Ronan O’Malley, 62, retired commercial beekeeper, leaned against the wobbly beer tent table and sipped his hazy IPA, the sticky vinyl of the tabletop pulling at the frayed cuffs of his well-worn flannel. He’d only shown up to the small western Oregon harvest festival to drop off his granddaughter’s 4H honey entries, had planned to slip out before anyone could corner him with awkward small talk about how he was “holding up” eight years after his wife Ellie died. The air smelled like wood smoke, roasted chestnuts, and the faint sickly sweet tang of candy apples, crisp October wind seeping through gaps in the canvas to nip at the tips of his ears.
He was halfway to reaching for his jacket to leave when she tripped over the leg of a folding chair at his side, her hip slamming hard into his, her free hand clamping down on his forearm to steady herself. The cold of her stainless steel travel mug seeped straight through his flannel, and he caught a whiff of clove and dried lavender off her hair as she laughed, rough and unapologetic, the weight of her calloused palm warm through the fabric even after the mug’s cold faded. He recognized her immediately: Marnie Carter, 58, who ran the native plant nursery on the edge of town, the woman every mutual friend had tried to set him up with for the last three years, the woman he’d deliberately avoided every time he’d seen her at the farmers market.
She didn’t let go of his arm right away, holding eye contact for a beat longer than strictly polite, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a smirk like she knew exactly how uncomfortable he was. “Ronan, right? You’re the one who sells that wildflower honey that’s the only thing that keeps me from hacking up a lung during cedar fever season. I’ve been meaning to track you down for months.” She hefted the stack of wildflower seed packets she’d been carrying, tapping the top of the pile against his chest playfully before she sat down on the folding chair across from him, no invitation needed.
His first instinct was to make an excuse, to say he had to get home to feed his hives, that he had a grandparent-teacher conference to get to, any lie to get out of the situation before the familiar, hot twist of guilt coiled in his gut. He still wore his wedding ring, had never even considered taking it off, thought any flicker of interest in another woman was a betrayal of the 34 years he’d had with Ellie. But then she slid a seed packet across the table, her fingers brushing his when he reached for it, and he saw the faint smudge of potting soil on her left cheek, the tiny scar across her knuckle from a rose thorn, and the guilt tangled up with something lighter, something he hadn’t felt in so long he almost didn’t recognize it.
The sun dipped below the treeline, and the string lights strung across the top of the tent flickered on, golden and soft, and she leaned in even closer, her shoulder brushing his this time, so he didn’t have to strain to hear her over the slow Johnny Cash cover the band started playing. “I know you still wear that ring for Ellie,” she said, quiet enough no one else could hear, her gaze steady on his face, no pity, no pressure, just that same quiet smirk. “No one’s asking you to take it off. I just wanted to tell you you look less grumpy than usual tonight, and I’d like to buy you a second beer, if you’ll let me.”
The twist of guilt in his gut loosened, all at once, like a knot he’d been pulling tight for eight years finally slipping free. He nodded, and when the server set the two fresh IPAs down between them, his hand brushed hers as they both reached for their glasses, and he didn’t pull away. He lifted his thumb to the smudge of potting soil on her cheek, slow, so she could pull back if she wanted, and wiped it away, her skin warm under his touch. She didn’t pull back, just leaned into it a little, her smile softening for half a second before she teased him for taking so long to notice the dirt on her face.
They stayed until the beer tent closed, until the band packed up their gear and the last of the festival goers stumbled to their cars, her arm looped through his as they walked across the gravel parking lot to her beat-up pickup. She kissed him quick on the lips before she climbed in, tasted like IPA and clove, and told him she’d drop off a flat of native wildflower starts at his place Saturday morning, asked if he had extra honey to trade. He told her he had a whole shelf of it, and he’d have a pot of coffee brewing when she got there.
He stood in the gravel long after her taillights faded around the corner, the ghost of her lipstick on his lower lip and the first light, stupid excitement he’d felt in eight years humming warm under his skin.
