Roland Voss, 61, retired forest service wildfire mitigation specialist turned part-time honey producer, swipes sweat off his brow with the back of a calloused, bee-stung hand and glares at the sun beating down on the county fairgrounds. He’s been set up at his booth for six hours, sold half his stock of wildflower and blackberry honey, and avoided three separate run-ins with his ex-wife’s friends by pretending to take inventory of his mason jars. The last thing he expects is to look up and see Clara Marlow sliding a stack of hand-thrown pottery mugs onto the folding table in the booth directly next to his.
He freezes mid-twist of a jar lid. He hasn’t seen her since his divorce was finalized eight years prior, back when she was living in Portland working as a high school art teacher. He’d always had a stupid, quiet crush on her back when he was married, the kind he’d beaten down as hard as he could because she was his ex’s second cousin, off limits by every unspoken small-town family rule. He’d heard she moved back to the area six months ago after her husband died of a heart attack, but he’d gone out of his way to avoid the parts of town she frequented, convinced even being in the same room as her would feel like a betrayal of the marriage he’d already ruined by putting his career first for three decades.
A gust of hot, grass-scented wind picks up without warning, knocking a stack of her ceramic coasters off the edge of her table. He moves before he thinks, bending to grab the ones skittering across the dusty asphalt, and their hands brush when they both reach for the same deep indigo one flecked with white. His skin tingles where her cool, clay-dusted fingers graze his, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, half-expecting her to recoil too. She just laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the noise of the fried Oreo truck two booths over, and tucks a strand of gray-streaked auburn hair behind her ear.
“Thanks,” she says, leaning in just close enough that he can smell lavender hand soap mixed with the earthy scent of wet clay on her clothes. “I knew I should’ve weighted those down. I heard you sell that sourwood honey everyone goes crazy for. I’ve been meaning to stop by your roadside stand, but I figured you’d probably slam the door in my face, what with the whole family connection thing.”
He blinks, taken off guard. He’d always assumed she hated him, that she’d bought into his ex’s stories about him being a cold, absent husband who cared more about wildfire risk assessments than his own family. He fumbles for the special reserve jar of sourwood he’d stashed under the table, saved for a regular who’d been helping him fix up his old pickup, and twists the lid off. “No reason to slam the door,” he says, dipping a clean popsicle stick into the thick, amber honey and holding it out to her. “Taste it. Got it from the hives I keep up in the foothills, off the old fire access road I used to patrol.”
She leans in, her lips brushing his knuckle when she wraps her mouth around the end of the stick, and he has to fight to keep his hand from shaking. He feels a hot flash of shame first, angry at himself for even entertaining the thought of being attracted to her, for violating the stupid unspoken rules he’s lived by for 40 years of knowing his ex. Then she hums, soft and pleased, and pulls back, wiping a drop of honey off her chin with her thumb. “That’s the best thing I’ve tasted all year,” she says, and she’s looking him directly in the eye, no hesitation, no awkwardness, like she can see exactly how flustered he is and doesn’t mind it.
They talk for the rest of the afternoon, between customers. She tells him about her pottery studio she set up in the old cabin her dad left her, about how she quit teaching after her husband died because she couldn’t stand being around people all day every day. He tells her about the hives, about how he got into beekeeping after he retired because it was the only thing that quieted the constant hum of anxiety in his chest left from 30 years of chasing wildfires. He doesn’t mention the ex, doesn’t mention the years he spent alone, drinking beer on his porch and talking to his bees like they’re the only friends he has. She doesn’t bring it up either.
The sky turns dark right as the fair closes for the night, and rain starts pouring down hard, fat cold drops that soak through his faded flannel shirt in 10 seconds flat. He helps her load the heavy boxes of pottery into the back of her old Subaru, his arm brushing her waist when they both lift a box of mugs at the same time, and when they’re done, they’re both standing under the awning of her booth, dripping wet, and she leans in and kisses him.
He doesn’t pull away. He kisses her back, slow, the taste of honey and mint gum on her lips, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel the sharp twist of guilt in his gut, doesn’t feel like he’s doing something wrong. When she pulls back, she’s grinning, and she presses a chipped indigo mug, the same color as the coaster they’d grabbed earlier, into his hand. It’s still warm from being stacked under a blanket in the back of her booth, even through the rain.
“Meet me for breakfast at the diner on Main Street tomorrow,” she says, already climbing into her driver’s seat. “7 a.m. Don’t be late.”
He nods, standing in the rain as she drives off, the mug heavy in his hand. A stray honey bee, the kind that follows him everywhere he goes, lands on the rim of the mug, crawling across the wet ceramic for a second before flying off toward the foothills. He lifts the mug to his face, and he can still smell the clay and lavender on it, sharp and sweet over the smell of rain and wet asphalt.
