Elio Ruiz, 62, retired wildland fire foreman, only showed up to the county fire department’s summer beer garden fundraiser because his 12-year-old granddaughter had batted her big brown eyes and talked him into buying three $20 raffle tickets. He’d planned to nurse a single IPA, lurk in the shade of the oak tree at the edge of the town square, and slip out before anyone he knew could corner him into small talk about his “quiet retirement.”
The smell hit him before he’d even twisted the cap off his beer: warm peach pie, buttery crust, cinnamon just sharp enough to cut the sweet. He’d always had a weakness for peach pie, back when his crew would work 12-hour shifts on fire lines and the local volunteer auxiliary would drop off care packages stacked high with tins of the stuff. He followed the scent toward the bake sale booth, boots crunching on loose gravel, the tinny wail of a Tom Petty cover band cutting through the hum of crowd chatter.
Marnie Hale was leaning over the booth, passing a slice of blueberry pie to a kid in a fireman costume, when he got there. He froze. He hadn’t seen her in 10 years, not since she’d finalized her divorce from Jake, his old crew partner who’d died in a tree fall on a fire line two years after the split. Back when they were all in their 30s, Jake had made every guy on the crew swear none of them would so much as look at Marnie the wrong way, even after he’d started cheating on her with the regional dispatcher. Elio had always thought the rule was stupid, but he’d abided by it anyway, even after Jake was gone, even after his own wife Linda died of ovarian cancer 8 years prior.
She looked up, and a slow smile spread across her face when she recognized him. Her auburn hair was streaked with silver, pulled back in a loose braid, and the shoulder of her yellow sundress had slipped down one arm, showing a faint scar from a motorcycle crash she’d had at 22 that he’d forgotten she had. The scent of lavender sunscreen mixed with pie steam drifting off the plates hit him, and his throat went dry for a second.
“Elio Ruiz. I thought you’d sworn off all town events forever,” she said, leaning further over the booth, the edge pressing into the soft curve of her chest. He could see tiny laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes, lines he’d never paid attention to back when he’d only talked to her in passing at crew barbecues.
“Granddaughter strong-armed me,” he said, holding up his raffle tickets half-embarrassed. “Got a slice of peach left?”
She nodded, turning to grab a paper plate, her sundress riding up the back of her calves a little as she reached for the tin at the far end of the booth. When she handed him the slice, their fingers brushed—his rough, calloused from 32 years of hauling fire hoses and chopping brush, hers soft but dotted with tiny baking burns—and she didn’t yank her hand away. She held the contact for half a beat, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckle, before she pulled back to grab napkins.
He paid her, took a bite of the pie, and almost groaned out loud. It was exactly the way he liked it, peaches still firm, not mushy, crust flaky, cinnamon just right. A little dribble of peach juice ran down his chin, and before he could reach for a napkin, she leaned over the counter, swiped it away with her thumb, and wiped it on her apron like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Your place is three blocks from here, right?” he said before he could think better of it. He’d driven past it a hundred times, the little blue bungalow with rose bushes out front, never let himself stop. A jolt of guilt shot through him, sharp and hot, like he was betraying Jake, betraying Linda, for even asking.
She tilted her head, weighing the question, then smiled again, slow and teasing. “Got a half gallon of homemade vanilla ice cream in the freezer. My kid’s away at summer camp, so the house is quiet. If you don’t mind skipping the raffle drawing.”
He hesitated for three full seconds, then tossed his half-empty beer in the trash. He’d never won a raffle in his life anyway.
They walked side by side down the tree-lined street, the sun dipping low enough to paint the tops of the ponderosa pines pink and orange. Her arm brushed his every few steps, soft cotton of her sundress rubbing against his rough denim work jeans, and he didn’t move away. She told him about her new custom pie business selling to Portland restaurants, he told her about the weekend trail maintenance he did, the time he’d tripped over a root running from a black bear and her cubs last month. She laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and he realized he hadn’t made anyone laugh like that in years.
“I always thought you were the good one,” she said, quiet, like she was admitting something she’d never told anyone.
He laced his fingers through hers, the calluses on his hands fitting perfectly against the small burn scars on her knuckles, and didn’t say anything. The last of the sun slipped below the horizon, and the first firefly of the night blinked to life in the rose bush at the edge of her porch, floating slow and bright across the front yard.
