Elias Voss, 59, spent the first 32 years of his adult life tending 40 acres of apiaries outside Asheville, North Carolina, until his wife’s terminal lung cancer diagnosis made him sell all but a half-acre of hives to a regional organic farm. Stubborn to a fault, he’d skipped every small-town community event for three years after her funeral, sick of the tight, pitying smiles, the awkward pats on the shoulder, the unspoken “bless your heart” hanging in the air every time someone recognized him. He only showed up to the fire department chili cook-off because his 16-year-old granddaughter had entered her first batch and begged him to come, and he’d never been able to say no to her.
He was leaned up against a pine tree at the edge of the crowd, half-finished bowl of venison chili in one hand, can of root beer in the other, when Clara Hale crashed into him. She was the new mayor’s wife, 52, had moved to town six months prior, and Elias had only ever seen her in campaign photos, standing two steps behind her husband’s shoulder, wearing a stiff blazer and a practiced smile. Now she was flustered, holding a half-empty cup of sweet tea that had sloshed over the rim, dark amber liquid soaking the toe of his scuffed work boot. “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she said, bending down immediately, dabbing at the leather with a crumpled paper napkin she pulled from her jacket pocket. Her hand brushed his calf through the worn denim of his jeans, and he felt a jolt go up his spine, sharp and warm, the kind he hadn’t felt in years. She smelled like jasmine lotion and cinnamon gum, and when she looked up at him, her hazel eyes flecked with gold, she held eye contact a full beat longer than polite etiquette dictated.
He waved off her apology, told her it was just a boot, had been through worse than sweet tea. She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the crowd, the clink of paper plates, the blare of the high school marching band playing in the parking lot. “I hate these things,” she admitted, leaning against the tree next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed when she shifted her weight. “He spends the whole time schmoozing, asking everyone for donations for his state rep run, and I’m just supposed to stand there and look pretty, like I don’t have a whole stack of vintage pollinator field guides waiting for me back at the house.”
Elias blinked, surprised. He’d spent the last six months rolling his eyes at her husband’s grandstanding, his empty promises to fund local conservation projects that Elias knew would never get off the ground. He’d written her off as just as much of a phony as he was, but now here she was, asking him about the faint bee-shaped scar on his left knuckle, leaning in when he explained he’d gotten it from a hive tool during a bad swarm three years back. Her knee brushed his when she shifted to get a better look, and her thumb grazed the raised, pale skin of the scar when he held his hand out for her to see. He told himself he should walk away, that this was a terrible idea, that the whole town would talk if they saw the mayor’s wife chatting up the reclusive widower beekeeper, that he had no business wanting to be this close to a married woman. But he couldn’t make himself move.
She asked him if he’d show her his hives sometime, said she’d been trying to learn how to keep bees on her own but kept messing up the hive checks, was terrified she’d kill the small colony she’d set up in the mayor’s backyard. He hesitated, then told her he’d be out at his half-acre tomorrow at 9, that her husband was supposed to be at a campaign event in Raleigh all day, right? She froze for half a second, then grinned, nodding, like she was surprised he’d paid enough attention to know her husband’s schedule. She pulled a scrap of receipt paper out of her jeans pocket, scribbled her personal cell number on it, folded it small, and slipped it into the pocket of his worn flannel shirt, her fingers brushing the skin of his chest through the thin fabric.
Before he could say anything else, she leaned in, pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, her lips warm against his cold skin. “Don’t bail on me,” she said, then turned and walked back toward the crowd, waving at a group of local business owners who were calling her name. Elias stood there for another 10 minutes, long after his chili had gone cold, watching her stand next to her husband, laughing at a joke he told, her eyes darting over to him every few seconds, a small, secret smile playing at the corner of her mouth. He reached into his flannel pocket, ran his thumb over the crumpled receipt, felt the faint stickiness of sweet tea on the toe of his boot, and didn’t even try to fight the small, genuine smile that tugged at his own lips.
