Manny Ruiz, 62, spent 38 years running a commercial apiary in south Georgia before selling most of his hives three years prior, six weeks after his wife’s ovarian cancer diagnosis turned terminal. His only consistent flaw? He’d spent those three years stubbornly avoiding any interaction that didn’t directly tie to his part-time gig building custom hive boxes for small-scale farms, convinced even a casual chat with a woman meant he was betraying the memory of the woman he’d built his entire business with.
He’d driven up to Elara Voss’s north Georgia apple orchard that crisp October afternoon to drop off six custom cedar hive boxes for her pollination contract, fully planning to turn around and head back to his one-bedroom cabin before the festival crowds got too thick. The sky opened up halfway to his truck, fat cold raindrops soaking through his faded gray flannel before he could even reach the driver’s side door, so he ducked into the tented beer run strung between two oak trees at the edge of the harvest festival grounds.
Peanut shells crunched under his scuffed work boots as he leaned against the splintered pine bar, ordering the cheapest draft they had. The air smelled like fried green tomatoes, burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand, and wet pine straw, the rain drumming so hard on the tent’s vinyl roof that he barely heard the woman slide into the empty spot next to him until her shoulder brushed his bicep.
He turned, already ready to mutter an apology and move, and froze. Elara Voss, 58, had owned the orchard for 12 years, ever since her divorce left her with the 40-acre property as her only asset. He’d only spoken to her over email prior, but he’d recognize the scar that split her left eyebrow from a pruning shears accident she’d mentioned in a note anywhere. She held two frosty pint glasses of pecan hard cider in her calloused hands, pushing one across the bar toward him before he could speak.
Their fingers brushed when he reached for the glass, and he flinched like he’d been stung. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d had physical contact with a woman who wasn’t a cashier or a nurse since his wife died. The callus on the pad of her index finger, rough from decades of snapping apple branches, lingered against his knuckle for half a beat longer than necessary, and he found himself staring at the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes when she leaned in to talk over the rain.
She rambled about how the wild bee colonies he’d helped her attract the year prior had cut her apple blight rate by 32 percent, listing off the names of native species he’d spent decades studying like they were old friends. He kept waiting for the familiar twist of guilt in his gut, the voice that told him he had no right to be enjoying this, to be leaning in closer so he could smell the mix of lavender shampoo and apple cider vinegar on her hair, but it never came. When a group of kids sprinted past the table, she stumbled sideways, her knee pressing firm against his thigh for three full seconds before she caught herself, and he didn’t move away.
The rain slowed to a drizzle 20 minutes later, sun peeking through the clouds to paint the orchard rows pink and gold. She asked him if he wanted to walk the far western row with her, show him exactly where she wanted the new hives placed. He hesitated for half a second, the old voice screaming that he should get in his truck and go home, that this was too much too fast, then nodded.
The grass was soaked through the holes in his boot soles by the time they reached the row of Honeycrisp trees, bins of picked red apples stacked at the end of the row. She stopped, turning to face him, and reached up to brush a stray pine needle off the shoulder of his flannel, her hand lingering light against his chest for a beat before she pulled back. He admitted he hadn’t talked to anyone this much about bees since his wife died, his throat tight, and she nodded like she knew exactly what he meant, said she’d refused to let anyone help her prune the orchard for five years after her divorce, convinced asking for help meant she was failing at the one thing she’d kept for herself.
He reached up, plucked a small, perfectly round Honeycrisp off a low hanging branch, polished it against the front of his flannel before handing it to her. She took a bite, crisp juice running down the side of her chin, and he wiped it off with the pad of his thumb before he could overthink the movement. She smiled, crinkles fanning out at the corners of her eyes, and asked if he wanted to stay for the bonfire later, said her niece had baked three trays of peach cobbler that were still warm in the orchard kitchen.
He said yes, no hesitation, no voice in his head screaming that he was doing something wrong. A gust of cool wind carried the smell of burning oak from the bonfire pit over the rows of trees, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel guilty for looking forward to what comes next.
