Earl Pritchard is 62, spent 34 years keeping bees across 12 acres of western North Carolina woodland before he sold half the hives last year to take it easier. His knuckles are crisscrossed with thin white scars from bee stings that didn’t heal right, he keeps a pack of lemon drops in his flannel shirt pocket for seasonal allergy flare-ups, and he hasn’t let anyone stay in his personal space for longer than 10 seconds since his wife Linda passed from lung cancer eight years prior. That’s his flaw, he knows it: he built a wall out of honey crates, frayed bee suits, and scratchy 1970s country records, and he’s convinced no one would bother climbing over it anyway.
It’s the last Saturday of the summer farmers’ market, air thick with roasted peanuts, overripe peaches, and the faint sweet tang of wildflower honey stacked in mason jars on his table, when she walks up. He knows who she is: Lila, Marnie Henderson’s niece, the travel nurse in town for three months staffing the pop-up clinic for folks still recovering from the June hurricane that swept through the valley. He’d dropped a quart of raw honey off at Marnie’s two weeks prior, when Marnie’s knee gave out and she couldn’t make it to the market, and Lila had answered the door barefoot in cutoff shorts and a faded Dave Matthews Band tee, hair pulled back in a messy braid. He’d mumbled a greeting and bolted before she could offer iced tea, embarrassed by how quickly he’d noticed the freckles across her nose, the way her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes.
Today she’s carrying a paper plate with a slice of peach cobbler, still warm enough steam seeps through the foil edges. She sets it on his table, and her forearm brushes his when she reaches past him to pick up a sample jar of rare sourwood honey, the one he only reserves for his oldest regulars. Her skin is soft, coated in the faint scent of coconut sunscreen, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been stung, wiping it hard on the frayed edge of his canvas work apron. He’s already telling himself he’s being ridiculous, that she’s 14 years younger than him, that Marnie’s been his neighbor for 22 years, that thinking of her as anything other than “Marnie’s kid” is wrong, disrespectful, the kind of thing old men get side-eyed for.
She laughs at the way he flinches, popping the lid off the sample jar and dipping a finger in to taste the honey, licking it off slow. “Marnie sent this to thank you for the honey,” she says, nodding at the cobbler. “Said you’ve been bringing her jars for years and never let her pay you back. Also said I should ask if you wanna come to trivia night at The Wood Shed tomorrow. She said you used to dominate country music trivia back in the day.”
Earl freezes, his hand halfway to the paper plate. He hasn’t been to trivia at The Wood Shed since Linda died, hasn’t gone anywhere that isn’t the bee yard, the market, or Marnie’s front porch to drop off honey in years. He’s about to say no, make up an excuse about a testy queen bee he has to check on, a hive that’s been acting up, but she’s leaning against the edge of his table now, close enough he can smell pine on her clothes from the morning hike she mentioned, and she’s looking at him like she already knows he’ll say yes. For the first time in almost a decade, he doesn’t feel like hiding. “Sure,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “I’ll be there.”
He shows up 10 minutes early the next night, wearing a clean flannel, his work boots polished for the first time in two years. She’s sitting in a back booth, nursing a draft beer, and waves him over, patting the seat next to her. Their knees brush under the table when he sits down, and he doesn’t move away this time. They split an order of fried dill pickles, the crust crunchy and salty, vinegar tang cutting through the lingering sweetness of the cobbler he’d eaten for breakfast. She leans in to whisper the answer to a 1980s rock question in his ear when the host reads it, her breath warm against his neck, and he shivers so hard he almost spills his beer. He hasn’t felt this giddy, this alive, since he and Linda took their 1989 honeymoon to the Smoky Mountains, and the guilt hits him sharp in the chest, for even enjoying himself this much without her. He’s halfway to making an excuse to leave when she grabs his hand under the table, her fingers lacing through his, palm soft against his calloused, scarred knuckles. She doesn’t say anything, just squeezes once, and the guilt fades a little, like someone turned down the volume on the voice in his head telling him he doesn’t get to be happy anymore.
They win trivia by three points, and she whoops so loud the whole bar turns to look, and he laughs so hard his sides hurt. It’s started raining by the time they walk out to his truck, asphalt glistening under streetlights, the smell of wet dirt and pine filling the air. She slips on a puddle at the parking lot edge, and he grabs her waist to steady her, his hands wrapping around her hips, and for a second they just stand there, frozen, rain dripping off the brim of his baseball cap onto her forehead. She tilts her chin up and kisses him, soft at first, then harder when he doesn’t pull away, her hands coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. He kisses her back for 10 seconds, then yanks himself away, his heart pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. “We can’t,” he says, voice rough. “Marnie’s my neighbor. You’re 14 years younger than me. I’m just a retired beekeeper who wears the same three flannels every week and talks to his bees more than people. This is wrong.”
She laughs, swatting him lightly on the chest, rain dripping off the ends of her hair onto his shirt. “Earl, I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16 and saw you carry 12 full beehives across Marnie’s yard in a thunderstorm to keep them from washing out,” she says, grinning. “Marnie’s the one who told me to make the first move, by the way. Said you were too stubborn to do it yourself. And for the record, I think the bee thing is hot.”
He stares at her for a second, then laughs, shaking his head, the tight knot of guilt and anxiety in his chest unraveling so fast he almost feels lightheaded. He opens the passenger door of his truck for her, helping her up, his hand lingering on hers a little longer than necessary. He drives her back to the small rental cottage she’s staying in, just a mile down the road from his house, rain tapping against the windshield, an old George Strait song playing low on the radio. She invites him in for coffee when they pull up to the porch, and he hesitates for half a second, glancing at the jar of sourwood honey he’d tucked in the center console that morning, the one he’d planned to give her if things went well. He nods, grabbing the jar, following her up the porch steps, his boots squelching in the wet grass, the glass warm against his palm from sitting in the heated truck.
