Rafe Mendez, 59, retired wildlife refuge ranger, stood slouched against the split-rail fence surrounding Silverton’s weekly summer beer garden, the cold aluminum of a hazy IPA digging into his calloused palm. He’d avoided the event for seven straight years, ever since his wife Lena’s funeral, convinced it was nothing but bored retirees trading the same old stories and bad pickup lines, but his old volunteer coordinator had cornered him at the hardware store that morning, said the new backcountry trail maps he’d spent three months drafting were being handed out at the refuge booth, and he owed it to the crew to show up for an hour at least. The air smelled like charred bratwurst, pine carried down from the surrounding peaks, and the sharp, fruity tang of seltzers mixed with spilled beer, while a local bluegrass trio plucked a fast, twangy tune from the small wooden stage at the center of the lot.
He’d been there 20 minutes, already turned down three offers to join a group of former coworkers at a folding table, when she walked up. He recognized her immediately: Clara Voss, the town’s new part-time librarian, and ex-wife of his old refuge supervisor Roger Hale, the man who’d made his last five years on the job a living hell by cutting trail maintenance budgets and forcing him to skip rescue calls to fill out pointless paperwork. She’d moved to town six months prior, fresh off a quiet divorce from Roger, and he’d only ever exchanged a quick nod with her at the post office before that day. She wore faded cutoff jean shorts and a linen button-down left unbuttoned over a plain white tank top, a smudge of blue ink on her left wrist from stamping library books, and held a can of cherry seltzer in one hand as she leaned toward the table to grab a trail map.
Their hands brushed when she reached for the same stack he was about to restock, and he felt the heat of her skin through the thin paper of the map for half a second, long enough that they both froze for a beat before pulling back. She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the bluegrass for a second, and held his eye contact longer than casual politeness dictated, the corners of her mouth tugging up in a teasing smirk. “I’ve been looking for these,” she said, flipping the map over to scan the back, her shoulder brushing his bicep as she shifted her weight. “All the regulars at the library say you’re the only person who knows those back trails well enough to mark the good swimming holes and the spots where moose like to bed down in August.” Rafe grunted, not used to being the center of anyone’s attention that wasn’t asking him to fix a broken fence or rescue a lost hiker, and stared at the scuffed toes of his work boots for a second before he dared look back at her. He could smell lavender lotion on her skin, mixed with the cherry fizz from her seltzer, and his throat felt tight for a reason that had nothing to do with the dust blowing through the lot.
The conflict hit him fast, sharp as the edge of a pocket knife. Everyone in Silverton knew Roger and Clara split badly, and everyone knew Roger still hated Rafe’s guts for calling him out on the budget cuts at a public town hall three years prior. If anyone saw them talking for more than 30 seconds, gossip would spread faster than a wildfire in dry brush, and he’d have to deal with passive aggressive comments from Roger every time they ran into each other at the grocery store for the next six months. He almost made an excuse to leave, to say he had to get back to his cabin to feed his old hound dog, but she leaned in a little closer, so he could hear her over the whoop of a group of tourists passing by, and said she’d been wanting to hike the high alpine trail marked on the map for weeks, but didn’t know the area well enough to go alone, and none of her librarian friends were willing to wake up at 5 a.m. to beat the midday heat. Rafe’s chest felt light, weirdly giddy, a feeling he hadn’t experienced since Lena was alive and they’d plan weekend camping trips months in advance.
He heard Roger’s loud, braying laugh from across the beer garden right then, and looked up to see his old supervisor heading straight for the map table, a plastic plate stacked with brats and potato salad in one hand. Rafe’s first instinct was to step away, to pretend he’d been talking to the volunteer manning the table instead of Clara, but he looked back at her, at the way she was biting her lower lip like she was waiting to see if he’d chicken out, and he didn’t move. “I’m free Wednesday at 6 a.m.,” he said, loud enough that anyone passing could hear, and when she pulled a pen out of her shirt pocket and scribbled her cell number on the back of the map she was holding, he took it from her and tucked it straight into the breast pocket of his worn flannel shirt, right as Roger walked up.
Roger nodded stiffly at Rafe, his eyes flicking between the two of them for a second like he was trying to figure out what he’d walked in on, but he didn’t say a word, just grabbed a map off the stack and mumbled a thanks to the volunteer before turning and walking back to his table across the lot. Clara laughed again, shaking her head, and took a sip of her seltzer. “Told you he wouldn’t say anything,” she said, and winked at him before she stepped back, adjusting the strap of her canvas bag over her shoulder. “I’ll text you my address Tuesday. Don’t be late.” She waved at him over her shoulder as she walked toward the exit, and Rafe leaned back against the fence, taking a long sip of his beer, the crinkle of the map in his pocket rubbing against his chest every time he breathed.
The bluegrass band switched to a slower, softer tune right then, and a pair of retirees he’d known for 20 years swayed together in front of the stage, holding each other like they didn’t care who was watching. Rafe finished his beer, tossed the empty can in a nearby recycling bin, and decided he’d stop by the library the next day to drop off a list of gear she’d need to bring, even if he didn’t have an actual reason to go. He pulled his truck keys out of his jeans pocket, already mentally mapping the best spots to stop on the hike to show her the view of the valley at sunrise, and smiled to himself, small and private, as he walked toward the parking lot.
