Russell “Rust” Marquez, 53, retired fire department K9 handler, had not intended to show up to the Yamhill County summer street fair. His next door neighbor, a retired teacher named Marnie, had banged on his door at 9 a.m. holding a batch of chocolate chip cookies, saying he’d been holed up in his cottage restoring fishing reels for three straight weeks and if he didn’t get some sun she’d drop off a litter of foster puppies on his porch he’d be forced to care for. He’d caved, thrown on a faded fire department hoodie and scuffed work boots, and drove the 12 miles into town, keeping the radio tuned to classic country so he wouldn’t have to think about the empty passenger seat that had been his wife Lila’s spot for 17 years.
The fair smelled like burnt bratwurst, cotton candy, and cut grass. The tilt-a-whirl screeched at the far end of the main street, kids screaming as it spun. He’d grabbed a paper plate of the overcooked brats and was leaning against a streetlamp, half listening to a retired sheriff he knew ramble about deer season, when he caught the scent of lavender and cedar wrapping around the grease and sugar. He followed it without thinking, stopping short when he saw the woman behind the wooden booth stacked with beeswax candles and glass tins of salve.
It was Clara, Lila’s younger cousin. He hadn’t seen her since Lila’s funeral, 8 years prior, when she’d hugged him tight and slipped a packet of wildflower seeds in his pocket he’d never planted. She looked different now: her dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples, cut short to her jaw, and there was a smudge of beeswax on her left cheekbone, her hands smudged with dirt from potting plants earlier that day. She looked up, and her hazel eyes, the same shade as Lila’s but softer, less sharp around the edges, widened before she grinned.
She leaned across the booth, her forearm brushing his when she reached out to tap the faded logo on his hoodie, the heat of her skin seeping through the thin cotton. “Rust Marquez. I thought that was you. I moved to town three months ago, opened the apothecary on Main Street. Marnie told me you never came into town, so I was half convinced I’d have to show up at your door with a jar of elderberry syrup to track you down.”
He froze for half a second, his chest tight. Part of him screamed to turn and walk away. This was wrong, wasn’t it? Lila’s cousin. People would talk. He’d spent 8 years guarding his grief like it was the only part of Lila he had left, letting anyone in felt like he was giving a piece of her away. But he didn’t move. He leaned against the booth, the rough wood digging into his shoulder, and found himself asking how she’d ended up here, when she’d left the Bay Area, if she still did the watercolor paintings she’d loved as a kid.
They talked for an hour. He told her about the consulting work he did for local fire departments, investigating arson cases, about the old fishing reels he restored in his garage, about the way his left shoulder ached constantly from the day he’d hauled his K9 partner Max out of a burning hardware store 6 years prior. When he handed her a $20 bill for a tin of arnica salve for the shoulder, their fingers brushed, and he felt a jolt like static, warm and sharp, crawling up his arm. He didn’t pull away.
By 8 p.m. the sun was dipping below the oak trees lining the street, the fair vendors packing up their booths, the tilt-a-whirl’s music cutting out. Clara wiped her hands on her jeans, slung a canvas tote over her shoulder, and nodded toward the path leading down to the Willamette River. “You wanna walk? I’ve been dying to see the fireflies out there, and Marnie told me you know all the good spots.”
He hesitated, his throat dry. For 8 years, he’d said no to every invitation that wasn’t work or Marnie’s cookie drops. But he looked at her, the last of the sun gilding the edges of her hair, and nodded.
The path was overgrown, damp grass sticking to the cuffs of his jeans, crickets chirping so loud they drowned out the distant noise of the fair. She took his hand when they stepped over a gully full of river rocks, her palm calloused from digging in dirt, her fingers lacing through his like they belonged there. He didn’t let go. They stopped at a fallen cedar log overlooking the river, sat down, and watched the fireflies blink to life over the water.
“I always had a crush on you, you know,” she said quietly, turning to look at him, her voice barely loud enough to hear over the rush of the river. “When I was 16, I came to visit Lila, and you spent three hours teaching me how to cast a fishing line off your dock. I thought you were the kindest man I’d ever met. Especially when Lila got sick. You never complained, never made her feel like a burden.”
He stared at her, his chest tight, the guilt he’d been carrying for the last three hours melting away. Lila had made him promise, the week before she died, that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life alone. That he’d find someone who made him laugh, who liked his terrible country music, who didn’t mind the smell of fishing grease in the garage. He’d thought that promise was impossible to keep, until right then.
He leaned in, and she met him halfway, the kiss soft and slow, her lips tasting like the peach lemonade she’d been sipping all afternoon, the scent of lavender clinging to her hair. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, the ache in his shoulder fading for the first time in years. Somewhere behind them, a firework exploded in the sky, painting the river pink and gold. He didn’t look away from her.
