Manny Ruiz, 59, retired wildland firefighter turned custom fire pit builder, wiped sawdust off the cuff of his faded red flannel and leaned against the tailgate of his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150. The annual Coconino County fire department chili cookoff hummed around him, the air thick with the tang of roasted Hatch chiles, pine smoke, and cheap light beer sloshing in plastic cups. He’d dropped off three hand-welded steel fire pits for the raffle an hour prior, and planned to leave as soon as he finished his bowl of green chili, until he saw her.
He’d seen her a handful of times before at the small town library, dropping off tattered copies of old wildfire memoirs for their local history collection, but they’d never exchanged more than a quick nod. Clara, the new part-time librarian, mid-50s, moved to town three months prior after her divorce, was laughing so hard at a dumb joke the fire chief was telling that she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle it. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore a cream cable knit sweater that looked soft enough to sink a hand into, paired with worn work boots caked in red clay.
She turned to head toward the food table, caught her boot on a loose tent stake, and stumbled forward. Manny reacted on instinct, the same muscle memory that kicked in when a fire line shifted, reaching out to catch her by the elbow. His calloused, scarred fingers brushed the soft knit of her sweater, and she stumbled into his space, their faces six inches apart for a beat, before she steadied herself. He could smell lavender hand cream, cinnamon from the iced tea in her mason jar, and a faint whiff of turpentine, like she’d been painting that morning.
“Christ, I’m so sorry,” she said, flushing bright pink, brushing dirt off her jeans. “I still haven’t figured out how to walk on this lumpy dirt without face-planting. Whole town’s a tripping hazard.”
Manny huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Took me three years to stop tripping over the same rock on my driveway. Don’t feel bad.”
They talked for 20 minutes, leaning against the tailgate of his truck, the noise of the cookoff fading into background hum. She told him she’d been trying to find someone to build a small fire pit in her side yard, that her grandkids were coming for Thanksgiving and she wanted to be able to make s’mores with them without burning down her pine tree line. He told her about the 2019 Schultz fire, the 12 days he spent camped out on the mountain, the way the sun had looked through the smoke at dawn, bright red as a cherry. When he told her about the time he’d accidentally burned a pot of chili so bad the smoke set off his cabin’s fire alarm, she laughed so hard she leaned into his side, her knee brushing his where they sat on the tailgate. He noticed her nails were chipped with sky blue paint, like she’d been painting her back porch earlier that day, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, the same way his wife’s used to.
That thought hit him like a punch to the chest. He’d not so much as looked at another woman romantically since Maria died eight years prior, convinced any connection meant he was betraying the 32 years they’d had together. His kids had been nagging him for years to get out, to stop spending every night alone in his cabin watching old westerns, but he’d brushed them off every time. Right then, he was torn clean in half: one part of him disgusted that he was even entertaining the idea of talking to another woman, the other part thrumming with a warmth he hadn’t felt in close to a decade, light and giddy like he was 19 again, asking Maria to prom.
She brushed a fleck of sawdust off his jaw, her finger lingering for half a second longer than necessary, and he froze. “You got a little something there,” she said, grinning, like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Anyway, if you’re not busy tomorrow, could you come by my place? I’ll show you the spot for the fire pit, and I make a mean posole. Got green chiles straight from my cousin’s farm down in Hatch last week.”
Manny hesitated for three long seconds, thinking of Maria’s last words, when she’d squeezed his hand and told him not to be stupid, not to shut the world out after she was gone. He nodded, his throat a little tight. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll bring my tape measure, and a six pack of that local amber ale I like. Hope you don’t mind.”
She lit up, pulling a crumpled napkin out of her jeans pocket and scribbling her address on it in sparkly purple pen, tucking it into the breast pocket of his flannel, her hand brushing his chest through the fabric. “3 PM. Don’t be late. And if you are, bring extra beer.”
She waved and walked off to help the volunteer firefighters carry a stack of folding chairs to the picnic tables. Manny pulled the napkin out of his pocket, running his thumb over the messy scrawl, the paper still holding a faint trace of her lavender hand cream. His chili had gone cold, but when he took a bite, it tasted sweeter than any he’d had in years. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, typing a quick text to his oldest daughter: Might have a date tomorrow. Don’t tell your brothers, they’ll never let me live it down. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, leaning against the truck bed as the sun dipped below the ponderosa pines, painting the sky pink and orange.
