Manny Ruiz, 59, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew boss, stood in the brisket line at the Missoula summer food festival, scowling at the group of teens darting between coolers with popsicles dripping down their wrists. He’d only come because his 12-year-old granddaughter had begged, promised he could get the same oak-smoked brisket he’d loved back when he was working fires, and then bailed 20 minutes before to go to a friend’s pool party. His boots crunched on sun-baked gravel, the air thick with the smell of hickory smoke, pickled red onion, and the faint sweet tang of lemonade from the stand two rows over. He’d worn his old crew jacket, frayed at the cuffs, emblazoned with his last name in faded white lettering across the chest, mostly to ward off small talk.
The woman in front of him stepped back abruptly to avoid a kid on a scooter, and her shoulder slammed into his sternum hard enough to make him huff. He caught her elbow automatically, calloused fingers wrapping around cool, sun-warmed skin, and she twisted to look up at him, laughing, a strand of dark hair streaked with silver falling across her hazel eyes. “Sorry about that,” she said, and she smelled like pine sap and lavender lip balm, the kind his wife used to wear on camping trips. She held his gaze for three full beats, long enough that he felt heat creep up the back of his neck, before she nodded at his jacket. “Ruiz? I’m Lena Voss. My little brother, Jase, was on your crew back in the 2012 Lolo fire.”
Manny’s first instinct was to pull his hand away, step back, mumble a greeting and go back to staring at the back of the food truck. He hadn’t let anyone stand that close to him on purpose since Clara died eight years prior, had built a reputation as the valley’s grumpiest widower, turned down three different dinner invitations from neighbors in the last six months alone. He kept telling himself dating again would be a betrayal, that wanting anyone else made him a lousy husband, even long after the casket was lowered into the ground. But Lena didn’t move, didn’t seem put off by his scowl, and when she reached for a stack of napkins at the same time he did, their hands brushed, and she didn’t yank hers away. “I saw you at the hardware store last month,” she said, grinning, as they got their orders, styrofoam containers hot enough to seep through the paper wrapping into their palms. “You were hefting a 50 pound bag of concrete like it owed you money, and the kid behind the counter was about to offer help, and you gave him that look so fast he hid behind the paint display.”
Manny snorted before he could stop himself. He followed her to a picnic table tucked under a ponderosa pine, the shade cutting the summer heat just enough, and sat across from her, picking at the crispy edge of his brisket. They talked about Jase, who now ran a fishing guide service in Idaho, about the 2012 fire, about the pine beetle infestation that had wiped out half the old growth on the west side of the valley. Lena ran a native plant nursery out of her property 20 minutes outside town, she told him, and she had a stand of beetle-killed pines she needed felled, didn’t trust the random guys she found on Facebook not to take out the young saplings she’d been nurturing for three years. “I’ll pay you,” she said, leaning forward, her elbows on the table, and the neck of her faded flannel gaped just enough that he could see the edge of a pine cone tattoo on her collarbone. “Or I’ll trade you a pie. Peach, picked straight off my tree. Best in the county, according to the 4H judges.”
A gust of wind picked up, blowing a napkin off the table, and she leaned across to grab it, her shoulder pressing flush against his, the soft fabric of her flannel rubbing against the bare skin of his forearm. She froze for half a second, then looked up at him, no grin this time, just quiet, unhurried intent, and brushed a fleck of barbecue sauce off his stubbled chin with her thumb. “I know you don’t like letting people help,” she said, soft enough that no one but him could hear, over the roar of the crowd and the country music playing from the speaker by the entrance. “But no one’s gonna think less of you for not spending every weekend alone fixing your porch and eating frozen dinners.”
Manny’s throat felt tight. He’d spent so long clinging to the guilt of even wanting to talk to someone that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen, not as the grumpy widower, not as the old hotshot boss, just as Manny. He didn’t say anything for a long minute, then nodded. “I’ll come out Saturday,” he said. “Skip the cash. Bring the pie. And a six pack of that hazy IPA the brewery on 5th makes.”
Lena laughed, bright and loud, and scribbled her address on the back of a brisket menu, adding a tiny doodle of a pine tree next to her phone number before she handed it to him. She hugged her leftover container to her chest, said she had to go drop off plants for a client, and waved when she got in her beat-up pickup truck, honking once before she pulled out of the parking lot.
Manny tucked the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket, right next to the crumpled photo of Clara and his granddaughter he kept there, and took a bite of his brisket, the smoky, salty flavor bursting across his tongue. He didn’t feel guilty when he smiled, not even a little bit.
