Cole Bennett, 56, leans against a splintered picnic table at the neighborhood summer beer garden, scowling into his pilsner. A former wildland firefighter who now runs a one-man firewood delivery outfit outside Boise, he’d sworn off all HOA-sponsored events three months prior, when the board forced him to take down the custom cedar firewood rack he’d built with his late wife for their 20th anniversary, then hit him with a $125 fine. His best friend Mike had dragged him out tonight, swearing the craft beer vendor was a guy they’d fought fires with back in 2012, but Cole’s already debating bailing before anyone recognizes him and starts lecturing him about “curb appeal.” His work boots are caked with pine sap, his cut-off gray fire service hoodie has a hole at the elbow, and he’s easily the only person in the park not wearing khaki shorts and an embroidered polo.
He spots her ten feet away before he can make a run for the exit. Clara Voss, 54, HOA president, the woman he’d yelled at for ten minutes straight during the violation hearing, is leaning against the adjacent table, no blazer, no clipboard, just a pale blue linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, white denim cutoffs, and scuffed white sneakers, holding a hazy IPA and laughing as a toddler shoves a handful of cotton candy in her face. Sun freckles dust the bridge of her nose, and there’s a thin silver scar wrapping around her left wrist he’d never noticed during the stuffy board meetings, where she’d always sat behind a table, face set in a neutral bureaucratic scowl.
He spins on his heel fast enough to slosh his own beer, and his elbow knocks the can right out of her hand, spilling half of it down her forearm. He freezes, then grabs a handful of crumpled napkins from the table, reaching for her arm before he can think better of it. His calloused, splintered fingers brush the soft skin of her wrist first, and he expects her to yank back, to start lecturing him about public decorum, but she doesn’t. She just tilts her head back and laughs, loud and warm over the bluegrass band playing on the small stage. “Easy there, fireman. Don’t put me out before I finish my drink.”
He stammers an apology, dabbing the beer off her skin, and she nods at the scar on her wrist when his thumb brushes it by accident. “Dirt bike crash, 16. Wiped out on the trail up in the Boise National Forest, same one half the town rides now.” He blinks. That’s the same trail he rides every Saturday morning, the one he’d patrolled for 22 years with the forest service. He’d never pictured the HOA president on a dirt bike.
She admits, after a minute of awkward small talk, that she’d been the only board member to vote against fining him. The retired lawyer two doors down from him had filed three formal complaints, claiming the rack attracted rodents, and the rest of the board had railroaded her. She’d even tried to amend the rule three weeks prior, but the vote had failed. “I cried after that meeting, you know,” she says, quiet enough that no one else can hear. “You brought photos of you and your wife building it. I hated that we made you take it down.”
The crowd presses in as the band picks up a faster tune, a group of teens darting past with snow cones, and she steps closer to him to avoid getting hit, her chest brushing his bicep. He can smell coconut sunscreen, citrus hops, and the faint vanilla of her lip balm, and he’s torn so sharp he almost flinches: half of him still wants to storm off, hold the grudge he’s nursed for three months, the other half can’t stop staring at the gold streaks in her brown hair when the sunset hits it.
She nods toward the treeline at the edge of the park, where fireflies are starting to blink on in the fading purple light. “It’s too loud over here. Wanna walk?” He nods, following her across the soft grass, the crunch of their boots mixing with the distant sound of the band. She leans against the trunk of a gnarled old ponderosa pine when they reach the edge of the property, crossing her arms, and tells him she’s been divorced three years, got sick of dating guys who only cared about their golf handicaps and their 401k balances. She’d noticed him months before the board meeting, actually, seen him stacking firewood in his driveway in the rain, and thought he looked like the kind of guy who didn’t put up with nonsense.
He laughs, shaking his head. “I spent three months thinking you were the most stuck-up person in this neighborhood.” She smirks, pushing off the tree and stepping closer, so close he can feel the heat off her arms. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I still have that dirt bike, by the way. Parked in my garage. I ride that same trail you do on Saturdays. Pass you sometimes, you’re always too busy staring at the trees to notice.”
They talk for another 40 minutes, no mention of HOAs or fines or neighborhood rules, just swapping stories about bad fire calls and worse dirt bike crashes, about the way the sky turns neon pink over the foothills this time of year, about the huckleberry pie at the diner on Main Street that’s worth waiting 45 minutes for. By the time the park starts clearing out, the sky is dark, and the band is packing up their gear.
She says she should head home, and asks him to meet her at that diner tomorrow at 9 a.m., her treat. He agrees, no hesitation, and walks her to her beat-up Subaru Outback parked at the edge of the lot. She pauses before opening the driver’s side door, reaching out to squeeze his hand, her palm soft but firm, calloused a little at the fingers from holding bike handlebars. She rolls the window down as she pulls out, waving at him, grinning so wide the dimples in her cheeks show.
He stands there until her taillights disappear around the corner, the faint ghost of her coconut sunscreen still clinging to the cuff of his cut-off hoodie.
