fingers brushing the thin, silvery scar he’d gotten when a pine bough fell on him during the 2010 Eagle Creek fire, and ran her thumb over it slow, like she knew exactly where it came from, exactly what it meant. “I never blamed you, Rafe,” she said, soft enough that only he could hear, over the buzz of the crowd around them. “Javi always said you were the best spotter he ever worked with. You don’t have to carry that anymore. You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”
He nodded, too choked up to speak, and she pulled a styrofoam container out of the cooler next to her, the top still warm through the thin plastic, and pressed it into his free hand. Tucked under the lid was a crumpled paper napkin, her cell phone number scrawled across it in blue ink, a tiny doodle of a pie next to the digits. “My shop opens at 7 tomorrow,” she said, leaning in just close enough that he could smell the peppermint on her breath. “Come by. I’ll make you fresh coffee, and we can talk more. No pressure. Just… come.”
She winked, then turned to walk back to the dessert table, laughing as a little girl ran up to her begging for a chocolate chip cookie. Rafe stood there for a long minute, the beer in his hand warm now, the pie still hot against his palm, watching her hand the kid a cookie and ruffle her hair. He’d spent 8 years convincing himself that any happiness he felt after his wife died was a betrayal, that he deserved to be alone to atone for all the things he thought he’d done wrong.
He tucked the napkin into the front pocket of his frayed work vest, peeled back the lid of the pie container, and took a bite, the sweet, tart taste of huckleberry bursting across his tongue. For the first time in 8 years, he didn’t feel guilty for smiling.
