Moe Hafner, 62, retired apiary inspector, had only dragged himself to the Milan fall harvest festival to placate his 10-year-old granddaughter, who’d insisted his wildflower honey was good enough to beat the old guy who’d won first place three years running. He’d taken second, which was fine by him, and was lingering by the fried pie truck to avoid the cluster of town gossips who kept waving him over to their picnic table when it happened. He turned too fast, honey jar trophy in one hand, half-eaten caramel apple in the other, and slammed straight into Lila Marlow, the new Methodist pastor who’d moved into the parsonage two doors down from him three months prior.
A tray of spiced cider samples sloshed over the edge, cold sticky liquid soaking the cuff of his gray flannel shirt. She yelped, grabbed his wrist before he could step back, dabbing at the damp fabric with a crumpled paper napkin she pulled from her jeans pocket. Moe’s first instinct was to yank his arm away. He’d avoided Lila on purpose since she’d moved in, still holding a petty 8-year grudge against all religious leadership after his ex-wife left him for their old parish’s deacon. He’d written her off as another pious, judgmental type who’d be knocking on his door at 9 a.m. on Sundays with a pamphlet before long.
Then he looked down. Her thumb brushed the thick, pocked scar on his wrist, left by a killer bee sting that had landed him in the ER six years prior, and she paused, her fingers warm even through the damp flannel. “Heard you get those from the hives,” she said, holding eye contact long enough that Moe’s neck heated up a little. She smelled like cinnamon and pine, not the flowery perfume he’d expected, and there was a chip in the pale blue nail polish on her thumb, scuffed work boots peeking out under the hem of her plain black clergy shirt. No frills, no forced, tight smile.
He didn’t pull away. They ended up leaning against the split rail fence bordering the pumpkin patch, the noise of the festival fading into background hum as they talked. She admitted she hated wearing the collar half the time, that she’d taken the posting in Milan to get away from her old town where everyone still stared at her like she was a broken doll 14 months after her husband died in a motorcycle crash. Moe laughed when she admitted she’d already gotten three complaints from the older church ladies for riding her Harley to Sunday service. He told her about the grudge, about how he hadn’t set foot in a church since his ex left, and she snort-laughed so hard she spilled cider down her own shirt.
The sun dipped low, painting the sky pink and tangerine, and their shoulders kept brushing when they laughed, the rough fabric of her overshirt catching on his sleeve. She asked if he wanted to walk back to the parsonage with her, said she’d been trying to ferment honey mead in her basement and the store-bought honey she’d used tasted like dish soap, wanted his opinion on what she was doing wrong. Moe hesitated for half a second, thinking about the gossip that would spread faster than a wildfire if anyone saw the grumpy ex-bee inspector sneaking into the pastor’s house as the sun went down. Then he nodded.
Her place was nothing like he’d expected. No crosses on every wall, no piles of religious tracts, just stacks of old rock vinyl on the coffee table, a pit bull mix curled up on the couch snoring, a pile of motorcycle parts by the front door. She poured them each a small glass of the lumpy, pale mead, and they sat on the porch swing, the crisp fall air biting at their cheeks as they sipped. It was terrible, sour and watery, and Moe told her so straight, making her laugh so hard she snort again.
She leaned in to take the jar of his prize honey from his hand when he offered to let her test a batch with it, and their fingers tangled for a beat, her calloused palm (from gripping motorcycle handlebars, she’d told him earlier) fitting against his, rough from 30 years of lifting wooden bee boxes. She kissed him slow, no rush, and he could taste the sour mead and cinnamon gum on her lips, her other hand resting light on his jaw, no pressure, no expectation. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t spiral into worry about what anyone would say, didn’t fixate on the grudge he’d carried for almost a decade. For the first time in years, he just felt present.
He left an hour later, when his granddaughter texted him to come pick her up from her friend’s house down the road. She pressed a jar of her own homemade peach jam into his free hand as she walked him to the door, told him she’d knock on his door next Saturday to pick up the honey for the church food pantry, and maybe they could start the new mead batch together while they were at it. Moe nodded, climbed into his beat up Ford F150, and when he glanced in the rearview mirror as he pulled out of the driveway, she was still standing on the porch, collar unbuttoned, grinning and waving.
