Dale Rainer, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service firefighter, has spent the last eight years hiding in plain sight. Widowed after his wife Linda’s sudden stroke, his defining flaw is a stubborn, unearned loyalty to a life that no longer exists—he still sleeps on his side of the king bed, still buys her favorite lemon drops at the grocery store every week, still turns down every set-up his sister shoves his way, convinced any new connection would be a betrayal. When his old crew chief begged him to man the beer tap at the fire department’s annual summer farmers market fundraiser, he couldn’t say no, even though he hates crowds, hates small talk, hates the way people look at him like he’s a half-broken ghost. The last of the afternoon crowd filters out as the sun bleeds orange over the oak trees lining the park edge, and he wipes sticky IPA residue off the Formica counter, the faint tang of grilled bratwurst and cut clover hanging thick in the warm air. The bluegrass trio on the small stage wraps up their last set, fiddles whining soft and slow enough that the sound settles in his chest like an old memory.
He doesn’t see her approach until she sets a mason jar of deep purple jam on the counter between them, the glass still warm from being tucked in her canvas tote. Clara Bennett, 54, runs the native plant booth at the market, ex-wife of his old crew partner Jax, who left her for a whitewater rafting guide in Idaho 12 years prior. Dale has spoken less than 20 words to her in the last decade, always operating under an unspoken bro code that marked her as off-limits, even after Jax cut ties with the entire crew and moved across the country. She’s wearing faded canvas overalls rolled up to her calves, a streak of charcoal gray cutting through the dark brown hair pulled back in a frayed braid, dirt crusted under the edges of her fingernails, sun freckles dotted across her nose that he doesn’t remember being there the last time they spoke. She leans in, elbows propped on the counter, close enough that he can smell lavender soap and crushed mint on her shirt, her shoulder brushing his bicep when she nods at the stainless steel tap behind him. “Figured you’d be the one stuck doing the grunt work. Still can’t say no to Chief, huh?”