Rio Mendez, 52, third generation beekeeper out of Andrews, North Carolina, has manned his wildflower honey booth at the Macon County Fall Harvest Festival for 18 years straight. The October air bites sharp enough to redden the tip of his nose, carries the sharp, sweet tang of fried apple pies from the food truck at the end of the row, the distant bleat of goats from the petting zoo, the tinny twang of a bluegrass band playing on the main stage. His work boots are caked with pine straw and a faint smudge of beeswax, his forearms crisscrossed with faint, silvery scars from stray stings, a faded Atlanta Braves cap pulled low over his eyes. He’s avoided looking at the booth three feet to his left all morning, the one stacked high with glass jars of jam, the one run by Elara Voss.
He’d hated Elara for 31 years, ever since 1991, when he’d gotten suspended three days before his high school baseball team’s first ever state playoff appearance. He’d snuck into the post-prom afterparty at the old lake cabin, gotten caught, and every kid there swore Elara was the one who called the cops. He’d lost his spot in the starting lineup, his team lost by two runs, and he’d never spoken a full sentence to her since. He’d seen her around town over the decades, at the grocery store, at the county fair, always turned the other way. Today was the first year their booth spots were next to each other, and he’d spent the first four hours of the festival grumbling under his breath, convinced the event coordinator had done it on purpose.
The rain hits without warning, fat, cold drops that splatter against the top of his booth’s tin roof before he can even process the dark cloud that rolled over the Blue Ridge peaks. He grabs for the vinyl tarp he keeps tucked under his table to cover the stacked cases of honey jars, but his boot catches on a hay bale, he stumbles, and the top crate of his limited-edition sourwood honey starts to tip. Before he can lunge for it, a pair of hands grabs the edge of the crate, holding it steady. He looks up, and it’s Elara, her dark wavy hair plastered to her forehead, a smudge of blackberry jam on her left jaw, her flannel shirt soaked through at the cuffs. Their hands brush when he grabs the other side of the crate to haul it back onto the table, his calloused, beeswax-sticky fingers grazing her softer ones, which have their own faint calluses on the pads from stirring ten-gallon pots of jam for hours at a time. Their knees knock together when they both lean in to make sure none of the jars cracked, and he pulls back like he’s been burned, mumbles a gruff thanks.
She snorts, wiping rain off her cheek with the back of her hand, and yells over the roar of the rain pounding the awning, “You still have that same grumpy scowl you wore when you were 19, Mendez.” He freezes, then decides he’s too old to dance around it, says he still blames her for the afterparty call, for losing his shot at the playoffs. She laughs so hard she snorts again, shakes her head, and leans in so close he can smell the mint toothpaste on her breath, can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes, the single silver streak running through her hair right at her temple. “Your dumb cousin Joey called the cops, you idiot. He got mad you drank the last of his beer. I tried to tell the principal you didn’t bring the alcohol, that you just showed up, but you stormed off before I could say a word. I even wrote you a note and left it in your locker. You never wrote back.”
The air goes thick for a second, warm even with the cold rain seeping in under the awning. He’s got no retort, feels stupid, three decades of anger dissolving faster than sugar in hot tea. They huddle closer under the edge of her booth’s awning, since his is leaking right above the chair he usually sits in, their shoulders pressed together, the fabric of his Carhartt jacket brushing her soaked flannel. He can smell the lavender laundry detergent on her shirt, the sweet, warm scent of peach jam coming from the jars stacked behind her. She points to a single bumblebee, huddled under the leaf of a potted mint plant she keeps next to her booth for decoration, says she’s been buying his wildflower honey for six years, uses it to sweeten her jam, never said anything because she knew he hated her. He notices the smudge of blackberry jam is still on her jaw, almost reaches to wipe it off three times before he actually does it, his thumb brushing the soft skin just above her chin. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just looks up at him, and he realizes he hasn’t felt this jittery, this alive, since he stood in the batter’s box at that 1991 playoff game he never got to play in.
The rain stops as quick as it started, the sun breaking through the clouds, painting a faint rainbow right over the top of the mountain range behind the fairgrounds. Kids come spilling out from under the food truck awnings, yelling, chasing each other through the puddles, the bluegrass band starts playing again. She grabs a jar of blackberry jam from the stack behind her, holds it out to him, the label handwritten in her looping cursive. “Pairs perfect with your sourwood honey. Tested it last week.” He grabs a jar of the sourwood from his crate, the one with the gold sticker he reserves for close friends and family, hands it to her. “Only give this to people I don’t hate anymore.” She tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear, grins, and asks him if he wants to get fried apple pies and a couple of cold Cokes from the food truck once the festival closes for the night, her treat. He nods, feels a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind of grin he hasn’t had since he was a kid. He twists the lid off the jam jar right there, swipes his index finger through the thick, dark purple jam, pops it in his mouth. It’s sweet, a little tart, exactly as good as he’d imagined it would be.
