Elio Marquez, 58, retired woodshop teacher out of Roseburg High, had avoided Mara Hale’s honey stand at the Douglas County farmers market for 22 straight years. He’d cut through the far side of the parking lot, skip the peach vendor next to her booth, even lie to his granddaughter that they’d run out of wildflower honey at home rather than step within 10 feet of her awning. That stubbornness was his worst flaw, one he’d admitted to exactly no one, even when his oldest kid teased him about still being mad at a woman he hadn’t spoken to since the Clinton administration. That Saturday, he’d just tucked a bag of white peaches under his arm, the skin sticky with early summer juice, when the sky opened up. No warning, no distant roll of thunder first, just cold, heavy rain that soaked through his flannel in 10 seconds flat. He ducked under the nearest awning before he thought about where it was.
Mara was stacking jars of wild blackberry honey on the lower shelf when he stumbled in, and she looked up, one eyebrow cocked, a half-smile playing on her lips. “Well I’ll be damned. Marquez finally decided my honey’s worth not catching pneumonia over?” She was 56, same as she’d been the last time he’d actually looked at her, gray streaks threaded through the dark braid slung over her shoulder, a tiny scar slicing through the left edge of her eyebrow from a beekeeping accident a few years back he’d heard about through the town grapevine. The awning was barely six feet wide, so they were standing less than a foot apart, his shoulder brushing hers every time one of them shifted. The rain hammered so loud on the tin roof they had to lean in to hear each other, and he could smell lavender hand cream on her skin, mixed with the sweet, thick scent of honey and the waxed canvas of her work apron.
He opened his mouth to make some snarky excuse, to say he’d move as soon as the rain let up, but the old anger bubbled up first, sharp and stupid. “You know I’m not here for your honey. I’m still mad you ratted me out to Janine when she was in labor with Lila.” The smile dropped off her face, and she laughed, a dry, throaty sound that made his chest feel tight for a reason he couldn’t name. She leaned in even closer, so he could see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, and shook her head. “You absolute idiot. I didn’t rat you out. Janine found your waders in the back of your truck, still covered in river mud, when she drove herself to the hospital. I told her I’d sent you to pick up my extra allergy meds so you wouldn’t get in more trouble than you already were. You never even asked me about it. Just started ignoring me the second you walked out of the maternity ward.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and he leaned back against the awning pole, cold metal biting through his wet shirt. All those years of resentment, of scowling when he saw her at the Fourth of July parade, of telling his friends she was a snitch, and it was all garbage. He’d been so embarrassed that he’d messed up that bad, missed the first two hours of his daughter’s life because he was chasing steelhead, that he’d blamed her instead of owning his own mistake. He watched her reach past him to grab a jar of honey that was tipping off the edge of the table, her hip pressing into his for half a second, and he didn’t move away. Her hand brushed the edge of the custom dovetail cutting board he’d tucked under his other arm, the one he’d spent three weeks carving for Lila’s 22nd birthday, and she ran her finger along the joint, slow and deliberate. “You always did make the prettiest joints. I used to ask Janine to bring home the cutting boards you made for the school fundraiser. I still have the oak one you made in ‘99.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he held out his hand, wordless. She smiled, that same half-teasing smile, and twisted open a jar of blackberry honey, dabbing a tiny dollop on the pad of his thumb. The honey was warm, thick, sweet with the sharp tang of wild berries, and he licked it off, never breaking eye contact. The disgust he’d carried around for 22 years had evaporated entirely, replaced by a tight, warm hum in his bones he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, half nervous, half hungry, like he was about to ask a girl out to a drive-in movie for the first time. The rain slowed to a drizzle, and he could hear kids laughing across the parking lot, running through puddles with their rain boots sloshing.
He wiped his thumb on his jeans, cleared his throat, and nodded at the stack of empty honey jars next to her feet. “I get off volunteer duty at the high school shop at 5 tomorrow. I can bring that oak board of yours, fix the crack in the edge I heard you had. Then we can get a beer at The Elk, catch up on 22 years of me being an idiot.” She wiped her hands on her apron, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and nodded, the corner of her mouth tugging up higher. “Bring the new cutting board too. I’ll show you how to finish it with beeswax from my hives. It’ll last longer than both of us.”
He walked back to his truck through the puddles, the honey still sweet on his tongue, and didn’t even mind that his socks were soaked through.
