Ray Voss, 58, retired Yellowstone park ranger, sat hunched over a folding table at the West Asheville volunteer fire department chili cookoff, the scar across his left knuckle throbbing faintly from carrying a half-dozen cast iron pots of entry chili an hour prior. He’d moved to the area 11 months prior, 7 years to the day after his wife Jan died of ovarian cancer, and had spent most of that time keeping to himself, hiking the Blue Ridge trails, drinking cheap bourbon on his porch, and avoiding Marnie Cole like she was a mother grizzly with a cub hidden behind her. He’d met her at the hardware store in June, when he’d been buying lumber for a new deck, and had spent the next three months kicking himself for how badly he’d wanted to ask her out, the guilt coiling tight in his chest every time he thought about her: she was Tom’s wife, Tom being the fire chief who’d helped him haul his broken down pickup to the mechanic last winter, the only real friend he’d made since moving. He’d told himself wanting her was disrespectful, to Tom, to Jan’s memory, that he was too old for that kind of stupid infatuation anyway.
The gym smelled like cumin, pine floor cleaner, and burnt Pabst Blue Ribbon, the hum of portable space heaters mixing with the shriek of kids chasing each other across the bleachers. The folding chairs were crammed too close together, so Marnie’s knee brushed the raw denim of his jeans every time she shifted to take a bite of chili, the soft pressure sending a jolt up his spine he tried to ignore. He kept his eyes fixed on the score sheet in front of him, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye: silver hoop through her left nostril, chipped burgundy nail polish on her fingers, a smudge of chili powder on her left cheek, her dark hair streaked with gray pulled back in a messy braid. She passed him a plastic spoon to sample the latest entry, their fingers brushing for half a second, and he fumbled the spoon before he caught it. She laughed, a low, warm sound, and he felt his face heat up, like he was 16 again fumbling through his first date.
“Tastes like the bear repellent we used to carry in the backcountry,” he said, after taking a bite of the entry, which was so hot his eyes watered. She snort-laughed, and he noticed her breath smelled like peppermint and bourbon, like she’d snuck a flask in her puffer coat pocket. She winked, and slipped a silver flask out of her pocket, passing it to him under the table, out of view of the fire department guys milling around. He took a sip, the burn of bourbon cutting through the chili heat, and passed it back, their fingers touching again, longer this time, the soft skin of her wrist brushing the scar on his knuckle.
They finished judging an hour later, the winning entry going to a 16 year old scout who’d added smoked venison to his recipe, and Marnie nodded toward the back door, motioning for him to follow her outside. The air was cold, sharp with the smell of fallen oak leaves and wood smoke from a nearby fire pit, crickets chirping in the trees lining the parking lot. She leaned against the cinder block wall of the gym, pulling her flask back out, and took a long sip before passing it to him.
“Okay, spill,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why have you been avoiding me for three months? I saw you at the grocery store last week and you bolted down the cereal aisle like I was holding a warrant for your arrest.”
He hesitated, staring at the scuffed toes of his work boots, the guilt coiling tighter in his chest, half disgust at himself for even feeling this way, half want so strong it made his hands shake. “You’re Tom’s wife,” he said, finally, not looking up. “He’s my friend. I didn’t want to cross any lines. I haven’t… I haven’t felt this way about anyone since Jan died. It felt wrong.”
She was quiet for a second, then she laughed, soft, not unkind. “Tom and I have been separated for 10 months,” she said, and he looked up, surprised. “We didn’t tell anyone before the cookoff, we were co-chairing it, didn’t want the drama. We’re still friends, no hard feelings. We just grew apart.” She pushed off the wall, stepping closer to him, so close he could feel the heat coming off her coat, see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “And for what it’s worth, I’ve been avoiding you too. Was scared you thought I was too much of a loudmouth, or that I’d bore you talking about old vinyl records all day.”
She lifted her hand, hovering it over his left wrist for a second before she touched him, her thumb brushing over the raised scar on his knuckle, soft, tentative. “I’ve been curious about this since the first time I saw you at the hardware store,” she said, her voice lower now, quieter. “What happened?”
“Grizzly cub,” he said, his voice rough, he didn’t pull away. “Tried to pick up a can of bear spray I dropped, it swiped me. Mom was 20 yards away, I ran faster than I ever have in my life.”
She smiled, her thumb still brushing his knuckle, and he could feel the warmth of her hand through his flannel shirt sleeve, the cold air stinging his cheeks, the distant sound of someone yelling inside the gym for the judges to come present the winner’s trophy. She pulled her hand back after a second, tucking her flask back into her coat pocket, and nodded toward the door.
“Come by my shop tomorrow after closing,” she said, grinning. “I got a first pressing of Johnny Cash’s At Folsom Prison I’ve been dying to show you. And don’t bolt this time, okay?”
He nodded, watching her walk back inside first, the hem of her flannel shirt brushing the back of his hand as she passed, the faint smell of her lavender shampoo lingering in the cold air around him. He waited another 30 seconds before following her in, tucking his cold hands into his jeans pockets, the scar on his knuckle still tingling where she’d touched it.
