Elroy Voss, 52, retired hotshot crew lead for the Willamette National Forest, had only agreed to man the fire safety booth at the annual Maplewood Harvest Fair because his 16-year-old niece had batted her eyelashes and said she’d skip her first high school football game if he bailed. He stood slouched against the folding table, faded Nomex jacket unzipped over a threadbare gray tee, work boots crusted with pine sap from splitting firewood that morning, ignoring the hum of the crowd around him. The air reeked of fried elephant ears, smoked almonds, and cheap draft beer pouring from the beer garden tent two booths over, and a tinny country cover band blared 90s hits from the stage at the end of the block. He’d already turned down three offers of homemade pie, two invitations to join the cornhole tournament, and one very forward advance from the 61-year-old librarian who’d brought him a lemonade an hour prior.
He was halfway through shoving a stack of wildfire evacuation pamphlets into a neat pile when Maren Hale stepped up to the booth. He knew exactly who she was. Wife of the county commissioner, the same man who’d cut the rural fire department budget by 20% earlier that year, the same man who’d yelled at Elroy for 10 minutes straight at the re-election fundraiser for “scaring the public” with his warnings about understaffed fire crews. She was wearing a sunflower print sundress that hit just above her knees, bare arms dusted with freckles, wavy auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid, holding a sweating cup of peach iced tea in one hand. She didn’t hesitate, leaned against the edge of the table so close her elbow brushed his forearm, and he caught a whiff of lavender lotion and sun-warmed skin over the smell of fried dough.
Elroy tensed up immediately. He’d spoken to her all of three times in the five years he’d lived in the area, each exchange short, polite, overshadowed by her husband’s loud, overbearing presence. He opened his mouth to say something snarky about her husband’s latest budget cuts, but she smiled first, soft, not the tight, rehearsed grin she wore at public events. “I saw your name on the booth sign when I walked in,” she said, nodding at the handwritten poster taped to the front of the table. “Wanted to say I agreed with everything you said at the town hall last month. Tom’s an idiot for ignoring you.”
Elroy blinked. He hadn’t expected that. He grunted, shifted his weight, kicked a loose pebble across the asphalt. “Figured you’d be on his side, considering.” She laughed, loud, genuine, threw her head back a little, and he found himself staring at the line of her throat before he caught himself and looked away. She leaned in closer, shoulder pressed to his now, so no one walking by could hear, “Tom’s been cheating on me with his admin for six months. I’m filing for divorce next week.”
The words hung between them for a beat. Elroy didn’t know what to say, so he handed her a pamphlet, his fingers brushing hers when she took it. She held his gaze, steady, no shyness there, and he felt his face heat up a little, something tight in his chest loosening that he’d thought was permanently knotted after his wife died three years prior. He’d not felt that pull, that stupid, giddy flutter in his stomach, in so long he’d forgotten what it felt like. Part of him screamed that this was a bad idea, that Tom would raise hell, that the whole town would gossip, that he was betraying the memory of his wife by even entertaining this. The other part of him, the part that had been alone in that cabin for three years eating frozen dinners and talking to his border collie, didn’t care.
They talked for 40 minutes, while his niece ran off to ride the Ferris wheel with her friends. Maren told him she’d grown up on a sheep farm outside of Bend, that she hated Tom’s political events, that she’d been coming to the harvest fair every year since she was a kid. Elroy told her about fighting fires in the Sierra Nevada, about the cabin he’d built himself on 20 acres of land outside of town, about his wife’s favorite strawberry shortcake that he still made every year on her birthday. She reached up at one point to brush a pine needle off the lapel of his jacket, her fingers lingering on the rough fabric for two beats too long, and he didn’t move away.
When his niece came back, red-faced and holding a giant blue cotton candy, Maren asked if he wanted to walk the river trail after he was done with the booth, said the sunset over the water was pretty this time of year. He hesitated, then nodded.
The trail was shaded by oak trees, the sound of the river gurgling off to their left, crickets starting to chirp as the sun dipped low over the hills, painting the sky pink and tangerine. She stopped next to a fallen Douglas fir log halfway down the trail, turned to him, and stepped so close their chests brushed. “I’ve liked you since the first time I met you, at your wife’s funeral,” she said, quiet, no hesitation. “You were the only person there who didn’t act like I was just Tom’s accessory.”
Elroy didn’t say anything. He lifted his hand, rested it on her waist, felt the warm skin under the thin fabric of her dress, and pulled her closer. The kiss was slow, soft, tasted like peach iced tea and mint gum, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting something for himself.
