Clay Bennett, 58, retired US Forest Service fire crew foreman, has not set foot at his small Ohio town’s weekly farmers market in two and a half years. He’s stubborn to a fault, a habit picked up after 32 years of calling shots on fire lines where hesitation could get a man killed, and he’s avoided the market since his wife’s funeral, when half the town showed up to hug him and the other half whispered about how he’d never last alone. He’s perched on a wobbly plastic stool at Mac’s Tap, the dive bar tucked at the edge of the market grounds, sweating through his faded 2017 wildfire season t-shirt, condensation from his cold IPA dripping down his wrist into the cuff of his scuffed work boots. The air reeks of grilled sweet corn and cut clover, and a bluegrass trio off by the produce stands is plucking a slow, rumbly cover of *Folsom Prison Blues* that hums through the table under his elbow. He only agreed to come today because his 7-year-old granddaughter begged for peach cobbler, and the grocery store peaches taste like cardboard this time of year.
He spots Elara Voss the second he steps out of the bar. She’s 52, the new town librarian, and he’s avoided her like the flu since the city council meeting last month, where she’d yelled so loud at the board over their proposed banned book list that her voice cracked for three days after. The town gossip mill had painted her as a homewrecker, run out of her last job for sleeping with a married county commissioner, and Clay had written her off immediately—his wife had spent 25 years teaching high school, had no patience for people who broke up families, and he’d spent the last three years trying to live up to the standards she’d set. He almost turns right back into the bar, but the peach stand is 10 feet from her jam booth, and his granddaughter already thinks he’s a grump.
He steps up to the jam booth first, figuring he’ll grab a jar of blackberry for the cobbler topping, and reaches for the same frosted glass jar she does at the exact same time. Their hands brush, her fingers cold from hauling refrigerated crates of jars all morning, the rough chip of dark purple nail polish on her index finger catching on the callus across his knuckle. He yanks his hand back like he touched a hot stove, and she smirks, the corner of her mouth tucking up into a dimple he didn’t notice from far away. “Relax,” she says, her voice low and rough like she’s been yelling over bluegrass all day, “I don’t bite unless you ask nicely.” He mumbles something about the jam being for his grandkid, and she laughs, a bright, snorting sound that cuts through the fiddle music. She’s wearing a linen button down unbuttoned one notch below what the town would consider proper, a tiny silver firefly necklace glinting at the base of her throat, and he spots a thin, jagged scar on her left wrist, exactly the same shape and size as the one he got when a chainsaw kicked back on a fire line outside Boise in 2009.
She notices him staring, and taps the scar with her finger. “Climbed a chain link fence at 17 to sneak into a restricted part of the state park to stargaze,” she says. “Tripped on the top rail. Had to get 11 stitches.” He huffs a laugh, and holds up his own wrist, the scar pale against his sun-darkened skin. “Chainsaw accident, 2009. 12 stitches. Doc said I almost lost the thumb.” She leans in a little closer, the edge of her sleeve brushing his forearm, and he can smell jasmine and cut grass on her shirt, no heavy perfume, just the kind of smell that sticks to you after you spend all day outside. He asks her about the gossip, before he can think better of it, and her smile fades a little, but she doesn’t get mad. “He was separated,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear. “His ex-wife started the rumor to get full custody of their kids. I left town instead of fighting it. Tired of yelling.” She nods at the sign taped to the front of the booth, handwritten in neon marker: JAM FOR BANNED BOOKS. All proceeds go to the teen section, to stock the books the council wants to throw out—wilderness survival guides, memoirs from queer kids, poetry collections, all stuff the board calls “corrupting.” Clay had read half those survival guides as a kid, had snuck copies of the same poetry books from his high school library when he was 16, and he feels a sharp twist of guilt for writing her off so fast.
Three men in matching “Parents For Decency” t-shirts round the corner of the peach stand then, yelling before they even reach the booth, calling her a pervert, saying she’s grooming kids to be degenerates. Clay steps between them before he even processes what he’s doing, his broad shoulders blocking the booth, 30 years of fire line authority making his voice low and sharp enough to cut. “You folks need to leave,” he says, not yelling, but loud enough the bluegrass trio pauses for half a second. “She’s not bothering anyone. Go yell at the corn vendor if you need something to be mad about.” The men mutter, glance at his USFS shirt, at the scar across his jaw from a falling tree branch, and shuffle away.
Elara touches his arm when they’re gone, her hand warm now, her thumb brushing the edge of the faded fire logo on his t-shirt. “Most people around here just stand there and film,” she says, her hazel eyes flecked with gold in the afternoon sun. “Thanks.” He looks down at her, and for the first time in three years, he doesn’t feel the heavy weight of grief sitting on his chest, just a low, warm buzz under his skin, the same kind of thrill he used to get when he’d climb to the top of a ridge at sunset after a 12 hour shift, when the whole world looked new again.
He buys three jars of jam, two pounds of peaches, slips an extra $20 into the donation jar when she’s not looking. He asks her if she wants to get a beer at Mac’s after the market closes, and she grins, tucking a strand of honey-colored hair behind her ear, and says 7 o’clock sharp, don’t be late. He walks back to his beat up Ford F150, the jam jars clinking in the paper bag, condensation seeping through the paper to dampen the knee of his jeans. He pulls out his phone to text his daughter he won’t make it to family dinner tonight, and glances in the rearview mirror as he pulls out of the parking lot, catching Elara waving at him over the top of the jam booth, the silver firefly necklace glinting in the sun.
