Rudy Galvan is 62, a retired municipal arborist who spent 34 years mapping and maintaining every oak, maple, and ash in Kent County, Michigan. His biggest flaw, the one his daughter nags him about every Sunday dinner, is that he’s shut himself off from anything that feels like new fun since his wife Linda passed eight years prior. He’d called the annual Almena Cider Mill Harvest Festival “a cheap grift for bored retirees and snot-nosed kids” two weeks before his granddaughter begged him to chaperone her to the children’s costume contest, his daughter stuck working an emergency shift at the hospital.
He’s leaning against a splintered cedar fence post, holding his granddaughter’s neon pink unicorn backpack and sipping spiced cider so cloyingly sweet it makes his fillings ache, when he spots her. She’s restocking a table of raw honey jars 10 feet away, red flannel rolled up to her elbows, sun spots scattered across her forearms, a fresh pink bee sting peeking out above the cuff of her work gloves. She laughs when a toddler drops a donut at her feet, swiping crumbs off the kid’s jacket before handing them a free honey lollipop, and Rudy realizes he’s been staring for a full minute. He feels a sharp twist of guilt in his gut, like he’s cheating somehow, like even looking at another woman this long is a slap to Linda’s memory. He turns away, staring at the hay bales stacked by the entrance, until he feels a tiny yank on his jeans.
His granddaughter has darted over to the honey table, already chattering to the woman about how her stuffed unicorn needs “magic honey” to make her horn glow. Rudy follows, already apologizing, when the kid swats at a stray bee and knocks a half-pint jar of clover honey off the table edge. He lunges to catch it at the same time she does, their hands slamming together around the glass before it hits the grass. He feels the rough callus on her palm, worn thick from prying open hive boxes, and her warmth seeps through his work glove for two full seconds before he pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. She grins, wiping dust off the jar before handing it to his granddaughter for free, says kids are faster than guard bees this time of year, no harm done.
She introduces herself as Clara, 58, part-time beekeeper who moved to the area six months prior, supplies all the honey for the mill’s famous donuts. She makes a face when she spots the half-empty cider cup in his hand, says the stuff they’re selling out front is 80% corn syrup and artificial cinnamon, pulls a mason jar of her own infused batch out from under the table, pours him a sample in a paper cup. Their fingers brush again when he takes it, and this time he doesn’t flinch. The cider is warm, sweet but sharp with wild clover, and he lets out a low hum of approval before he can stop himself. She holds eye contact, dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and says she’s been trying to find someone who knows the old growth oak stand on the west edge of the mill property, wants to set up three new hives there but doesn’t know if the trees are sturdy enough to support the boxes.
Rudy knows that stand of oaks better than he knows the back of his own hand. He mapped them in 1998, treated them for emerald ash borer in 2012, checked them for storm damage three months before he retired. He almost lies, almost says he doesn’t know anything about it, almost grabs his granddaughter and bails the second his daughter pulls into the parking lot. But Clara is leaning forward just a little, her shoulder almost touching his, and he can smell honey and cedar shampoo on her hair, and the words come out before he can stop them. He says he’s the guy she’s looking for, he’ll walk the property with her if she’s got time.
His daughter picks up the granddaughter, gushes when she sees the tiny honey jar, asks Rudy if he needs a ride home. He says no, he’s gonna stick around for a bit. Clara leads him along the tree line, dry maple leaves crunching under their work boots, the noise of the festival’s hay ride and bluegrass band fading behind them. She points to a stand of thin maples first, and he shakes his head, says the oaks a hundred yards further are better, deeper root systems, lower wind exposure, thick lower branches perfect for mounting hive boxes, acres of white clover growing under them for the bees to feed on. She stops walking, turning to face him, and her shoulder presses fully against his this time, warm through both their flannel shirts. She says she’s seen him at the hardware store twice before, lingering by the power tool section, thought he looked like he knew his way around the outdoors, was too nervous to walk up and say hi.
He laughs, surprised, admits he noticed her too, thought she was way out of his league, felt stupid for even letting himself look for more than two seconds. She snorts, soft, and leans in just enough that he can taste the hint of cider on her breath when she speaks. She says he’s an idiot, then reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together for three slow beats before she pulls away to point at a red-bellied woodpecker tapping on the nearest oak trunk.
They stay out there for an hour, trading stories about bad work injuries (he has a scar on his calf from a falling chainsaw, she has 17 confirmed bee sting scars on her left arm alone) and the stupid things their grandkids do, neither of them mentioning dead spouses or the fact that they both thought they’d never want to go on a first date again at their age. When they walk back toward the festival, the sun is dipping low over the trees, painting the sky pink and orange, and she asks if he wants to stay for the bonfire later, says the bluegrass band is made up of local retirees who are actually pretty good. He says yes immediately, no snarky joke about how lame bonfires are, no excuse about needing to get home to feed his cat.
He tucks the free sample jar of honey she gave him into the pocket of his worn work flannel, already making a mental note to dig out his old 1998 oak stand survey maps to bring when he meets her at the hives next Saturday.
