Ray Voss, 62, retired Georgia state apiary inspector, had only agreed to come to the town summer festival because his 16-year-old niece had begged him to man the local beekeeper co-op booth for an hour while she ran to get a blue raspberry snow cone. He’d spent the last four years holed up on his 10-acre property outside town, tending his own hives and avoiding every social invite that landed in his mailbox, convinced any small spark of joy not tied to the memory of his late wife Elaine counted as betrayal. The sun baked the back of his neck through his faded gray work shirt, the air thick with the smell of fried green tomatoes, cut clover, and the sharp, sweet tang of sourwood honey from the jars stacked on the table in front of him.
Ray fumbled for the frayed cotton bandana in his back pocket, flustered, stammering out an apology as he reached for her wrist. His knuckles brushed the soft, warm skin of her inner arm when he dabbed at the sticky honey, and she didn’t pull away. He could feel the faint thrum of her pulse under his fingertips, and his throat went tight. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be that close to someone who wasn’t family, who didn’t look at him like he was a broken thing to be pitied.
She introduced herself as Marnie, the woman who’d opened the small pie shop on Main Street three months prior. She’d been stopping by the co-op booth every 20 minutes, she said, hoping to find someone who could sell her bulk sourwood honey for her peach honey pies, the top seller on her menu. She kept leaning in when he talked, her shoulder brushing his every time a crowd of festival goers pushed past, her attention fixed on his face like he was saying something far more interesting than the difference between sourwood and clover honey yields.
He could see Linda, Elaine’s childhood best friend, staring at them from the jam booth three stalls down, her mouth turned down in that familiar judgmental frown. The old, familiar guilt coiled in his gut, sharp and heavy. He should step back. He should hand her a co-op order form and send her on her way, go home to his quiet porch and his cold beer and the framed photo of Elaine on his mantel. But then Marnie laughed at a dumb joke he made about hive mites being the worst pest in north Georgia, and the guilt softened, just a little, replaced by a warm, fizzing thrill he hadn’t felt in decades. It was stupid, and taboo, and the whole town would gossip if they saw him, but for the first time in four years, he didn’t care.
She pointed to the open jar of honey in his hand, the one that had spilled on her wrist, and leaned in close enough that he could smell vanilla extract and ripe peach on her clothes, the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo. “You gonna let me taste that, or you gonna keep hovering like you’re scared I’ll sting you?” she said, teasing, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a half smile.
Ray dipped the tip of his pinky into the honey at the rim of the jar, held it out. She wrapped her lips around his finger, slow, her tongue flicking the tip for half a second to catch the last of the honey, and he felt that jolt all the way down to the scuffed toes of his work boots. The band hit the chorus of “Amarillo by Morning,” a kid screamed on the bounce house 20 feet away, and no one looked their way.
He grabbed a full 16-ounce jar of sourwood honey from the stack behind him, scribbled his cell number on the masking tape label with a Sharpie, told her he’d stop by her shop at 10 the next morning to check the two hives she kept behind her store, the ones she’d been complaining were struggling with mites. He tossed in a small jar of homemade thyme-infused honey for free, said it went perfect with peach pie.
She tucked the jars into the canvas tote slung over her shoulder, winked, and said she’d have a warm slice of pie waiting for him when he showed up, extra sweet, no extra charge. She turned and walked away toward the fried food booths, her linen dress fluttering around her calves in the soft summer breeze.
Ray watched her go, then glanced over at Linda’s booth. She was still staring, her arms crossed over her chest, and he lifted the half-empty jar of honey in his hand in a mock toast, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
