Elio Rizzo, 62, retired commercial beekeeper, had only agreed to the annual coastal Florida oyster roast to get his nosy next-door neighbor off his back. He’d spent the two years since his wife Clara died selling their upstate New York apiary, moving into a cinder block cottage a block from the Gulf, and avoiding any social event that required more than a five word exchange with another human. His hands were still crisscrossed with thin faded scars from 30 years of prying open hive boxes, his left knee ached when the humidity spiked, and he’d convinced himself he was perfectly content with his small backyard hive, his old pickup, and the frozen lasagnas he stocked in the freezer every Sunday.
He was hovering by the edge of the picnic grove, holding a jar of his own wildflower honey he’d stuffed in his jacket pocket as a thank you for the roast’s host, when a kid darted past holding a stack of paper plates stacked high with oyster shells. He turned sharply to dodge the kid, his elbow catching the side of a woman standing behind him, and the honey jar sloshed in his grip, thick golden syrup seeping over the rim and dripping down her left wrist.
He cursed under his breath, grabbing a crumpled napkin from the nearest table before she could react. The air smelled like smoked oak, briny oyster liquor, and cut pine from the picnic tables, the grit of crushed shell dust sticking to the soles of his scuffed work boots. When his calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist to dab at the honey, he froze. Her skin was soft, still warm from the afternoon sun, dotted with faint freckles across the knob of her wrist bone, and she didn’t pull away. He glanced up, and she was grinning, hazel eyes flecked with gold, silver hair pulled back in a messy braid slung over one shoulder.
“Most guys bring beer to these things, you know,” she said, nodding at the jar in his other hand. Her voice was low, a little rough, like she spent most days talking over loud music or rowdy kids. He recognized her immediately when she said her name was Marnie Carter. She was Clara’s cousin’s ex-wife, had moved to the town three months prior to run the small public library’s weekend children’s program. The small town gossip mill had run wild for a week about the divorce, about how she’d left her lawyer husband in Atlanta after 22 years of marriage to move somewhere no one knew her name.
That was the catch, the little zing of taboo that made his throat go dry. Clara would have laughed if she saw him fumbling over a napkin, apologizing to her cousin’s ex, but a part of him felt like he was breaking a rule, like even talking to her for longer than ten seconds was a betrayal of the 38 years he’d spent with his wife. He tried to step back, but a group of drunk retirees carrying coolers pushed past, and her shoulder pressed firm against his bicep, the thin cotton of her linen shirt soft against his sun-warmed skin. She didn’t step away either.
They talked for an hour, leaning against the splintered wooden fence that separated the grove from the beach. She told him about the group of 7-year-olds who’d come into the library the week prior asking for books about beekeeping, how she’d seen his name on the community garden sign where he kept a few extra hives for the town’s farmer’s market. He told her about the time a swarm of bees had landed on Clara’s sunhat during their first camping trip, how she’d stood completely still for 20 minutes while he gently moved them off, laughing the whole time. He didn’t realize he was smiling until she pointed it out, said she hadn’t seen anyone look that happy talking about bees since she was a kid.
When the sun started to dip below the gulf, painting the sky pink and tangerine, she asked if he wanted to walk down to the shore. The tide was out, the wet sand cool through the holes in his socks, the sound of herons squawking in the mangroves mixing with the faint crash of small waves. He stopped halfway across the sandbar, and told her he shouldn’t be doing this, that he’d spent two years shutting everyone out, that it felt wrong to be this comfortable with someone who wasn’t Clara.
She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the coconut shampoo in her hair, the faint briny scent of oyster on her jeans. She held up her left wrist, where a faint streak of honey still glistened, the one he’d missed when he dabbed her off earlier. She licked it slow, deliberate, her tongue flat against her skin, never breaking eye contact with him. “Clara sent me an email six months before she died,” she said, her voice soft enough that he almost didn’t hear it over the waves. “Told me if I ever moved down here, I had to find you, make sure you weren’t hiding away from the world like you did after that bad hive collapse in ’07.”
He felt the tightness in his chest he’d carried for two years loosen, just a little. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t spiral into guilt or what-ifs, just reached out and laced his calloused fingers through hers, her palm soft and warm against his. She squeezed his hand once, hard, and started walking toward the pier, where a neon-lit popsicle truck was playing old Jimmy Buffett songs over a crackling speaker. He told her he had a dozen different jars of honey at home, orange blossom, tupelo, palmetto, if she wanted to come over sometime and taste test. She laughed, said she’d bring the library’s entire collection of beekeeping books for the kids if he’d give her a full tour of his backyard hives.
He brushes a strand of wind-tousled silver hair off her forehead before tucking his free hand into the pocket of his work jeans, the jar of honey still warm against his hip.
