Rafe Mendez, 59, retired wildland fire crew boss, had avoided the Saturday farmers market for six straight weeks, ever since he’d stormed out of a town hall meeting yelling at the new county public health officer for proposing a burn ban that would nix the annual fire department fundraiser bonfire. He only caved this morning because his 7-year-old granddaughter had begged for blackberry pie for her birthday, and the u-pick farm he usually hit was waterlogged from last week’s thunderstorms. He’d tucked an old baseball cap low over his eyes, planning to grab the berries and bolt before anyone recognized him and tried to corner him about the ban, or worse, set him up with their widowed sister from Portland.
He rounded the corner of the berry stall, arm outstretched for the last pint of deep, glossy blackberries, when another hand landed on the plastic container at the exact same time. Their knuckles brushed. Rafe’s first instinct was to yank his hand back, but he froze when he registered the callus on her index finger, rough from scribbling hundreds of public health notices, the faint scent of lavender salve clinging to her wrist, the smudge of dirt on her thumb from weeding her home garden. He looked up, and it was her. Lila Marquez, the woman he’d called an overreaching bureaucrat to three different neighbors in the past month.
She grinned, the corner of her mouth tugging up higher on one side, silver hoop earrings catching the midday sun so bright they made him squint. “I’d fight you for these,” she said, her voice rougher than he remembered from the town hall, like she spent half her weekends yelling over wind or campfires. “But I figure you’ve got more seniority when it comes to claiming things you’re passionate about.” Rafe huffed, surprised into a laugh he didn’t feel coming. He’d expected her to snap back, to bring up his town hall outburst. “You here to yell at me for burning brush in my backyard last week?” he asked, half joking, half ready to defend himself. She shook her head, letting go of the berry pint and leaning one hip against the wooden stall, her faded Carhartts brushing his work boots. “Nah. I drove by your place Tuesday. You had a 100-foot clearance, a full water tank hooked up, and you were supervising the whole time. I only ban the idiots who burn their Christmas trees in the middle of a drought.”
They talked for 20 minutes right there, the hum of bluegrass from the next stall wrapping around them, kids screaming as they chased a golden retriever past their feet. She told him her dad had been a wildland firefighter too, killed in the 2017 Eagle Creek fire when a group of teens ignored a fire ban and set off a smoke bomb. She’d taken the public health job specifically to cut down on preventable burn risks, not to ruin small town fun. Rafe felt the tight knot of resentment he’d carried around for months loosen, just a little. He’d lost his wife to breast cancer three years prior, had thrown himself into local fire department volunteer work to fill the empty space in his house, had taken the burn ban as a personal attack on the memory of the crew he’d run for 22 years, on the community he’d spent half his life protecting. His worst flaw, the one his wife had teased him about for 31 years, was that he always assumed anyone disagreeing with him was dismissing his experience, instead of coming at the problem from a different angle.
They walked over to the iced coffee truck together, their shoulders brushing every time they stepped around a market goer hauling armfuls of peonies or squash. Rafe bought her a cold brew, extra cream, and she insisted on splitting a warm peach empanada from the food truck next door. She took a bite, crumbs sticking to her lower lip, and Rafe had to look away for half a second, his chest tight with a feeling he hadn’t let himself feel since his wife died: light, uncomplicated, like he didn’t have to carry every weight by himself. She asked him if he’d help her plan a smaller, permitted bonfire for the fundraiser, limited to 100 people, with a crew of volunteers on site to monitor it, half the proceeds going to wildfire relief for families that lost homes last summer. She held his gaze the whole time she asked, no defensiveness, no expectation that he’d say no, just open curiosity, like she actually valued his input.
Rafe hesitated for all of two seconds. A year ago, he would’ve said no out of pride, would’ve insisted the big bonfire was safe, would’ve walked away before he let someone he’d once considered an enemy get under his skin. But he looked at her, her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, the callus on her finger he’d first felt on the berry pint, and he realized the disgust he’d carried for her was never really about her. It was about his own guilt, his own fear that he wasn’t doing enough to keep the people around him safe, the same guilt that had eaten at him when he’d missed the early signs of his wife’s cancer, too busy running a fire crew out in the woods to notice she’d been tired for six months straight. He nodded.
She scribbled her address on a scrap of receipt, tucking it into the pocket of his worn work shirt along with a single plump blackberry she’d snuck from his pint. Her fingers brushed the thin cotton over his chest, and he could feel the heat of her hand through the fabric, the faint stickiness of berry juice on her thumb. “Come over around 7,” she said. “I’ve got a frozen pie crust in the fridge if you want to bring those berries. We can taste test filling while we map out the bonfire perimeter.”
Rafe watched her walk away, her work boots kicking up little puffs of gravel dust as she waved at a group of kids passing by. He pulled out his phone, shooting a quick text to his daughter that he’d drop off the pie filling tomorrow, that he had a last minute work thing. The blackberry in his pocket was still cool against his chest when he turned to walk to his truck.
