Elias Voss, 62, retired U.S. Forest Service fire spotter, leaned against a splintered pine post in the small town’s annual fall festival beer tent, calloused fingers wrapped around a frosty plastic cup of Spotted Cow, crunching peanut shells under his steel-toe work boots. He’d avoided the festival for 12 straight years, only showing up this time because his 16-year-old granddaughter had entered her apple pie in the auction, and he’d promised he’d outbid anyone who tried to take it home. His flannel was unbuttoned over a faded 2008 fire crew tee, a faint white scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2019 blaze he’d spotted before any of the ground crews got the alert. His biggest flaw, one he’d nursed for 18 years ever since his ex-wife’s divorce lawyer had talked her into taking half his retirement and the family’s old hunting cabin, was that he wrote off anyone tied to the legal field before they said three words to him.
He spotted Clara the second she walked through the tent flap. She was his new neighbor, moved into the run-down cabin three miles down his lake road three months prior, and he’d gone out of his way to dodge her ever since the local diner waitress had mentioned she was a retired divorce lawyer from Minneapolis. She was 58, jeans tucked into scuffed work boots, flannel the exact same forest green as his, a smudge of pine sap high on her left jaw where she’d been clearing dead spruce off her property that morning. She waved when she caught him staring, and he tensed, ready to mumble an excuse about checking on his granddaughter’s pie and bolt.
She cut through the crowd before he could move, stopping so close her shoulder brushed his bicep when she leaned down to grab a hard seltzer from the cooler at his feet. The scent of pine and vanilla hand lotion hit him first, sharp and warm all at once, and when she stood and passed him a second beer she’d grabbed from the ice, their fingers brushed. He felt the raised callus on her index finger, thick and rough from years of gripping a pen for 10 hours a day, and his chest tightened in a way he hadn’t felt since before his divorce.
“Been trying to catch you for weeks,” she said, holding his gaze two beats longer than polite, a half-smirk playing on her mouth when he glanced away fast, suddenly embarrassed he’d been staring at the pine sap on her jaw. “Heard you think all divorce lawyers eat small children and steal retirement funds.”
He grunted, took a long sip of beer to buy time. The bluegrass band off to the side struck up a slow Johnny Cash cover, the crowd around them growing louder as more people filed in from the pie auction. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell her every lawyer he’d ever met was a leech, but then she laughed, a low rough sound like she spent half her time yelling at chainsaws instead of in courtrooms, and the edge of his frustration softened.
“Quit the practice three years ago,” she said, leaning her shoulder against the post next to his, their elbows bumping every time someone walked past. “Got sick of helping millionaire tech bros hide yachts from their wives who’d raised their kids and put them through college. Moved up here to paint. That’s why I’ve been clearing all that dead spruce, the view of the north shore from my back porch is wasted when it’s blocked by trees.”
He blinked, thrown off. He’d spent three months imagining her sitting in an expensive office in a tailored suit, billing people $400 an hour to argue about who got the silverware, and here she was, pine sap on her face, callus on her finger, admitting she hated the exact type of lawyer he’d spent almost two decades resenting. A group of drunk high school kids ran past, one slamming into Clara’s back hard enough that she stumbled forward into his chest, and he reacted without thinking, wrapping both hands around her waist to steady her.
She didn’t pull back right away, just tilted her head up to look at him, her breath fanning over his neck, the warmth of her hips pressing through both their layers of flannel. He could taste hard seltzer and the cinnamon sugar from the apple cider donut she’d clearly eaten on the walk over, and for a second he forgot every single grudge he’d been holding onto for 18 years.
“Heard you know the hidden overlook above the west end of the lake,” she said, so quiet only he could hear it over the band. “The one only the old fire crew guys know about, with the view of the fall colors all the way to Canada. Was wondering if you’d show me sometime.”
He nodded before he could overthink it, told her he’d pick her up at 7 a.m. the next day, bring black coffee and the leftover fry bread his granddaughter had made the night before. She grinned, and when she leaned in to hug him goodbye, her lips brushed the edge of his jaw, soft and warm.
They left the tent together a few minutes later, his granddaughter’s first-place pie in a cardboard carrier tucked under his arm, her hand brushing his every few steps as they walked through the festival grounds. He knew every old busybody in town was watching, knew they’d be talking about the retired fire spotter and the new divorce lawyer at the diner the next morning, and for the first time in almost 20 years, he didn’t care.
He unlocked the passenger door of his beat-up 2004 Ford F150, held it open for her, and when she climbed in, she reached across the center console and laced her fingers through his, her callus pressing against the scar on his forearm. He turned the key in the ignition, the radio crackling to life with a Waylon Jennings song, and pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the lake road, the pie warm on the seat between them.
