Rico Marquez is 53, spent 22 years as a smokejumper before a blown knee and a divorce pushed him north to a tiny Michigan lake town where he keeps 42 beehives and sells honey at the Saturday farmers market. His biggest flaw is he’d rather sleep in his truck than deal with small town gossip, a habit he’s honed since he moved here seven years prior, never staying at any event longer than he has to, never asking anyone about their business, never letting anyone ask about his.
Mid-August heat sits thick over the market this weekend, the air thick with the smell of grilled sweet corn, overripe peaches, and the sharp, earthy tang of the manure spread on the community garden down the block. Rico’s got a smudge of beeswax on his left jaw, a half-empty can of root beer sweating on the folding table next to his jars of honey, and he’s half-asleep leaning against a hay bale when he spots her.
Clara, the new librarian, the one everyone’s been whispering about since she left the town’s pastor three weeks prior, is hovering ten feet from his booth, twisting the strap of her canvas tote around her wrist, sun bleaching the auburn highlights in her hair. He’s seen her around before, checked out a stack of western novels from her last month, didn’t say more than two words to her, heard the group of church ladies at the pie booth calling her a homewrecker last Saturday, even though everyone with half a brain knows the pastor was cheating on her with the church secretary for two years.
He looks away first, pretending to rearrange the jars of wildflower honey on the top shelf, figuring she’ll keep walking, that he doesn’t need the headache of being seen talking to her. But she doesn’t. She steps up to the booth, her sandals scuffing the dirt, and the first thing he notices is the lavender perfume she’s wearing, soft enough that it doesn’t clash with the clover honey scent hanging around his table.
“Got anything for ragweed allergies?” She leans in a little when she asks, like she’s sharing a secret, and her arm brushes his when she points to the smaller 4 ounce jars stacked by the register. He’s got calluses all over his hands from hauling hives and prying open bee boxes, but when their fingers brush as he passes her a sample spoon of raw wildflower honey, he feels a jolt go up his forearm, sharp and warm.
He explains the difference between the wildflower, harvested from hives up by the lighthouse, and the clover, from the hives down by the lake, and she laughs when he tells her about the black bear that stole half a hive from him back in June, left claw marks all over the fence around his property. He’s so busy talking he doesn’t notice the two church ladies from the pie booth stop by the end of his table, staring daggers at them, until Clara pauses mid-sentence, her smile fading a little.
Rico follows her line of sight, snorts, and leans back against the hay bale, crossing his arms over his chest, staring the ladies down until they huff and walk away. “Pay them no mind,” he says, grabbing the special jar of honey he usually saves for the vet who patches up his hound dog when he gets stung too many times, the one with the extra pollen content that’s supposed to knock allergies out cold. “Half of them were sneaking out to the bar with the fishing guides back when their husbands were off working in the auto plants. They don’t get to judge anyone.”
Clara’s smile comes back, softer this time, and when she reaches for the jar, her thumb brushes the back of his hand, and he can feel the small callus on the pad of her thumb, from turning book pages, he figures. “I was nervous you’d buy into all of it,” she says, quiet enough that no one but him can hear, leaning in so close he can smell the peppermint gum she’s chewing. “Everyone else in town has.”
He shakes his head, pushes the jar across the table to her, no charge. “I don’t care what anyone says about who left who. I got my own messy divorce, I know how half the story gets told when everyone’s got a stake in making the guy who preaches every Sunday look like a saint.” He pauses, wipes a smudge of honey off his wrist with the back of his hand, adds, “I’m heading to the Rusty Anchor after I tear down this booth. They’ve got cold beer and fried cheese curds that don’t taste like cardboard. You wanna come?”
He half expects her to say no, to make some excuse, but she doesn’t. She pulls a library receipt out of her tote, scribbles her phone number on the back of it, and tucks it into the pocket of his flannel shirt, her fingers brushing the skin of his chest through the open collar. “I’ll be there at 6,” she says, and she grins, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes deepening, before she turns and walks away, the hem of her denim skirt brushing the back of her calves as she heads toward the peach booth.
Rico stands there for a minute, his fingers brushing the crumpled receipt in his pocket, the stickiness of honey still on his fingertips, the sound of the market crowd fading into the background for a second. The old lady who runs the pie booth glares at him as she walks past with a tray of peach pies, and he just nods at her, slow, like he’s got a secret he doesn’t mind the whole town knowing about. He picks up the half-empty root beer can from the table, takes a long sip, and starts stacking the empty honey jars into the cooler, already counting down the minutes until 6.
