Mervin Pritchard, 62, retired Forest Service fire spotter, drove 45 minutes into town only to grab a custom chainsaw sharpening kit his old crew partner pre-ordered from the fall festival’s blacksmith vendor. He hated crowds, hated the forced cheer of post-fire community events, hated strangers leaning in to ask if he’d “lost anything” in the 2023 blazes that torched 12,000 acres 10 miles from his cabin. He’d lost nothing that mattered since his wife Elara dropped dead of a heart attack in their kitchen eight years prior, and he’d rather chew broken glass than explain that to a stranger in a bedazzled “I <3 Tahoe” hoodie.
He’d walked past the honey stand twice before his smoke-raw throat made him double back. The woman behind the table had her back to him, bent over pulling golden honey jars from a wicker crate, dark hair braided with silver streaks, flannel rolled to her elbows. When she turned, he recognized her immediately: Lila Marlow, Elara’s second cousin, 14 years his junior, the kid Elara had always teased him about, saying Lila stared at him like he hung the moon at their 2010 anniversary cookout. He’d thought it nonsense then, barely said two words to her in the 10 years she’d been in Elara’s orbit.
She lit up when she saw him, leaning forward over the rough plank table so far the edge pressed into her sternum, her face only a foot from his. “Merv. I thought you never left that cabin of yours.” Her voice was lower than he remembered, rough, like she spent half her time yelling over wind or bees. He mumbled something about the sharpening kit, eyes darting to the tiny bee tattoo on her left wrist, identical to the one Elara got on their 25th anniversary. His throat went drier.
He reached for a wildflower honey jar at the same time she did, their knuckles brushing. Her skin was warm, calloused at the fingertips, and he jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. She laughed, soft, not teasing, wiping a smudge of beeswax off her cheek with the back of her hand. “Relax. I don’t bite. Not unless you ask real nice.”
The line hung thick as the smell of kettle corn drifting over from the food booths. He flushed under his flannel, equal parts embarrassed and angry at the sharp, bright jolt in his gut. This was wrong. Elara would roll in her grave. Except Elara had spent the last six months of her life nagging him to not turn into a hermit when she was gone, made him promise he’d let someone bring him dinner once in a while, stop sleeping on the couch and use their bed again. He’d broken every single one of those promises.
Lila didn’t push him to talk, just nodded at the scar snaking up his left forearm, the one he got pulling a rookie firefighter out of a burning ravine in 2019. “Heard about that. Elara would’ve yelled at you for three hours for being stupid, then made you your favorite meatloaf for a week straight.” He blinked, surprised. No one had mentioned Elara that casually to him in years, most people avoided her name like it was contagious. “I got a special batch of fir needle honey back in my truck,” she said, pushing off the table, nodding toward the parking lot behind the vendor row. “Made it for fire crew folks. Helps with the smoke cough. On the house.”
He didn’t want to follow her. He wanted to pay for the wildflower honey, grab his sharpening kit, drive back to his cabin, lock the door, pretend this interaction never happened. But his feet moved anyway, trailing a step behind her, boots crunching on oak leaves dotted with golden pine needles. When they reached her beat-up 1998 Ford F-150, parked under a thick cedar far from the festival noise, she leaned past him to reach the cooler tucked against the tailgate, her shoulder pressing into his chest for half a second. He caught a whiff of her shampoo, jasmine and pine, the same scent Elara used, but lighter, mixed with the faint sweet smell of beeswax.
She pulled a frosted jar out of the cooler, holding it out to him. When he reached for it, their fingers tangled this time, and he didn’t pull away. “I know you think this is messed up,” she said, quiet, eyes locked on his, no hesitation, no shyness. “I know you think you’re supposed to be alone forever. But Elara called me two weeks before she died. Told me if I ever got the nerve to move up here, I should kick your ass until you stopped moping.”
The air left his lungs in a rush. The guilt he’d carried for eight years, the constant gnawing feeling that wanting anything other than loneliness was a betrayal, softened just a little. He didn’t feel disgusted anymore. He felt light, like someone had lifted a 100 pound pack off his shoulders.
He twisted the jar lid off, dipping his pinky into the thick golden honey, holding it out to her. She leaned in, wrapping her lips around his finger, the tip of her tongue brushing the calloused pad. It was sweet, fir and wildflower, warm even cold from the cooler. He wiped excess honey off his thumb on his jeans, tucking the jar into his coat’s inner pocket.
“The 4H booth has hot spiced cider by the entrance,” he said, nodding toward the faint glow of string lights strung over the festival grounds. “You wanna get a cup before I grab my sharpening kit?”
She grinned, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and linked her arm through his, her elbow pressed tight to his side as they walked back toward the crowd.
