Elroy Voss, 53, has run his wild honey apiary at the foot of the Blue Ridge for eight years, ever since his ex-wife loaded her SUV with their furniture and drove west without a forwarding address. His biggest flaw, by his own quiet admission, is that he cares far too much about what the gossips in this one-stoplight town think of him. He’s skipped three consecutive volunteer fire department cookouts just to avoid the questions about why he never started dating again, opting instead to spend weekends tending to his hives and watching old westerns alone on his couch.
It’s the last Saturday of October, the farmers market running on shortened hours, most vendors already tossing empty produce crates into the back of their pickups when she walks up. He recognizes her before she opens her mouth. Mara. His ex-wife’s younger cousin, last seen at their 2012 Fourth of July cookout, arguing with his ex about who got the good cast iron skillet in the divorce settlement. She’s wearing a beat-up flannel over a faded Nirvana tee, jeans cuffed at the ankle, work boots caked in red clay from clearing out her late mom’s property a mile down the road from his apiary.
He freezes mid-wipe of a sourwood honey jar, the sticky sweet residue clinging to the rag in his hand. The first thought that pops into his head is that Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peabody from the First Baptist Church are loitering by the pumpkin stand 20 feet away, already craning their necks to get a look at who’s talking to the reclusive honey guy. He wants to tell her to leave, to not stir up trouble that’ll follow him for the next six months of grocery store runs and post office visits. But then she leans in, elbows resting on the rough wood of his stall, and the sleeve of her flannel brushes a stack of honey sticks, sending three clattering to the ground between them.
She smells like cedar shavings and spearmint gum, the same scent he remembered from when she’d crashed on their couch for three weeks after college graduation, her laugh loud enough to rattle the windows when he burned the burgers on the grill. Her hazel eyes hold his for three beats too long, no polite look away, no awkward fidgeting. “I heard you sell the best tupelo honey this side of the Smokies,” she says, her voice lower than he remembered, rougher from years of smoking, he guesses. He nods, grabs a sample jar, dips a tiny wooden spoon in, holds it out to her.
Her fingers brush his when she takes the spoon, the chill of her skin against his sun-warmed knuckles making him jolt minutely. He hopes she doesn’t notice. She licks the honey off the spoon slow, deliberate, and lets out a soft hum that makes the back of his neck heat up. The distant sound of the bluegrass band packing up their fiddle drifts over, mixed with the crinkle of apple cider donut bags and the faint honk of a pickup truck down the road. Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peabody are definitely staring now, he can feel their eyes boring into the side of his head.
“Told my cousin she was an idiot to leave you,” she says, setting the empty spoon down on the stall, her hand still lingering an inch from his. He feels that familiar pull of disgust and desire warring in his chest, disgust at the idea of breaking the unspoken small town rule about not getting involved with your ex’s family, desire thrumming low in his gut at the way she’s looking at him like she knows exactly what he’s thinking and doesn’t care. He’s spent so long shutting himself off from any kind of connection that the spark of it feels like a shock to the system.
She doesn’t push, just leans back, rocking on her heels, and nods at the half-empty case of honey jars behind him. “I’ll take a quart of that tupelo, and a bag of the honey sticks. And if you’re not busy after you pack up, I was gonna grab a beer at the Rusty Spur down the road. Figured we could catch up.” He glances over at the two church ladies, who are now pretending to inspect a pile of gourds but clearly still listening. He knows if he says yes, the gossip will be all over town by Sunday morning. People will call him trash, say he was cheating on his ex with her cousin even though they’ve been divorced eight years.
He looks back at Mara, and she grins, like she can read every thought running through his head. “Who cares what a bunch of bored retirees have to say?” she says, soft enough that only he can hear. It’s the exact line he’s been repeating to himself in the mirror every time he bails on a social event for fear of judgment, and it hits him like a punch to the chest. He nods, before he can talk himself out of it. “Give me ten minutes to load the truck,” he says. She grins wider, takes the jar and the bag of honey sticks he hands her, pays him, and tells him she’ll meet him there.
He packs up faster than he ever has, barely even noticing when the two church ladies stop by to buy a small jar of wildflower honey, their smiles tight and judgmental. He tosses the last crate into the bed of his pickup, locks the stall, and drives the two miles to the Rusty Spur, his hands still a little shaky on the wheel. He pulls into the parking spot next to her rental sedan, and she’s leaning against the hood, holding out a half-smoked menthol cigarette for him. He takes it, his fingers brushing hers again, and when they push through the saloon-style doors of the bar, he doesn’t even bother glancing around to see if anyone he knows is sitting at the tables.
