Elias Voss, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, had been dodging the new honey vendor at the Hillsboro farmers market for three straight Saturdays. He’d recognized her the second she set up her stand: Lena Marlow, ex-wife of his 1978 high school football coach, the woman he and every other guy on the team had stared at like she was a myth made flesh, off-limits by unspoken rule. His wife had been gone four years, and he’d held fast to a quiet promise to not so much as flirt with anyone else, convinced any stray attraction was a betrayal of the 38 years they’d had together. The sawdust he still carried under his fingernails from the weekend carpentry projects he filled his days with, the hand-carved jar lids he sold alongside his homemade blackberry jam at the same market, were the only company he’d wanted, until that Saturday.
He was reaching across a stack of plastic pints for the darkest, juiciest looking blackberries when her hand brushed his. Her knuckles were calloused, same as his, roughened from hauling hive boxes and scraping beeswax, not planing oak or carving jar lids. The air between them smelled like clover and ripe fruit and the faint, sweet smoke of the food truck selling smoked sausage three stalls down. He pulled his hand back fast, face hot, and she laughed, a low, warm sound he remembered clear as the day he’d fumbled a game-winning pass and she’d brought him a lemonade on the sideline instead of letting his coach chew him out.
“Elias Voss. You still have that same smudge of sawdust on your left jaw you wore every time you showed up to our house to pick up practice gear.” She leaned against the edge of the berry stall, linen shirt unbuttoned one button too far, sun catching the silver streaks in her dark hair. She was closer than most people stood, close enough that he could feel the heat off her forearm where it brushed his, close enough that he could see the faint scar on her left eyebrow from the time she’d crashed a dirt bike behind the school, the story every guy on the team had memorized.
His first instinct was to mumble an excuse, grab the berries, and hightail it back to his beat-up Ford F-150. Guilt twisted sharp in his chest, the same feeling he got when he found old photos of his wife and forgot to feel sad for a second, too busy remembering how she’d laughed when he’d burned their wedding anniversary roast. But he didn’t move. He held her gaze, and she didn’t look away, dark eyes steady, a little teasing, no pity, no awkwardness, like they’d been talking every week for years, not 40.
She nodded toward her stand, where stacked wooden hive boxes hummed softly behind rows of glass honey jars glowing gold in the sun. “I got a jar of wild blackberry honey I set aside last week. Knew you’d show up eventually. Remember you used to sneak blackberries off the bush behind the practice field before every game? Said they were your good luck charm.”
He followed her, boots crunching on the gravel path, and when she reached up to grab the jar off the top shelf, her hip pressed against his for half a second, deliberate but not pushy. The jar was warm from the sun when she handed it to him, and when a drop of berry juice he hadn’t noticed dribbled down his chin, she wiped it off with her thumb, her skin soft even with the calluses, her hand lingering just long enough to make his heart beat faster than it had since he’d carried his wife’s casket.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. He pulled one of the hand-carved maple jar lids he kept in his jacket pocket out and handed it to her. “Fits standard honey jars. Carved the lip so it seals tight, no leakage.” His voice was steadier than he thought it would be.
She turned it over in her hand, running her finger along the carved pattern of tiny bees he’d etched around the edge. “You always were good with your hands. Coach used to say you could build a house with a pocketknife and a glue stick if you had to.” She smiled, and this time, there was no teasing in it, just something soft, something familiar. “You free for coffee at the diner on Main Wednesday? They still make those blueberry pancakes you used to buy before practice. I’ve been wanting to hear how you ended up teaching woodshop, instead of going pro like everyone thought you would.”
He nodded, before he could talk himself out of it. He walked back to his truck a half hour later, the blackberries in one hand, the jar of honey in the other, the sun warm on his face. He didn’t feel guilty. Didn’t feel like he was letting anyone down. He turned the key in the ignition, the radio flicked on to a 70s rock station he and his wife used to listen to on road trips, and he smiled, slow and easy, for the first time in four years that didn’t feel like a chore.
