Manny Ruiz, 53, has kept bees in the rolling hills outside Traverse City for 10 years, ever since he and his ex-wife relocated from Austin chasing cheaper land and longer bloom seasons. She left seven years ago for a travel nurse she met at an urgent care when Manny got stung 17 times in one bad hive check, and he’s kept everyone but his hives and his older sister at arm’s length ever since—grudge-holding is his worst flaw, one he doesn’t bother apologizing for. Last month, he refused to sell a jar of sourwood honey to a teen wearing a campaign hat for the new county commissioner, the guy who’d spent his whole campaign bashing the pesticide ban Manny had spent three years lobbying for.
He’s wiping down the last of his honey jars at the end of the final farmers market of the season when she walks up, and he recognizes her immediately from the campaign signs, the one where she’s standing next to the commissioner in a tailored dress, smile tight. Today she’s wearing a scuffed cream cable knit sweater, jeans with a hole at the left knee, and work boots caked in mud, no makeup, hair pulled back in a loose braid with a few gray strands catching the golden hour sun. The air smells like crushed apple leaves and the cinnamon donuts from the stand three spots over, and the last few straggler bees hum in the transport hive by the back of his pickup.
He tenses immediately, ready to tell her he’s sold out, but she leans in before he can speak, close enough that he can smell pine soap and spearmint gum on her breath, her forearm brushing his where he’s resting it on the edge of the table. “I’ve been coming to your stand every Saturday for three months,” she says, nodding at the row of raw buckwheat honey jars, “you never look up long enough to notice. I usually buy two jars of the wildflower, but I wanted to try the buckwheat this week.”
Manny blinks, his hand hovering over the jar he was about to put in a box. He’d written off everyone associated with the commissioner months ago, assumed they were all just as eager to gut the pollinator protections as he was. He opens his mouth to mention the vote last week, the one where the commissioner cast the tie-breaking vote to roll back the neonicotinoid ban, but she beats him to it. “I fought him on that for three weeks,” she says, like she can read his mind, her voice dropping so the couple packing up the next stand can’t hear. “I volunteer with the local pollinator coalition. He won’t listen to me, says it’s ‘bad for local business.’”
She shifts her weight, and her knee brushes his, just for a second, through the thick denim of their jeans. He doesn’t step back. He’s spent the last seven years avoiding any touch that isn’t a bee sting or the rough wood of a hive box, and the contact sends a little jolt up his spine, warm and unexpected. He reaches for the buckwheat jar, his fingers brushing hers when he passes it to her, and her skin is cold from the 48-degree wind coming off the bay.
He watches her twist the cap a little to check the seal, her thumb running over the label he printed himself, the one with a photo of his favorite hive queen he took last spring. “I’ve been wanting to see how you keep your hives,” she says, not looking up at him at first, like she’s nervous to ask. “He’s at a conference in Lansing next Wednesday. I don’t want him to know I’m asking. He says environmental stuff is a waste of my time.”
Manny’s first instinct is to say no. Everyone in this town knows the commissioner has a temper, has a habit of making life hard for people who cross him. If anyone sees her at Manny’s hives, the gossip will spread faster than a wildfire in dry brush, he could lose his market permit, someone might even vandalize his hives. He opens his mouth to turn her down, and then she looks up at him, holds his gaze for three full seconds, no smile, just honest, wide hazel eyes, and her thumb brushes the back of his hand when she hands him the cash for the honey.
He says yes before he can think better of it, grabs a blank honey jar label from the stack under the table, scrawls his cell number on the back with a half-dried Sharpie. She tucks it in the pocket of her sweater, her fingers brushing the fabric for a second like she’s making sure it doesn’t fall out. “I’ll text you Wednesday morning,” she says, and then she picks up a jar of peach-infused honey from the canvas bag slung over her shoulder, sets it on the edge of his table. “I made this. Tastes better than the store-bought stuff, I promise.”
She walks away before he can say thank you, heading for a beat-up tan Subaru parked by the market entrance, not the shiny black SUV the commissioner drives around town. He watches her wave from the driver’s seat before she pulls out, and he lifts a hand back, the spot on the back of his hand where her thumb brushed still tingling. He picks up the jar of peach honey, twists off the cap, dips a finger in, the sweet, tart taste bursting on his tongue, the hum of the bees behind him softer than the sound of his own pulse in his ears.
