Ron Hargrove, 62, retired Forest Service hotshot crew boss, leans against the bed of his dented 2008 F-150, swirling lukewarm lager in a flimsy red plastic cup. He only showed up to the local fire department’s annual fundraiser cookout because the new chief, a kid he’d trained back in 2010, begged him to make an appearance, said the new hires loved hearing old war stories from the big 2002 Biscuit Fire. He hates crowds these days, has since his wife Elaine died three years back, hates the small talk, the forced smiles, the way everyone looks at him like he’s a relic that might break if you ask him too many questions. The air smells like charcoal, overcooked bratwurst, and pine drifting down from the Cascade foothills, kids screaming as they chase each other with water guns across the gravel parking lot.
He’s half considering bailing early when he sees her. Marnie Cole, 58, owner of the town’s only plant nursery, her arms loaded down with a foil-covered tray of peach cobbler, her work boots catching on the cord of a portable cooler someone left strung across the lot. Ron moves faster than he has since he retired four years prior, lunging to catch the tray before it hits the gravel, his free hand wrapping around her elbow to steady her. Her elbow presses firm through his worn flannel shirt, and when she looks up at him, her hazel eyes wide with surprise, he catches the scent of lavender hand cream and ripe peaches drifting off her. Their fingers brush when he passes her the tray, and he notices the calluses across her knuckles, thick from years of hauling potting soil and repotting oak saplings, the same kind of calluses he has across his palms from holding fire hoses and chainsaw handles for 32 years.
He’s avoided her for 12 years, ever since her husband Jake, his best friend and second in command on his crew, died when a tree fell on him during a blaze outside Bend. Ron carried that guilt like a backpack full of river rock, convinced he could have pulled Jake out of the way if he’d been two steps faster, convinced he had no right to even look at Marnie after he failed to bring her husband home. She avoids his eyes for a second, then nods at the empty spot on his truck’s tailgate, and he doesn’t argue when she sits down, their shoulders pressed tight together because the tailgate is barely wide enough for two people.
They make small talk first, about the record dry summer, about the new batch of interns at the fire department, about the patch of wild huckleberries she found growing on the edge of her nursery property. Then she says it, quiet, like she’s been holding it in for years. “I never blamed you, you know. For Jake. He always told me the job was risky, that if something happened it was no one’s fault.” Ron’s throat goes tight, and he stares at the scuff on his work boot, because he’s spent 12 years waiting to hear those words, and now that he has, he doesn’t know what to do with them. She shifts her weight, her knee brushing his, and when he looks up at her, she’s watching him, her head tilted slightly. “I avoided you too, honestly. Felt guilty for liking you even when I was married. Felt like I was betraying everyone.”
That’s the kicker, the thing that makes his chest feel tight, the mix of guilt and desire warring in his gut. He’s spent three years telling himself he doesn’t get to want anything anymore, that he deserves to be alone, that acting on this would be a betrayal of Jake, of Elaine. But she’s so warm next to him, her shoulder pressing into his, her thumb brushing the back of his hand when she reaches for a napkin off the tray, and he can’t remember the last time anyone touched him like that, like they actually want to, not just out of pity. The distant pop of fireworks the department set off for the kids lights up the darkening sky, pink and gold bursts reflecting in her eyes, and when she leans in, slow, like she’s giving him time to pull away, he doesn’t move.
The kiss is soft, no rush, tastes like peach cobbler and the iced tea she was drinking earlier, and when he brings his hand up to the back of her neck, his calloused fingers brushing the soft gray hairs at her nape, he feels the knot in his chest he’s carried for 12 years loosen just a little. They pull apart after a minute, and he doesn’t say anything for a second, just stares at her, the corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile.
They sit on the tailgate for another hour, long after most of the crowd has cleared out, the leftover food packed up, the lights on the fire station sign dimming. He tells her about the bourbon he’s had stashed on his cabin porch for two years, the good stuff he picked up on a trip to Kentucky after he retired, saved for some occasion he never thought would come. He tells her about the porch swing he built last spring, that overlooks the national forest, that he’s only ever sat on alone. She picks up the half-eaten tray of cobbler, tucks it under her arm, and nods, her knee bumping his again when she stands up.
She slides into the passenger seat of his truck, the vinyl seat creaking under her, and he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life, no idea where this is going but for the first time in three years, he doesn’t mind not having a plan.
