Raynard “Ray” Mendez, 57, third-generation beekeeper with 12 hives scattered across his 18-acre property outside Asheville, had avoided the county fall harvest festival for three straight years. Ever since his wife Maria died in that car crash on the way to pick up hive boxes, every local event felt like a minefield of sympathetic head tilts and “how are you holding up” questions he didn’t have the energy to answer. He only showed up this year because the pie contest coordinator had called him in a panic at 7 a.m., begging for 12 extra jars of his wildflower honey after their original supplier’s truck broke down on the parkway. He’d grumbled the whole drive over, work boots caked in mud, flannel shirt dotted with bee stings he’d gotten that morning checking hives.
He was hauling the third crate of jars up to the contest table when his boot caught on a bale of hay stacked by the entrance, and he would’ve face-planted straight into a stack of pecan pies if a hand hadn’t wrapped tight around his elbow, yanking him back upright. The hand was calloused, warm, the skin a little chapped from cold fall wind, and it lingered a beat longer than strictly polite before pulling away. He looked up, and met the eyes of Lena Carter, the new county extension agent who’d moved to the area six months prior. He’d only spoken to her once before, over a quick phone call about pesticide use near local foraging areas, and he’d spent the whole call rushing to get off the line before she could ask about Maria. She was grinning, dimples popping in her sun-kissed cheeks, holding a half-eaten caramel apple in her other hand. “Easy there, honey man,” she said, her voice low and rough, like she spent half her day yelling over wind and lawn equipment. “Don’t go wasting a thousand dollars worth of honey on my pie contest entry.”
They loaded the rest of the jars together, their shoulders brushing every time they reached for the same crate. He could smell lavender hand cream mixed with the cinnamon of the donut stand 20 feet away, and the faint, sweet tang of the apple in her hand. She didn’t ask how he was doing. She didn’t mention Maria. She asked about his hives, about the new swarm he’d caught in an old oak tree two weeks prior, about how he processed his honey without heating it to keep all the pollen intact. He found himself talking for 20 minutes straight, leaning in a little closer than he should, his voice lighter than it had been in years. When she mentioned the beehives at the community garden had been failing for months, no one could figure out why, he offered to come out the next morning to take a look before he even thought twice about it. She lit up, and told him she’d bring a slice of her pecan pie, the one she’d entered in the contest, as payment. The offer sent a sharp, guilty twist through his chest. He’d not even considered going on a date, not even a casual one, since Maria died. It felt like betrayal, like he was erasing 28 years of marriage with a single offhand offer. But when she held his gaze, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, he couldn’t bring himself to take it back.
They hung around the contest table while the judges tasted entries, the bluegrass band on the main stage playing a slow, twangy cover of a Johnny Cash song, kids running past screaming with their faces covered in cotton candy. She handed him a paper plate with a slice of her pie halfway through, and he took a bite, and froze. It was exactly the way Maria used to make pecan pie, sweet but not cloying, using wildflower honey instead of white sugar, a dash of bourbon and a pinch of sea salt on top. He stared at her, confused, and she laughed, wiping a crumb of crust off her lip. “Found the recipe in an old community cookbook I picked up at a garage sale a few months back,” she said. “Had a woman named Maria Mendez’s name scrawled on the inside cover, said she won the pie contest three years running with it. Figured I’d test it out. Seemed like a good sign.” The guilt in his chest melted, soft and warm, like honey left in the sun. He realized Maria would’ve laughed herself silly if she saw him holed up on the farm alone, letting his hives do all the talking for him. She’d always told him to live, even when she wasn’t there to do it with him.
Her pie took second place, losing by half a point to an elderly woman from the next town over who’d been entering the contest since 1972. He walked her to her beat-up Ford pickup when the festival wrapped up, the air crisp enough to see their breath, orange and red maple leaves skittering across the gravel parking lot under their feet. She squeezed his hand before she climbed into the driver’s seat, her palm warm against his, and told him she’d be at the community garden at 10 a.m. sharp, no excuses. He nodded, leaning against the bed of his own truck as she pulled out of the lot, taillights fading into the dusk. He twisted the cap off the extra jar he’d kept for himself, took a slow sip of thick, floral honey, and smiled.
