Rafe Marquez, 62, retired forest fire spotter, had spent 38 years perched 70 feet up in remote Northern California fire towers, talking more to ravens than other people, so being dragged to the small town summer street fair by his 22-year-old niece felt like a special kind of torture. The air reeked of fried oreos and fermented lemonade, kids screamed as they bolted between hay bales, and the guy from the volunteer fire department had already cornered him twice to beg him to join their board. He slipped away when his niece got distracted by a booth selling hand-tooled leather belts, ducking down a row of craft stalls until the fire department guy’s voice faded.
He stopped short when he spotted the jam stand. Lena Mendez was rearranging jars of blackberry and peach on the folding table, her sun-bleached auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a streak of jam across her left cheek. She was Carlos’s widow—Carlos, his old spotter partner, the guy who’d saved his life when a lightning strike took out their tower’s staircase in 2001, who’d died of a heart attack four years prior. Rafe hadn’t spoken to her since the funeral, convinced any casual conversation would be a betrayal of both Carlos and his own wife Ellie, who’d passed three years before Carlos. He turned to leave, but she looked up and caught his eye before he could slip away.
Her face lit up first with surprise, then a soft, warm grin that crinkled the corners of her hazel eyes. She wiped her sticky hands on her faded denim apron, leaning across the table, and Rafe found himself stepping closer before he could talk himself out of it. The gap between them narrowed to less than a foot, close enough he could smell the lavender perfume she’d worn since the 90s, mixed with the sweet, tart scent of simmering fruit from the stock pot behind her. A kid darted past, knocking a half-empty sample jar of raspberry jam off the edge of the table, and she lunged to catch it, her forearm brushing his hard, calloused bicep as she righted it. The contact sent a jolt up his arm, and he flinched like he’d touched a hot stove, guilt coiling tight in his chest.
He apologized, stammering a little, and she laughed, the sound low and rough, same as it was when they’d all spent weekends camping together back when their kids were small. She held out a small plastic spoon loaded with peach habanero jam, holding it out toward his mouth, and he hesitated for two full beats before leaning in to taste it. The sweet burn of the habanero spread across his tongue, and he nodded, impressed. She offered him a second sample, their fingers brushing when he took the spoon from her, and this time he didn’t flinch.
They talked for 20 minutes, leaning in closer as the noise of the fair faded into background hum. He noticed she still wore the tiny silver hoops Carlos got her for their 20th anniversary, but she’d cut her hair short since the funeral, soft curls curling at the nape of her neck that he’d never seen before. She admitted she’d seen his pickup parked at the trailhead for the old fire tower half a dozen times in the last year, she’d almost walked up to say hi every time but had been too scared he’d turn her away. He admitted he’d driven past her small farm on the edge of town at least once a week for the last two years, too stubborn to stop, convinced he had no right to intrude on her grief.
A gust of wind blew a loose strand of her hair into his face, and he lifted his hand to tuck it behind her ear, his palm brushing her warm, freckled cheek. He held it there for three seconds, longer than he should have, the guilt that had been gnawing at his chest all afternoon shrinking to something small and insignificant, overshadowed by the sharp, bright spark of something he hadn’t felt since Ellie died: desire, slow and warm, mixed with the quiet comfort of talking to someone who knew every messy, ugly part of his grief.
She asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner later, said she was making carnitas, the recipe Carlos used to make on their camping trips, the one that involved a whole bottle of beer and three hours over an open fire. He nodded before she even finished the sentence, no hesitation, no overthinking about whether he was allowed to be this happy. He picked up a jar of the peach habanero jam from the table, setting a crumpled 20 dollar bill down before she could argue, waving off her offer of change. His niece texted him a minute later asking where he was, and he texted back he’d meet her at the car in 10, that he had plans tonight. He tucked the jam jar under his arm, glancing back over his shoulder as he walked away, and caught her leaning against the booth, grinning at him, wiping a streak of jam off her cheek with the back of her hand.
