Javier Mendez is 52, a beekeeper with 47 hives spread across 12 acres of hardwood forest outside Asheville, North Carolina. He’s lived alone for 8 years, ever since his ex-wife packed a suitcase while he was out checking hive boxes and left a note on the fridge saying his quiet, dirt-under-the-nails routine was too small for the life she wanted. His biggest flaw is he’s convinced everyone will leave eventually, so he’s spent the better part of a decade keeping people at arm’s length, talking more to his bees than the other vendors at the weekly farmers market, eating frozen dinners alone on his porch most nights.
The first time she stops at his stand, the air smells like cut clover and the sharp, sweet tang of sourwood honey stacked in glass jars on the folding table between them. She’s Clara, the new part-time librarian who moved to town three months prior, fresh off a very public divorce from the local high school football coach, a guy who buys rounds for the whole bar every Friday night and has half the town convinced she left him for no good reason. Javier’s heard the gossip, the whispers that she’s trouble, that any guy seen with her will get dragged into the drama, so he tries to keep his answers short when she asks about the difference between wildflower and blackberry honey. She leans in anyway, so close he can smell lavender hand lotion on her wrists, and holds eye contact for three full beats after he finishes speaking, longer than any customer ever has. He feels his ears go pink, a reaction he hasn’t had since he was a kid sneaking sips of his dad’s beer at backyard cookouts. When he hands her a sample spoon of sourwood honey, their fingers brush for half a second, and she doesn’t yank hers away fast, just smiles slow, swallows the honey, and says it tastes like summer.
She comes back every week after that. Once she brings him a jar of pickled okra she canned with her grandma’s recipe, says it pairs well with the sharp cheddar she buys from the dairy stand down the row. Another time she stays for 20 minutes asking about the small observation hive he brings for demos, leaning in so far her shoulder brushes his when she points at a queen bee crawling across the comb. He finds himself looking for her the second he sets up his stand, even though he tells himself it’s stupid, that he doesn’t need the town talking about him too, that he’s better off alone. The next time she shows up, he keeps his hands planted on the edge of the table, doesn’t lean in when she asks a question, keeps his tone distant enough that she leaves without buying anything, her smile faded. He kicks himself for it the rest of the day, even the bees seem grumpy when he gets back to the farm, stinging him twice on the wrist when he checks their frames.
The last market of August, the sky turns black at 2 p.m., rain hitting so hard it stings exposed skin. Everyone scrambles to pack up before their stock gets ruined, tarps flapping in the wind, vendors yelling to each other over the downpour. Javier is fumbling with the heavy vinyl cover for his observation hive, his hands slippery from rain and honey residue, can’t get the bungee cords to catch around the frame. She runs over out of nowhere, her canvas market bag slung over one shoulder, grabs the other end of the tarp without saying a word. They yank it tight over the hive at the same time, their hands knocking together when they both reach for the same cord, and he looks up at her. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, her flannel shirt soaked through clinging to her shoulders, and she’s laughing, a loud throaty sound that cuts through the rain’s roar.
He doesn’t think about the gossip, doesn’t think about the note his ex left on the fridge, doesn’t think about any of the excuses he’s made to stay alone for 8 years. He leans in, kisses her, and she kisses him back, her cold wet hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, and he can taste rain and mint gum on her lips, sweeter than any honey he’s ever harvested. A couple of the produce vendors hoot from under their awning 10 feet away, and he flips them off without pulling away, and she laughs against his mouth.
They finish tying down the tarp, load all his honey jars into the back of his beat-up 2008 F150, the rain slowing to a soft drizzle by the time they slam the tailgate shut. He asks her if she wants to come back to his place, says he has a pot of venison chili simmering on the stove, fresh cornbread cooling on the counter, and a stack of dry flannel shirts she can borrow. She nods, grinning, climbs into the passenger seat, kicks her wet work boots off onto the floor mat, and reaches over to wipe a smudge of golden honey off his cheek with her thumb before he turns the key in the ignition.
