Clay Bennett leans against the dented rear fender of his 1979 Ford F-150, cold IPA sweating through the paper coozie in his calloused hand, and pretends he’s not avoiding the pack of retirees by the grill who’ve tried to set him up with every single widow within a three-block radius since he moved in last spring. At 58, 32 years as a US Forest Service ranger patrolling the White River National Forest left him with a bad left knee, a scar across his right cheek from a run-in with a spooked moose, and a stubborn, self-imposed seven-year ban on anything that even resembles romantic connection, since his wife Susan died of breast cancer. The only reason he’s at the block party at all is his granddaughter Lila begged him to come for the bounce house and ring toss, and he’s never been able to say no to that kid.
The sun hangs low enough to gild the tops of the maple trees, the air thick with the smell of charred burgers and citronella candles, when he sees her trip over a coiled garden hose half-buried in the grass. Maren, 54, his neighbor Jake’s ex-wife, who moved back into the blue bungalow two doors down three months prior, holds a tray of peach cobbler out in front of her like a life raft. He moves before he thinks, catches the edge of the ceramic tray before it can face-plant into the lawn, his palm brushing hers for half a second. Her skin is warm, rough at the fingertips, like she works with her hands, and the cinnamon-sweet smell of the cobbler hits him so hard he almost forgets to let go of the tray. She laughs, low and throaty, not the high, tinkling laugh the other women at the party use when they’re flirting with the guys by the grill, and swipes at a smudge of gray clay under her left eye with the back of her wrist. “You just saved me from getting roasted by every mom on the block for forgetting the good dessert,” she says, and holds his gaze, no flinching, no looking away, like she’s not used to people hiding from her.