Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired wildland firefighter crew boss, leans against a splintered telephone pole at the Boise foothills summer street fair, cold root beer sweating through the paper cup in his left hand. He’s lived in the tiny mountain town for seven years, ever since his wife Eileen died of ovarian cancer, and he still only talks to three people on a regular basis: the hardware store clerk, the bartender at the dive down the road, and the black lab that hangs around his cabin porch. His biggest flaw, one he’s never bothered to fix, is that he’s convinced he used up all his allowed joy before Eileen’s diagnosis, that any new good thing would be a betrayal of the 32 years they had together.
He’s watching a group of kids chase a golden retriever with a cotton candy stick stuck to its collar when he sees her trip. Mara, his next door neighbor of three months, the one he’s only exchanged stiff, distant waves with from the end of his driveway, is carrying a wooden tray of tiny potted succulents, her scuffed work boots catching on the wheel of a stray stroller. Ronan moves before he thinks, stepping forward to catch her elbow with his free hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around the soft skin just above her leather work glove. The tray tilts, and one plump little green succulent launches straight into the open top of his root beer, fizz splattering up onto his flannel sleeve.
They both freeze for half a second, then laugh so hard Mara has to set the tray down on the sidewalk to catch her breath. She’s 58, runs a mobile plant shop out of a converted 1990s van, has silver streaks shot through her dark brown braid and a small sunflower tattoo peeking out from the collar of her denim jacket. Ronan apologizes for ruining her stock, offers to pay double for the plant, but she waves him off, plucking the succulent out of his soda and shaking the excess fizz off its roots. “It’s yours now,” she says, grinning, her teeth bright against her sun-tanned cheeks. “Seems like it claimed you first.”
He tucks the little succulent into the breast pocket of his flannel, damp soil spotting the faded fire department logo stitched there, and falls into step next to her as she makes her way down the row of booths. Their shoulders brush every three or four steps, and he can smell lavender and pine sap on her, mixed with the faint sweet tang of the lemonade she’s carrying in her other hand. She mentions she saw him hauling cedar planks up to his cabin two weeks ago, asked if he’s finally fixing the rotting front porch he’s been staring at every morning when he drinks his coffee. Ronan blinks, surprised anyone pays that much attention to him, and admits he’s been putting it off for months, scared he’ll mess up the plans Eileen drew up before she died.
The internal hum of guilt he carries everywhere with him buzzes louder the longer they walk. He keeps telling himself he should make an excuse to leave, that he has no business hanging around a woman he barely knows, that Eileen would be hurt if she saw him laughing at a stranger’s jokes about the terrible local mayor. But every time Mara turns to look at him, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners, the buzz fades a little, like wind blowing out a candle. He buys them both carnitas tacos from the food truck at the end of the block, extra lime and cilantro, and they sit on a low brick wall to eat, their knees almost touching.
A gust of wind picks up, carrying the scent of pine from the foothills and the faint twang of a bluegrass band setting up a few booths over. A strand of Mara’s braid comes loose, blowing straight into the stubble on Ronan’s jaw. She reaches up to brush it away, her bare fingers warm against his skin, lingering for half a second before she pulls back. Their eyes lock, and for a second Ronan can’t breathe, the old guilt warring with the sharp, soft spark of desire he hasn’t felt in almost a decade. He admits he’d avoided talking to her since she moved in, because he thought he didn’t get to have nice things anymore. She snorts, and tells him she’d avoided him too, because she thought he was a grumpy loner who hated anyone within a half mile of his property.
The sun dips low below the foothills, painting the sky pink and tangerine, when Mara stands up, brushing crumbs off her jeans. She asks if he wants to bring his root beer succulent back to her van later, so she can repot it properly, and maybe have a glass of cold pinot gris on her porch while they’re at it. Ronan nods, his throat tight, tucks the succulent a little more securely into his pocket. She links her arm through his as they start walking toward the bluegrass stage, her elbow pressed firm against his side. The first chord of the fiddle rings out warm, and for the first time in eight years, Ronan doesn’t feel the urge to leave before the song ends.
