Roland Voss, 62, retired forest fire spotter, had not spoken to Maren Hale in nearly eight years. He’d gone out of his way to avoid her, actually, taking the long route to the grocery store, skipping the annual fire crew reunion potlucks, pretending he didn’t see her wave when they passed each other on the rural highway outside Silverton, Oregon. His wife had died of ovarian cancer in 2015, and some stupid, stubborn part of him had decided that even looking at another woman—especially Maren, the sharp, quick-laughed ex-wife of his old fire crew partner—was a betrayal of the 32 years he’d had with Ellen.
The annual fall harvest fair forced his hand this year. The line for spiced apple cider, the only thing he’d come for, snaked right past Maren’s jam stand, the wooden slats strung with fairy lights and hand-painted signs advertising huckleberry, peach, and wild blackberry preserves. The air smelled like cinnamon roasted almonds and damp fallen maple leaves, the distant roar of the pumpkin weigh-off crowd mixing with the low gurgle of the big stock pot of simmering apricot jam behind her counter. He leaned against a split-rail fence, pretending to study the 1,200 pound giant pumpkin being rolled onto the scale, but his eyes kept drifting back to her. Her flannel sleeves were rolled to her elbows, forearms dusted with fine sugar and dotted with freckles, a thin white scar snaking around her left wrist from the 2004 rafting trip where he’d watched her slip and slice her arm on a jagged river rock. He’d helped wrap the cut that day, his hands shaking so bad he’d fumbled the gauze three times.
She looked up then, caught him staring. He froze, half-expecting her to roll her eyes and turn away, but she grinned, wiped her hands on the front of her denim apron, and waved him over. His boots felt glued to the ground for three full beats before he moved, crossing the ten feet of packed dirt between the fence and her stand slowly, like he was approaching a skittish deer. When he got close enough, he caught the scent of her perfume, something piney and warm, mixed with the sweet, thick tang of boiling fruit.
“Thought you were avoiding me,” she said, leaning her elbows on the counter, the top of her head just inches from his chest. She held out a cracker slathered with huckleberry jam, and when he reached for it, their fingers brushed. The jolt that ran up his arm was sharp, unexpected, like the static shock he used to get from the fire tower radio when a thunderstorm rolled in. He tasted the jam, sweet and bright, and nearly choked when he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything that wasn’t quiet, dull resignation. The disgust hit right after, hot and sharp in his chest—what the hell was he doing, flirting with his old partner’s ex, not even a decade after Ellen died?
He fumbled through small talk, mumbled about fixing the gutters on his cabin, splitting firewood for the winter, avoiding her eyes the whole time. She didn’t push, just laughed when he complained about the squirrels stealing his bird feeder seed, leaned in a little closer when he mentioned he’d been sleeping on the couch in the living room lately because the bedroom felt too big alone. When a group of teens grabbed a handful of sample crackers and ran off cackling, she shook her head, and her shoulder brushed his. He didn’t step back.
“Closing up in ten minutes,” she said, wiping the counter down with a rag, her eyes locked on his. “Wanna grab a beer at The Pine Tap down the street? I haven’t heard a good fire tower story out of you in years.”
He almost said no. Almost made up an excuse about having to get home to feed his hound dog, even though the dog was staying with his niece for the weekend. But he looked at her hazel eyes, flecked with gold, crinkled at the corners like she smiled more than he did, and he nodded.
They walked side by side down the main street, their shoulders brushing every few steps, the distance between them so small he could feel the heat radiating off her wool jacket. The bar was dim, smelled like sawdust and fried peanuts, the jukebox spitting out old Johnny Cash deep cuts. They sat in a booth in the back, and the bartender slid them two cold IPAs without asking, like he’d been expecting them. They talked for two hours, first about old crew pranks, then about Ellen’s last few months, then about her ex leaving her for a 28 year old barista three years after they split. When she reached across the table and covered his hand with hers, her palm warm and calloused from stirring jam 12 hours a day, he didn’t pull away. The guilt that had been coiled in his chest all day loosened, just a little. Ellen would have hated seeing him mope around the cabin alone, he realized. She would have told him to stop being an idiot and let himself be happy.
They left when the sun dipped below the oak trees, the sky streaked pink and tangerine, the air sharp enough to make his nose run. He walked her to her beat-up Ford pickup, and when she leaned in to kiss him, slow and soft, she tasted like IPA and huckleberry jam. He cupped her face in his hand, his thumb brushing the thin scar on her wrist, and kissed her back.
She asked if he wanted to come over to her place, said she had a fresh jar of peach jam she’d canned the night before, and a loaf of sourdough from the bakery downtown to go with it. He nodded, climbed into his own beat-up Chevy, and followed her down the dark highway, the truck’s heater blowing warm air, the radio playing a Merle Haggard song he and Ellen used to dance to in the kitchen on Saturday nights.
