Elio Rizzo, 62, spent 38 years tending honeybee hives across the Finger Lakes before he sold his operation three years back, two months after his wife Carol’s ovarian cancer diagnosis turned terminal. His biggest, most stubborn flaw: he’d rather haul 40-pound hive boxes up a rocky slope in July humidity than ask for help or make small talk with strangers, a quirk that had left him eating frozen pot pies alone for 36 straight nights before his next-door neighbor, a retired fire marshal, all but dragged him to the county fire department’s annual pig roast fundraiser.
He’s leaning against the dented metal beer cooler at the edge of the park, one boot propped on a cinder block, sweating through the collar of his faded work flannel, the cold can of Pabst in his hand stinging his knuckles, when it happens. A woman carrying two paper plates piled high with pulled pork and vinegar coleslaw steps back to avoid a kid chasing a golden retriever with a half-eaten hot dog in its mouth, and her shoulder slams hard into his bicep. One of the plates tilts, a dollop of creamy slaw dripping onto the scuffed toe of his steel-toe work boot.
She freezes, then laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the twang of the bluegrass band playing ten yards away, over the chatter of neighbors and the crackle of the pig roast fire. “Oh, hell, I am so sorry. That kid’s been zooming around like he’s got a hive of yellow jackets in his overalls for 20 minutes straight. I should’ve been paying more attention.”
Elio blinks. He recognizes that laugh. He recognizes the smattering of freckles across her nose, the way she tucks a strand of gray-streaked auburn hair behind her ear when she’s flustered, the tiny gap between her two front teeth that shows when she grins wide. It’s Mara Hale. He’d kissed her once, clumsy and beer-fueled, behind the bleachers at his high school senior prom, before he’d met Carol the following fall at a state beekeeping conference. He’d heard she moved to San Francisco to become a librarian in the 80s, hadn’t let himself think of her in at least 20 years, not out of any loyalty, just because grief had wiped most of his pre-Carol memories to a faint, fuzzy haze.
He swallows, the cold can sweating onto his palm, his throat suddenly dry. “Mara?”
Her smile falters for half a second, then lights up again, brighter this time. She leans in, close enough that he can smell jasmine shampoo and the faint tang of dill pickles on her breath, their shoulders brushing now, no space between them. “Elio Rizzo? No way. I thought you were still up in New York chasing bees and selling that wild clover honey everybody used to drive three hours to buy.”
She’s standing so close he can see the faint laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes, the way her cotton sundress straps are slipping just a little off her sunburnt shoulders, the tiny bee tattoo on her wrist, peeking out from under a silver bangle. He’d spent the last three years convincing himself he’d never feel that little jolt in his chest again, the one that makes your hands go a little shaky, your pulse pick up for no good reason. Guilt hits him first, sharp and hot, like he’s betraying Carol somehow, even though he knows she’d tease him for moping around alone for this long, call him a ridiculous old fool for shutting the world out.
He wipes the slaw off his boot with a crumpled paper napkin she hands him, their fingers brushing for half a second, and he swears he feels a static shock jump between them, enough to make him jump a little. “Moved down here two years back. Sold the hives after Carol passed. Couldn’t stand walking the apiary alone, y’know?”
Her expression softens, the teasing glint in her eyes fading for a second. She sets the plates down on a nearby splintered picnic table, leans against the cooler next to him, her thigh pressing lightly against his, no awkwardness, no pretense. “I heard. My mom sent me the obituary. I’m so sorry, Elio. She was a great woman. I met her once, at your 10 year high school reunion. She made me laugh so hard I snort-laughed in front of the whole gym.”
They talk for an hour, standing there by the cooler, the noise of the cookout fading into background static. She’d moved back to Savannah six months prior, to take over the small town library after the old librarian retired, lives in the little blue bungalow two blocks from his cottage, a fact that makes his stomach flip like he’s 17 again. She teases him about the time he tried to sneak her into his parents’ basement and tripped over his dad’s fishing tackle box, waking up the whole house, his dad standing at the top of the stairs holding a baseball bat. He teases her about the time she dyed her hair neon pink for an anti-nuclear protest in 1983 and got sent home from school, her mom grounding her for three weeks.
At one point, she reaches up to brush a piece of oak leaf out of his hair, her palm brushing his stubbled cheek, and he doesn’t pull away. The guilt is still there, quiet now, overshadowed by the weird, warm feeling of being seen again, of talking to someone who remembers the stupid, reckless kid he was before the hives, before marriage, before grief wrapped itself around his shoulders like a wet blanket he couldn’t shake off.
The sun dips below the oak trees lining the park, the sky turning soft pink and tangerine, fireflies starting to blink on in the grass at their feet, when she leans in even closer, her voice low, so only he can hear it, her breath fanning across his ear. “You wanna get out of here? I got a bottle of small-batch peach bourbon back at my place, and a stack of old Sergio Leone westerns I’ve been dying to rewatch. No pressure if you don’t. I won’t be offended.”
Elio pauses for half a second, his hand brushing the crumpled tube of Carol’s lavender lip balm in his jeans pocket, the one he carries everywhere, even though he never uses it. He thinks of the dream he’d had two nights before, Carol sitting on the porch of their old New York house, laughing at him, telling him to stop being such a hermit, to go do something fun for once, to stop acting like his life ended when hers did.
He nods, grabbing his truck keys out of his flannel pocket, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lead the way.”
She grins, lacing her fingers through his calloused, hive-stung ones, and they walk out of the park together, the bluegrass band striking up a slow, twangy love song behind them, the warm summer air soft on their faces.
