Earl Haskell is 58, has been a beekeeper and small-batch mead maker outside Grand Rapids for 17 years, his biggest flaw is he holds grudges longer than his hives hold honey stores through a harsh Michigan winter. Twelve years back, his ex-wife’s cousin Linda challenged his property line, took him to small claims court over a 3-foot strip of clover he’d planted for his bees, and he’d sworn off every event she might attend, including the annual Kent County Honey Festival, even when event organizers begged him to enter his wildflower mead in their annual contest. This year, he caved. The mead he’d brewed with black raspberry nectar from the bushes lining that disputed strip had won best in state at a regional competition three months prior, and he knew it would take first place.
The July air hangs thick and sweet by his booth, heavy with the smell of clover honey, fried Oreos from the food stand two spots over, and the faint, sharp tang of hops from the craft beer tent at the end of the row. The bluegrass band on the main stage thumps through a cover of “Folsom Prison Blues,” the standup bass vibrating low enough he can feel it in the soles of his work boots. He’s wiping down a stack of sample cups when Marisol Reyes walks up, and his throat goes tight before he can stop it. Marisol is 54, the county extension agent who’d helped him nurse 12 of his hives back from varroa mite infestation this past spring, the first person he’d met in a decade who could tell an Italian worker bee from a Carniolan by wing pattern alone. She’s wearing a linen button-down unbuttoned one notch lower than office dress code would allow, a smudge of beeswax caked on the pulse point of her left wrist from when they’d dug through a brood box together last Tuesday, her work boots caked with the same red clay that coats his property.
She leans in to yell over the band, her bare shoulder brushing the sunburned skin of his bicep, and he can smell coconut sunscreen mixed with the lavender she grows in her kitchen windowsill, the same scent that had clung to the hive tool she’d left at his place two weeks prior, the one he’d kept on his kitchen counter instead of dropping off at her office like he’d planned. “Heard you’re the heavy favorite for the mead award,” she says, grinning, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he snorts. “That’s what they say. Still don’t know why I showed up, though. Linda’s running the contest check-in table, for Christ’s sake.” He nods toward the folding table 20 feet away, where Linda is stacking entry forms, and tenses up when he sees her look over and start walking toward them. For half a second, he considers ducking behind the stack of mead cases at his feet, but Marisol doesn’t move, just grabs a sample cup, pours a half inch of the black raspberry mead, and holds it out when Linda stops in front of the booth.
“Taste this,” she says, no awkwardness, no hesitation, and Linda blinks before taking the cup, sipping, her eyebrows lifting. “Damn, Earl, this is good. Better than the stuff you used to bring to family cookouts.” He stares, speechless, for three full beats, before Marisol laughs, soft, and elbows him gently in the ribs. “Told you. He’s the only beekeeper in the county who doesn’t cut his honey with corn syrup to bulk it up. You two can squabble over that strip of land all you want, but no one makes better mead within 100 miles.” Linda nods, says she’ll see them at the award ceremony in an hour, and walks away, and Earl realizes he’s been holding his breath the entire time.
By the time the ceremony rolls around, he’s had three samples of his own mead, enough to loosen the knot between his shoulder blades, and when they call his name for first place, Marisol cheers loud enough that the people two rows over turn to look. He accepts the blue ribbon, shakes the mayor’s hand, and when he walks back to where she’s standing, she hugs him, quick and tight, her hand brushing the back of his neck when she pulls away. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t overthink it, just tucks the ribbon into the pocket of his flannel shirt and asks if she wants to help him load his booth up so they can get out of there before the crowd swarms for the fireworks.
The parking lot is half empty by the time they carry the last case of mead to the bed of his beat-up 2008 F150, their hands brushing when they pass the case over the tailgate, and he doesn’t pull away, just lets his fingers linger for half a second before he sets the case down. The string lights strung between the oak trees at the edge of the lot glow gold, and she leans back against the truck bed, looking up at him, the lights catching the flecks of amber in her dark eyes. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for three months,” she says, straightforward, no games, the way she talks about hive maintenance, no beating around the bush. “Thought you hated everyone associated with your ex, though. Didn’t want to waste my time.” He laughs, rough, and runs a hand over the gray stubble on his jaw, realizing how stupid he’s been, holding a grudge for 12 years over a strip of clover, shutting himself off from every person who might even be loosely connected to a marriage that ended eight years prior, ignoring the way his chest felt tight every time she leaned in to point out a queen cell in a brood box, the way he’d found himself making extra coffee every Tuesday morning just in case she stopped by.
“Been an idiot,” he says, and she grins, stepping closer, the toe of her boot brushing his. “Yeah, you have. You gonna make up for it?” He nods, and reaches for her hand, his calloused, honey-stained fingers wrapping around hers, the beeswax smudge on her wrist rubbing against his knuckle. They drive back to his property first, stop by the hives at the edge of the clover patch to check on the new queen he’d installed that morning, the bees buzzing soft and slow around them in the dark, no stings, no fuss, the crickets chirping loud in the grass. She doesn’t let go of his hand the entire time, and when they turn to walk back toward the house, she tucks her arm through his, leaning her shoulder against his. The ribbon from the contest is still in his flannel pocket, crinkling soft when he moves, and he doesn’t even think about the property line, or the grudge, or the last eight years he spent alone. He just squeezes her hand, and keeps walking.
