Elroy Voss, 67, spent 22 years as a smokejumper in the Northern Rockies before retiring to build custom steel fire pits out of his garage outside Kalispell, Montana. He’s stubborn to a fault, has avoided the town’s annual summer block party every year since his wife Linda died four years prior, writing the whole event off as forced small talk and overcooked brats. The only reason he’s there now, leaning against the dented side of his 1998 Ford F-150 with a lukewarm PBR in one hand, is his 16-year-old granddaughter begged him to come support her lemonade stand entry in the town’s youth business contest.
The air sits thick at 82 degrees, sharp with pine, charcoal smoke, and the faint chemical tang of OFF! bug spray. Kids dart between lawn chairs and coolers, yelling so loud his left ear (ringing permanently from a 2011 blaze that blew a cedar snag 10 feet from his head) hums a little. He’s halfway through mentally drafting a fire pit design for a client down the valley when a woman carrying a stack of paper plates heaped with peach cobbler trips over a kid’s skateboard at his feet.
He reacts faster than most men his age, years of jump training hardwired into his reflexes. He catches the tray with his free hand before it hits the dirt, his other hand wrapping around her elbow to steady her. His calloused, scarred knuckles (crisscrossed with old burn marks, the spot where his left pinky used to be smooth and pale from decades of healing) brush her bare forearm, and he catches a whiff of vanilla and cinnamon, warm and soft, nothing like the pine and diesel and welding fumes he’s surrounded by most days. She laughs, a low, throaty sound, and holds his eye contact for three beats longer than casual politeness dictates, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Still getting used to these cracked sidewalks,” she says, wiping a smudge of flour off her linen sundress. “Mara. Moved here three months ago from Seattle to be close to my grandson.”
He introduces himself, hands her the tray, and she shoves a cobbler sample into his palm before he can protest. It’s sweet, the peaches ripe enough to burst, the crust buttery and crumbly, better than any dessert he’s had since Linda stopped baking. She leans against the truck bed next to him, close enough that their shoulders are six inches apart, and admits she hates block parties too, only showed up because her 7-year-old grandson entered his dinosaur-decorated bike in the parade. He finds himself telling her about Linda, about how she used to enter her peach pie in the block party contest every year and lose to the same lady from the church auxiliary, about how he stopped coming because it felt like walking around with a hole in his chest. She doesn’t pat his arm or give him that pitying look everyone else does when he mentions Linda. She just nods, says her ex-husband left her for a hot yoga instructor seven years ago, and she’s avoided large public gatherings ever since, scared she’d end up stuck talking to a couple that’s been married 40 years who’d ask why she’s alone.
A group of kids playing tag dart between them, and she steps forward to avoid getting run over, her hip pressing against his for half a second. He can feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress and his worn denim jeans, and his throat goes tight for a second, half guilt, half something sharp and warm he hasn’t felt in years. He’s spent so long telling himself dating again would be a betrayal, that he’s too old for that nonsense, that the thought makes his skin crawl for half a beat before the desire wins out, quiet and steady. She points to the empty spot where his pinky used to be, asks about it, and he tells her the story of the 2009 blaze outside Missoula, the snag that fell on his hand when he was digging a fire line, how the medic had to cut it off with a pocket knife 10 miles from the nearest road. She winces, but doesn’t look away, asks if he still has phantom pains, and he laughs, says only when it’s about to rain, like a lousy weather barometer.
The emcee announces the youth contest winners over the speakers, and his granddaughter’s name is called for first place in the lemonade category. She comes sprinting over, trophy in hand, hugs him so tight his ribs ache, then grins at Mara. “You’re the lady who tried my strawberry lemonade earlier, right? You said it was better than the stuff at the mall food court.” Mara nods, tells her it’s the best lemonade she’s ever had, and the kid lights up before running off to show her trophy to her friends.
The sun dips below the pine line, painting the sky soft pink and tangerine, and the local cover band starts playing a slow, twangy version of Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line.” Mara tilts her head, her hair falling in a silver streak over her shoulder, and holds out her hand. He hesitates for two full seconds, his brain flashing to the last time he danced, his 30th anniversary with Linda in their living room, barefoot, drinking cheap wine. Then he takes her hand. Her palm is soft, but dotted with small calluses from kneading dough, fits perfectly in his bigger, rougher hand. They sway slow, not too close, but their chests brush every time they shift, and she rests her other hand light on his shoulder, her thumb brushing the edge of his worn flannel shirt. He can hear the crackle of the community grill, the kids laughing in the distance, the low thrum of the bass, and the ringing in his ear fades for the first time all night. He doesn’t feel guilty. He feels light, like he’s been carrying a cinder block in his chest for four years and just set it down.
When the song ends, she pulls back a little, still holding his hand, and smiles, the corners of her mouth turning up just enough to show a tiny dimple in her left cheek. She asks if he wants to head to the 24-hour diner down the street after the party wraps up, says they have the best chocolate milkshakes in the valley, extra whipped cream. He nods, says that sounds real good.
