Moe Pritchard, 62, retired commercial beekeeper, had only agreed to the fire department chili cookoff because his sister threatened to stop dropping off homemade peach pie at his cottage every Sunday if he bailed. He’d spent 38 years tending hives outside Missoula, sold the whole operation two years prior after a varroa mite infestation wiped 70% of his stock, and had spent most of the time since holed up in his workshop rebuilding vintage lawnmowers for neighbors for spare cash. His biggest flaw, he’d admit if pressed, was that he held grudges so long they grew roots: 12 years after his ex-wife left him for a real estate agent from Bozeman, he still avoided any event he thought she might show up to, and had turned down every half-hearted set-up his friends had tried to arrange.
The air that afternoon was crisp enough to make the tip of his nose pink, smoke curling from the cast iron chili pots strung along the picnic tables, the sound of volunteer firefighters yelling over each other as they argued over who had the spiciest batch. He was leaning against a splintered pine table, halfway through a bottle of cheap lager, when someone bumped hard into his back, sending crumbs of cornbread tumbling onto the sleeve of his faded plaid flannel.
He turned, ready to snap, and froze. It was Lila Marlow, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the woman he’d only met twice before, both times at family weddings back when he was still married. She was 54 now, he remembered, had been working as a dental hygienist in Seattle for 20 years, and the last he’d heard she’d moved back to town three months prior to take care of her mom, who was recovering from a stroke. She was wearing a thick wool coat the color of pine needles, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, and she was laughing so hard at her own clumsiness her eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Sorry about that,” she said, stepping close enough that he could smell her perfume: cedar and wild honey, the same scent he used to catch wafting off her when she’d walked past him at that first wedding, back when he’d told himself it was wrong to even notice. She brushed the crumbs off his sleeve with her free hand, her fingers brushing the bare skin of his wrist for half a second, and he felt a jolt go up his arm that had nothing to do with the cold. She held out a paper napkin, her nails painted a deep burnt orange, and when he took it her gaze held his for three beats too long, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
They ended up sitting on the same weathered bench to eat, their knees knocking every time one of them shifted, the heat from her leg seeping through his jeans even through both their coats. She made fun of the fire chief’s chili, which tasted like straight vinegar and too much cumin, leaning in so close to whisper that her hair brushed the edge of his ear, and he had to fight not to shiver. He told her about the lawnmower he was rebuilding for the local high school’s football coach, and she told him about the 90-year-old patient she’d seen that week who still snuck candy between cleanings even though his dentures couldn’t handle it. He kept waiting for the guilt to hit, the voice in his head that said she was off limits, that dating his ex’s cousin was the kind of messy small town drama he’d spent over a decade avoiding, but every time she laughed it got quieter, until he could barely hear it at all.
When the cookoff started wrapping up, the sun dipping low enough that the sky turned pink and orange at the edges, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “You wanna walk down to the old orchard on Oak Street?” she asked. “The last of the honeycrisp are still on the trees, no one’s picking them this year. I won’t tell if you sneak a few.” He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the half-finished lawnmower in his workshop, the grudge he’d carried for so long he barely remembered what it felt like to not be angry. Then he nodded, standing up and shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.
The walk to the orchard was quiet, the crunch of fallen leaves under their boots, the distant sound of a dog barking from a house down the street. When they got to the row of honeycrisp trees, she reached up to pluck a low-hanging apple, and when she turned back to him she kissed him, quick and soft at first, then deeper when he didn’t pull away. He could taste cinnamon and the beer she’d been drinking, her hands cold where they rested on his chest, and for a second he thought he might panic, might make an excuse and run back to his quiet cottage and his lawnmowers. But he didn’t. He put his hand on the side of her face, her skin soft under his calloused beekeeper’s fingers, and kissed her back.
They sat on a fallen log at the edge of the orchard, sharing the apple she’d picked, the juice running down his chin when he took a bite. She told him she’d thought he was cute at that first wedding, had been too nervous to say anything back then, had seen his truck parked around town a dozen times since she moved back but hadn’t had the nerve to stop and say hi. He told her he’d been avoiding any kind of company for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to look forward to talking to someone. The sky got darker, the first few stars coming out, and he didn’t even check his watch to see what time it was. He bit into the crisp, sweet fruit, and for the first time in 12 years, he didn’t think about his ex once.
