Dale Rainer, 58, retired wildland firefighter, had manned the brisket station at the Black Mountain Volunteer FD’s annual summer BBQ for six straight years, and he’d never once been distracted mid-trim. Not when his old crew buddy spilled a full pitcher of sweet tea on his boots, not when a kid snuck under the table and stole a quarter pound of smoked sausage right off his cutting board. The August heat clung thick as pine sap that Saturday, sweat beading at the edge of his faded fire department ball cap, the smell of hickory smoke stinging his eyes, when he heard her voice.
He looked up, and his knife stilled mid-slice. Clara Bennett stood two feet from the grill, linen sundress stuck to her left shoulder with sweat, a canvas library tote slung over one arm, silver streaks in her dark hair catching the sun. He’d seen her around town once or twice, knew she’d taken over as head librarian three months prior, but he’d never been this close. He also knew she was Jake Marlow’s ex-wife, the same Jake he’d not spoken to since 2011, when Jake’s reckless call on a Table Rock blaze left two rookie firefighters with third degree burns. Old crew loyalty ran deep, and Dale had written off anyone tied to Jake as off limits, no exceptions.
“Order for the senior book club?” she said, leaning in a little to be heard over the scream of kids on the bounce house 20 yards away. The scent of lavender cut through the smoke, sharp and sweet, and Dale’s throat went dry. He nodded, grabbing the foil-wrapped stack of brisket containers off the side table, and when he passed them over, the back of his hand brushed hers. Her skin was cool, even in the heat, and he froze for half a second before yanking his hand back like he’d touched the hot grill grate. She didn’t pull away, just held eye contact, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and he noticed the faint scar along her left cheekbone, the same scar he’d heard Jake joke about a hundred times, from a skiing accident when she was 22.
“Dale, right?” she said, tapping the name stitched onto his work shirt. “Jake had a ton of photos of you guys on the wall back when we were married. Said you were the only guy on the crew who never bailed on post-fire beer runs.”
Dale grunted, wiping his hands on his oil-stained jeans, the familiar twist of anger at Jake’s name warring with the stupid flutter in his chest he hadn’t felt since Linda died seven years prior. He’d not so much as looked at another woman since the funeral, convinced any kind of interest was a betrayal, that he’d be spitting on the 32 years they’d had together. He should have handed her the order, mumbled a goodbye, sent her on her way. Instead, he nodded at the crinkled foil in her hands. “Top container has the burnt ends. Old folks love ‘em. Don’t tell the rest of the crowd I saved ‘em.”
She laughed, low and warm, not the high, fake laugh he’d grown used to from the women at church who kept trying to set him up with their widowed sisters. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’m partial to the charred stuff myself. Most guys around here cook brisket so soft it’s like eating baby food.” She paused, twisting the strap of her tote in her fingers, and leaned in a little closer, close enough he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “I’m heading to The Woodchuck later, if you feel like bragging about your brisket skills over a beer. No pressure. Just… I don’t know a lot of people here yet, and you seem like you don’t suffer fools.”
Dale’s first instinct was to say no. To say he had to get home to feed his hound dog, to say he had to prep for a trail maintenance run the next day, to say anything that would get him out of the situation before he did something stupid. But she was still looking at him, no expectation on her face, just that small, easy smile, and he found himself nodding before he could think better of it. “I get off shift here at 7. I’ll stop by.”
He spent the next three hours kicking himself. He thought about Linda, about how she’d tease him for being an idiot if she could see him now, about how the old crew would give him hell if they found out he was hanging out with Jake’s ex. He almost bailed three times on the walk to the bar, but when he pushed open the door, she was sitting in a booth in the back, a half-empty IPA on the table in front of her, and she waved him over like she’d known he’d show.
They sat knee to knee under the table, the jukebox playing old Johnny Cash in the background, and she told him she’d left Jake 8 years prior, when she’d found out he’d been cheating on her with a park ranger for two years, that they’d been divorced longer than they’d been happy. She told him she’d moved to Black Mountain to get away from all the reminders of him, that she’d loved the library here since she was a kid, that she spent her weekends hiking the same trails Dale had been patrolling for 30 years. He told her about Linda, about the cancer that had taken her fast, about how he’d been scared to even let a friend bring a woman around the house for fear he’d feel like he was replacing her.
“No one’s asking you to replace anyone,” she said, and her hand brushed his on the table, light, intentional this time, not an accident. “You’re allowed to have fun without feeling guilty, Dale. She’d want that for you, right?”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull his hand away. They stayed until the bartender flipped on the overhead lights and yelled last call, and he walked her to her car in the dark, the cool mountain air biting at his bare arms. She stopped at her driver’s side door, turned to face him, and leaned up, kissing him first on the cheek, soft, then on the mouth, her lips tasting like IPA and cherry lip balm, her hand resting light on his chest. He kissed her back, slow, no rush, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel that sharp twist of guilt in his gut.
He drove home with the windows down, the smell of pine and damp earth pouring into the cab, his hound dog waiting on the porch when he pulled up, tail thumping so hard the whole porch shook. He knelt down to scratch the dog behind the ears, and noticed he was smiling, his cheeks sore from laughing more than he had in years.
