Rafe Mendez, 53, has been keeping bees in the Blue Ridge foothills for six years, ever since he walked away from a pharmaceutical sales job and an 18-year marriage that had shrunk down to nothing but shared utility bills and silent car rides to family dinners. His biggest flaw, the one his sister nags him about every Sunday over meatloaf, is that he’d rather spend three hours prying a stuck hive box open alone than make small talk with anyone who isn’t his 16-year-old niece or the old guy who runs the local feed store. He only agreed to set up a booth at the town’s annual fall harvest festival because the county apiarist begged him, said kids loved seeing the framed comb samples, and he’s too much of a soft touch for people who care about bees as much as he does.
The first two hours drag. He hands out honey sticks to sticky-faced kids, explains to three separate people why raw honey doesn’t go bad, and avoids making eye contact with his ex-wife’s cousin who’s manning the apple cider booth 10 feet away. Then he sees her. Clara, the new town librarian who moved here three months ago from Portland, has walked past his booth twice already, each time lingering half a second longer than necessary, a half-empty cup of spiced cider in her hand, a smudge of orange pumpkin paint streaked across her left wrist from running the kids’ craft table. He’s heard the diner gossip: she’s separated, not fully divorced, moved across the country with her 12-year-old son to get away from a husband who spent more time on his work trips than at home. Rafe has a strict rule about not getting tangled up with people who have unfinished business, so he forces his eyes back to the stack of honey jars in front of him when she stops at the edge of his booth for the third time.
She leans against the wooden table, close enough that he can smell lavender hand cream mixed with the cinnamon from her cider, the scent wrapping around him softer than the smoke he uses to calm hives. She asks about the sourwood honey, the jar with the handwritten label that’s $2 more than the wildflower blend, and when he explains that sourwood trees only bloom for three weeks a year at the highest elevations, she leans in an inch, her shoulder brushing his bicep, like she doesn’t want to miss a word over the bluegrass band playing two booths over. When she passes him a crumpled $20 bill to pay for the jar, their fingers brush, and he feels the rough callus on the tip of her index finger, the kind you get from turning thousands of book pages over decades. He fumbles for change, his face heating up like he’s 16 again asking a girl to prom, and she laughs, a low, warm sound that makes the back of his neck tingle. She tells him she’s been buying his honey from the general store for two months, that she puts it in her tea every morning, and he can’t remember the last time someone told him something that small and personal and made it feel like a gift.
The sky opens up without warning, fat cold raindrops slamming down so hard the bluegrass band cuts off mid-verse, kids screaming as they run for cover under awnings and picnic tables. Rafe grabs the blue tarp he keeps tucked under the table to cover the honey jars, his hands moving fast so the paper labels don’t get soaked, and suddenly she’s next to him, holding the edge of the tarp down so the wind doesn’t yank it out of his hands. She steps wrong on the wet grass, her boot slipping out from under her, and he grabs her around the waist without thinking, pulling her close to keep her from falling. Her chest presses against his for half a second, her cider cup squished between their jackets, and they both freeze, the sound of the rain pounding on the booth awning the only thing between them. She doesn’t pull away immediately, her breath warm against his neck, and he can feel the steady thud of her heartbeat through the flannel of her shirt, matching his own.
She pulls back first, her cheeks pink, and tucks a strand of auburn hair streaked with gray behind her ear. She says she’s been meaning to ask him if he’d be willing to bring some honey sticks for the library’s after-school fantasy book club, the kids love anything sweet, and also, if he doesn’t have plans later, the bar down the street is doing $2 pints of local stout once the festival wraps up, no pressure, she just hasn’t met many people here who don’t ask her about her ex-husband within five minutes of talking to her. Rafe’s first instinct is to say no, to make up an excuse about needing to check on his hives that night, to avoid the inevitable gossip that will spread through the diner by Tuesday morning if they’re seen drinking beer together. But then he looks at her, the pumpkin paint still on her wrist, the rain dripping off the end of her nose, and he can’t bring himself to lie.
He says yes. He hands her a free small jar of the sourwood honey, the special reserve he usually saves for his sister and niece, and when she takes it, her fingers lace with his for a split second, deliberate this time, no fumbling. She tells him she’ll meet him at the bar at 7, tucks the jar into the pocket of her jacket, and waves as she runs back to the craft table to check on the kids who are huddled under the awning there. Rafe stands under his booth, the rain slowing to a light drizzle now, and picks up the honey sample spoon he’d set down earlier, the sticky sweetness lingering on his fingers. He watches her laugh as she wipes a streak of green face paint off a little kid’s cheek, and realizes he hasn’t looked forward to a beer with anyone in almost seven years.
