Russell “Rust” Mendez, 62, retired smokejumper turned southwest Michigan blueberry farm manager, leans against the splintered beer tent post, sipping a lukewarm draft Pabst. He only came to the town’s annual fireman’s carnival because his seasonal crew took first place in the blueberry pie contest, and the $200 prize check would cover new work gloves for everyone. He’s avoided all small town events for eight years, ever since he moved east after his wife Elara died of ovarian cancer, preferring the quiet of his 40 acre farm to the constant gossip clinging to Michigan lake towns like mildew on a dock. The scar slicing across his left cheek, from a 2017 wildfire outside Missoula, tingles when the humid July breeze hits it, and he scratches it absently while watching demolition derby cars smash into each other in the dirt pit 50 feet away.
He spots Clara Hale 10 minutes later, leaning against the cornhole stand fence, one boot propped on the bottom rail, sipping a lime seltzer. She’s 48, just finalized her divorce from the town’s newly elected mayor three weeks prior, after he got caught sending explicit photos to his 29 year old chief of staff. Half the town is on the mayor’s side, calling her a gold digger who only married him for his lakefront property, and Rust has avoided her since she moved into the house two properties down from his farm, not wanting to get dragged into the mess. She’s wearing a cutoff red flannel over a thin white tank, high waisted jeans with a tear at the left knee, silver hoop earrings that catch the string lights strung across the carnival grounds. Her legs are bare, freckled, tanned from gardening, and he looks away fast, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
She sees him anyway. She pushes off the fence, grinning, and walks over, her boots kicking up little clouds of dirt as she moves. She stops so close he can smell coconut sunscreen and a hint of vanilla perfume, her hip almost brushing his. “Thought you hated town events,” she says, nodding at his beer, and he blinks, surprised she even knows who he is. “I don’t,” he says, gruff, and she laughs, a low warm sound that cuts through the derby noise. “Bullshit. I’ve lived here two months, I’ve never seen you anywhere but the general store or your tractor.” A group of teen boys runs past, chasing each other with cotton candy, and one slams into her shoulder. She stumbles, grabs his arm to steady herself, her palm warm and calloused against his bicep through his faded Carhartt shirt. She doesn’t let go right away, her fingers pressing into the muscle there, before she pulls back, nodding at his beer. “That taste better than my seltzer? I’m sick of the lime crap.”
He doesn’t answer, just hands her the bottle. She takes it, her fingers brushing his when she wraps them around the cold glass, and takes a long sip, her throat bobbing. She hands it back, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Better. Thanks. I need to ask you a favor. The storm last week knocked down half the split rail fence on the west side of my property. I can’t lift the posts by myself. I’ll pay you, or bring you whatever you want from my garden—tomatoes, zucchini, that sour cherry pie you like. I saw you buy three of them from the farmers market last month.” He freezes for a second, thrown that she’s paid that much attention. He wants to say no, wants to tell her he doesn’t want to be the next subject of town gossip, that everyone already calls her a troublemaker and he doesn’t need that kind of attention. But she’s looking at him, steady, no fake smile, no awkwardness, and he can’t get the image of her hauling a 50 pound bag of dog food up her porch steps by herself last week out of his head.
The first firework goes off before he can answer, a loud boom that rumbles through the ground under his boots, painting the sky bright pink. Everyone around them cheers, moving closer to the field, and she steps in even nearer, her shoulder pressing flush against his bicep, no space between them. Another one goes off, gold, and she flinches a little, grabs his wrist, her fingers tight around the bone. He doesn’t pull away. He looks down at her, and she’s looking up at him, the colors from the fireworks reflecting in her dark eyes, her mouth slightly parted. He can feel her breath on his jaw, mint and lime and the faint bitter tang of beer. “I’ll be there at 9 tomorrow,” he says, loud enough that only she can hear it. “I’ll bring one of the pie contest winning blueberry pies. No charge for the fence.” She grins, so bright it outshines the fireworks behind her, and squeezes his wrist. “Good. I’ll have iced coffee waiting. Extra cream. I saw you dump three packets in your coffee at the general store last Tuesday.”
The fireworks end 15 minutes later, the crowd cheering one last time before people drift to their cars, carrying leftover cotton candy and stuffed animal prizes. She lets go of his wrist, sliding her hand down to lace her fingers through his for half a second before she pulls away. “I gotta go walk my hound,” she says, nodding toward the parking lot. “Don’t be late. I lock the gate at 9:05.” She turns and walks away, the hem of her jeans swishing around her ankles, her silver hoops catching the string lights as she goes. He stands there for another minute, finishing the last of his beer, watching her get into her beat up Subaru and pull out of the lot, waving at him through the window as she drives past. He tucks the prize check into the pocket of his work pants, already listing the tools he’ll need to load into his truck in the morning.
