Manny Ruiz, 53, commercial beekeeper with 120 hives scattered across the Central Valley’s almond and orange groves, hadn’t spoken to a woman for longer than three minutes in the last six months unless it was about hive mite treatments or late pollination payments. He’d spent the better part of September dodging the new county ag inspector, too, after she’d cited him for improper hive placement within 50 feet of a public right of way—a fine he’d been fully prepared to fight, even if it meant sitting through three hours of county council meetings he’d rather gnaw his own boot off to attend.
He was perched in his usual scuffed vinyl booth at the weekly VFW fish fry, grease from his catfish crusted on the edge of his paper plate, a half-drunk Budweiser sweating into the Formica tabletop, when she walked in. The hall hummed with the low rumble of old veterans swapping war stories and the sharp pop of the deep fryer in the back, and for a second he thought she might turn right back around, but her eyes locked on the only empty seat in the room: the one across from him. He considered slumping down, pretending he didn’t see her, but he’d paid $12 for the catfish and a side of hush puppies, and he wasn’t wasting good money over a citation he still thought was bullshit.
She walked over, boots scuffing the linoleum, and tapped the edge of the table with one fingernail painted a chipped terracotta. “This seat taken?” Her voice was lower than he remembered, a little rough, like she spent half her days yelling over wind and farm equipment. He grunted, jerked his chin toward the bench, and went back to picking at a piece of catfish skin. She slid in, set her can of root beer on the table, and he caught the faint scent of jasmine perfume mixed with diesel fumes, same as the beat-up 1998 Ford Ranger she drove out to his hives last month.
They sat in silence for two full minutes before she huffed, pulled a folded piece of paper out of her work vest, and slid it across the table. It was the amended citation, fine amount crossed out in bright blue ink, a note scrawled at the bottom: Neighbor withdrew complaint, just move hives 10 ft west and you’re clear. He stared at it, then up at her. She was leaning back against the booth, arms crossed, the corner of her mouth tugged up like she knew he’d been gearing up to fight her. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.
“I know. But you weren’t actually in violation, the neighbor just hates bees because one stung her poodle last spring. I’m not gonna make a guy who’s been keeping bees here longer than I’ve been alive pay a $400 fine over a toy poodle with a victim complex.” She reached for the bottle of Louisiana hot sauce sitting in the middle of the table at the same time he did, and their hands brushed. His skin was calloused from lifting hive boxes, hers had a thin, rough scar across the knuckle of her index finger, like she’d cut it gardening. They both pulled back fast, and he felt heat creep up the back of his neck, a feeling he hadn’t had since he was 16 and asked his high school girlfriend to prom.
She laughed, a quiet, rough sound, and twisted the cap off the hot sauce, pouring a generous amount on her own catfish. “For the record, I saw you swatting at a drone outside your truck last week. Looked like you were scared of your own livestock.” He snorted, shook his head. “That drone was about to fly in my beer. I don’t care how much good they do the ecosystem, no bee gets between me and my after-work drink.” She laughed again, and this time her knee brushed his under the table, warm through the worn denim of their jeans. He didn’t move his leg.
They talked for another 45 minutes, about the drought killing half the wildflower crop this year, about the terrible cover band playing at the town fair next weekend, about the way the sun hits the orange groves at golden hour, turning the whole valley pink and orange. He learned she grew up outside San Diego, moved to the valley three months ago after her mom got sick, keeps a tiny vegetable garden behind her rental house, has been trying to keep three potted herbs alive for six months and failing miserably. She learned he’d been keeping bees since he was 12, his dad taught him, his ex-wife left 8 years ago to go blow glass in Portland, he hasn’t been on a date since the week before she moved out.
When she leaned in to point at the smudge of bee wax on the cuff of his flannel shirt, her face was inches from his, and he could see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, the little silver hoop in her left nostril. “I’ve been wanting to learn how to keep bees for ages,” she said, voice softer than before. “I got a little spot in my backyard that gets sun all day. You think you could teach me sometime?” He almost said no, out of habit, almost made up an excuse about being busy moving hives for almond pollination season, but then she bit her lower lip, just a little, and he forgot every excuse he’d ever come up with for staying alone. “Saturday,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “I’ll bring a spare suit. Don’t wear perfume, the bees hate that.”
She grinned, stood up, slung her work vest over her shoulder. Her hand brushed his arm when she reached for her root beer can, warm, firm, and he didn’t flinch. “I’ll bring my abuela’s pork empanadas. They’re so good even the bees would fight you for one.” She waved, walked toward the door, the bell above it jingling when she stepped outside into the warm September dusk.
He stared at the empty seat across from him for a minute, then picked up the amended citation, folded it carefully, and stuck it in the pocket of his flannel. He took a long sip of his now-warm beer, glanced out the window at her taillights turning down the main road, and made a mental note to wash the spare bee suit when he got home that night.
