Elias Voss, 62, retired state apiary inspector, had only driven into Asheville for the summer craft beer festival to drop off 24 jars of his wildflower honey for a friend’s seasonal mead release. He’d planned to hightail it back to his 12-acre property before the crowds got too thick, before some well-meaning acquaintance cornered him to ask if he was “finally seeing anyone yet,” before the humidity made the collar of his well-worn gray flannel stick to his neck. The plan fell apart 10 feet from the brewery booth, when he turned to avoid a group of shrieking kids chasing a golden retriever and bumped straight into a woman holding a frosty iced peach seltzer.
The drink sloshed over the rim, cold and sweet, drenching the cuff of his left sleeve. He set the case of honey down fast, stammering an apology, and looked up to meet Mara Hale’s eyes. He’d not seen her in almost seven years, not since her ex-husband, his old work partner Ray, retired and moved to Florida. She was 58, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled back in a loose braid, a smattering of freckles across her nose he’d always found stupidly endearing back when he was still married, when she was still Ray’s wife, when looking at her longer than three seconds felt like a sin he’d have to answer for to both of them. She laughed, low and warm, and fumbled in her canvas tote for a crumpled napkin, reaching out to dab at the wet fabric of his sleeve before he could protest. Her fingers brushed his wrist, calloused from the pottery she’d been selling at local markets for as long as he’d known her, and he flinched like he’d been stung by one of his own bees.
The air smelled like fried green tomatoes from the food truck down the row, pine drifting down from the mountains surrounding the fairgrounds, and the faint, earthy tang of the yeast fermenting in the brewery’s portable tanks. A bluegrass band plucked a slow, twangy version of a Johnny Cash song he and Ellen used to dance to in their kitchen, and for half a second he wanted to turn and run. But she held his eye, no pity in her face, just that same lazy, teasing smile she used to give him when Ray would ramble on about football stats at their annual backyard cookouts, the one that used to make his chest feel tight even when he told himself he didn’t notice it.
He offered her a jar of honey as a peace offering for spilling her drink, and when she took it, their hands brushed again, longer this time. She asked how the hives were doing, and he was surprised she even remembered he kept bees, that he’d left the inspector job to tend his own stock after Ellen died of ovarian cancer eight years prior. She mentioned she’d bought a jar of his honey from a farm stand three months prior, that it was the only stuff she used for her iced tea, that she’d wondered if it was his. He’d spent years telling himself any spark he’d felt around her back then was a flaw in his character, a betrayal of the 28 years he’d had with Ellen, that acting on it would make him as bad as Ray, who’d cheated on her twice before she finally filed for divorce. He was disgusted at the way his pulse picked up when she leaned in a little closer to hear him over the band, the scent of her lavender perfume wrapping around him, their knees almost touching where they stood off to the side of the booth.
She asked if he wanted to find a place to sit, and he said yes before he could talk himself out of it. They found a splintered wooden picnic table at the edge of the fairgrounds, far enough away that the band’s music was just a low hum, no random acquaintances hovering to eavesdrop. When they sat down, their knees brushed under the table, and neither of them moved away. She twisted open the jar of honey, dipped a finger in, and licked it off, letting out a soft hum of approval, and he had to look away for a second to catch his breath. She told him she’d gotten the final divorce papers six months prior, that she’d been thinking about reaching out to him for a while, but didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. He admitted he’d thought about her too, more times than he could count, that he’d always felt guilty for it, that he’d spent years punishing himself for even wanting something that wasn’t the quiet, lonely life he’d built after Ellen died.
The sun dipped below the mountains, painting the sky pink and orange, and the air cooled just enough that he didn’t regret wearing the flannel. She reached across the table to tuck a stray strand of gray hair that had fallen in his face behind his ear, her knuckles brushing his cheek, soft and warm, and he didn’t flinch this time. He told her he had a new batch of sourwood honey ready to jar tomorrow, that the hives were doing better than they had in years, that if she wanted, she could drive out to his place, see the bees, try the honey fresh off the comb. She smiled, that same teasing smile that had lived in the back of his head for 15 years, and nodded, pulling her phone out to ask for his address. She typed it in, her thumb brushing the edge of his hand when she passed his phone back to him, and he didn’t pull away. A firefly drifted past the edge of the table, glowing faint green in the growing dark, and when she leaned in to point it out, her shoulder pressed firm against his, warm and solid and real.
