Roman Voss is 59, a beekeeper with 72 hives scattered across 12 acres of forest and wild meadow outside Waynesville, North Carolina. For 17 years, he’s skipped the Haywood County Fair, stubborn as the black locust trees rooted along his property line, still sore over a blown co-op deal with Jake Carter, who’d bailed at the last minute and left Roman holding $12,000 in unpaid supply bills. He’d sworn he’d never set foot on the fairgrounds again, not as long as any Carter was involved with the county agriculture program, but when his sourwood honey got nominated for the annual blue ribbon award, his part-time farm hand practically pushed him into his beat-up 2008 Tacoma at 8 a.m. that Saturday, muttering that he was being an idiot for letting a 17-year-old grudge rob him of $500 in prize money and free advertising.
The air hits him the second he steps out of the truck, thick with fried Oreos, pine, and the faint, sharp tang of cotton candy, mixed with the low rumble of the Ferris wheel’s gears and the distant holler of the cattle auctioneer in the livestock tent. He cuts through the crowd, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oilskin work jacket, ignoring the calls from old neighbors he hasn’t seen in years, heading straight for the honey tasting booth where his entries are displayed. That’s where he sees her.
She’s leaning against the rough-hewn cedar rail of the booth, one boot propped on the lower rung, a stack of pamphlets for local pollinator projects tucked under one arm. Dark hair streaked with auburn falls in loose waves past her shoulders, held back from her face with a frayed canvas headband printed with tiny bees. He recognizes her immediately as Elara Carter, Jake’s younger sister, the kid who used to sell lemonade outside the co-op back when he and his ex-wife ran the organic veggie stand. She’s 47 now, the new county food systems coordinator, he’d heard through the grapevine, moved back to the area six months prior after working in conservation in Oregon. His first instinct is to turn around, cut back through the crowd, drive home and pretend he never came, but she spots him before he can move, grinning so wide the corners of her hazel eyes crinkle.
She pushes off the rail and crosses to him, holding out a tiny plastic spoon dipped in his own wildflower honey, and when he takes it, their fingers brush. Her hands are calloused, same as his, scarred across the knuckles from thorns and hive tools, no fancy nail polish, no frills. He tastes the honey, bright with blackberry and clover, and she laughs when he nods approvingly, says she’s been buying his honey from the general store in town for months, swears it’s the only thing that soothes her seasonal allergies. The crowd jostles them as a group of kids sprint past heading for the tilt-a-whirl, and her hip presses tight to his for three full steps, warm through the thin fabric of her flannel shirt and his work jacket. He can smell her perfume, citrus and cedar, the same cheap, pine-scented soap he buys in bulk at the farm supply store.
He spends the next hour talking to her, half annoyed at himself for not leaving, half unable to pull away. She doesn’t mention Jake at first, just rambles about the school pollinator garden program she’s trying to launch, the way half the county’s apple orchards are losing hives to pesticide drift, the feral cat colony she’s been feeding behind the extension office. When they announce the honey contest winners over the loudspeaker, he wins first place for sourwood, second for wildflower, and she grabs his arm to squeeze it, her palm warm against the bare skin of his forearm where his jacket sleeve has ridden up, her eyes locked on his like he’s the only person in the crowd of 2,000.
They head to the small beer garden on the edge of the fairgrounds after the award ceremony, split a basket of fried pickles, sit at a splintered picnic table far enough away from the crowd that they don’t have to yell over the live bluegrass set playing on the main stage. He finally brings up the old co-op deal, voice tight, expecting her to get defensive, but she snorts into her IPA, shakes her head, says Jake still brings it up every time she talks to him, says he’s been trying to find Roman to apologize for years, felt terrible about bailing after his then-wife got sick and he had to drain their savings to pay medical bills. Roman blinks, he’d never heard that part, had just assumed Jake bailed to cut corners and start his own farm on the cheap. The resentment he’s carried for 17 years fizzles out so fast it makes his chest feel light, like he’s been carrying a backpack full of rocks and finally set it down.
The sun dips below the mountains as they talk, painting the sky pink and tangerine, the fair lights flickering on one by one, strung across the tree tops like scattered fireflies. She leans across the table to grab another fried pickle, and her hand brushes his where it’s resting on the wood, and she doesn’t pull away, just holds it for half a second, her thumb brushing the thin, pale scar across his knuckle he got when a hive swarmed him three years prior. She asks him if he’d be willing to consult on the school garden program, help the kids build hive boxes, teach them about beekeeping, and he agrees before she even finishes the question.
They walk back to his truck together, the sound of the fair fading behind them, crickets chirping in the grass along the dirt parking lot. She stops at the passenger door, reaches up to brush a stray bee stinger off the collar of his flannel, her thumb brushing the warm skin of his neck for half a second, and asks if he wants to get pancakes at the diner downtown tomorrow at 8, to hash out the program details. He nods, fumbling in his pocket for his keys, his face warm enough that he’s sure she can see the flush even in the half-dark. He reaches into the bed of his truck to grab the jar of first-place sourwood honey he’d set aside that morning, already planning to write her name on the label in black permanent marker before he leaves to pick her up.
