Manny Ruiz, 53, has made a science out of staying under the radar in his tiny central Texas town. A full-time beekeeper with 12 acres of wildflower fields and 47 hives to tend, he only rolls into main street once a week, drops off jarred honey at the general store, grabs coffee and feed, and hightails it back to his quiet, ex-wife-free property before anyone can corner him into small talk. His biggest flaw? He holds grudges like they’re prizewinning peaches, still sharp and sweet with resentment 8 years after his ex left him for the county sheriff. He’s avoided every town festival, potluck, and public event since the split, until the general store owner cornered him at his farm gate three days prior, begging him to set up a honey booth at the annual peach festival. Manny caved, mostly because the old lady gave him a free peach pie as a down payment.
The July air sticks to his skin like melted taffy when he sets up his booth, beeswax crusted under his fingernails, a faded Carhartt shirt clinging to his sweat-damp shoulders. The air smells like fried peach fritters, cut clover, and the faint tang of charcoal from the barbecue pit down the block. A bluegrass band plucks through a slow cover of *Pancho and Lefty* 20 feet away, and Manny keeps his head down, avoids eye contact with passersby, fully expecting to see the sheriff limp through the crowd at any minute. He finds out 45 minutes in that the sheriff is home recovering from a knee replacement, and for the first time all day, he lets himself breathe.
That’s when Clara walks up. She’s got a sunburn blushing across the bridge of her nose, bare feet tucked into scuffed leather sandals, cut off denim shorts and a faded Willie Nelson tee that’s got a hole at the elbow. Her volunteer name tag reads CLARA | SHERIFF’S OFFICE VOLUNTEER, and Manny’s jaw tightens immediately, old anger pricking at the back of his throat. She leans against the edge of his booth, elbows propped on the sticky wooden slats, and asks for a sample of his wildflower honey. He hands her the tiny wooden tasting spoon, and their fingers brush when she takes it. The contact is warm, fleeting, and Manny yanks his hand back like he’s been stung.
She licks the honey off the spoon slow, then laughs when a drop drips down her wrist, swiping it off with her thumb and popping that in her mouth too. “Holy shit,” she says, grinning, “that’s better than the peach cobbler I ate for lunch. I’ll take three jars.” Manny nods, grabs the jars, wraps them in newspaper to keep them from clinking. When he hands them over, their fingers brush again, and this time he doesn’t pull away fast enough to miss the tiny bee tattoo inked on the inside of her left wrist, same spot he has a pale, raised scar from a bad sting when he first started keeping hives.
She notices him staring, twists her wrist so the tattoo is fully visible. “Got it when I graduated design school in Austin,” she says, leaning in a little like she’s sharing a secret. Her voice is low, just loud enough to hear over the band, and Manny can smell coconut sunscreen and ripe peaches on her. “Uncle Roy hates it. Says bees are just flying stingers with a death wish.” Manny snorts before he can stop himself. Roy is the sheriff, the man he’s avoided for 8 years. He should end the conversation right there, pack up his booth early, go home. But she’s looking at him like she’s not here to judge him for the old town gossip, like she actually cares what he has to say.
“I know who you are, by the way,” she says, pulling crumpled cash out of her back pocket. “Uncle Roy bitches about you every time we watch football. Says you cheated to beat him in the 2014 chili cookoff.” Manny barks out a laugh, genuine, the first one he’s had in weeks. “Cheated? I put smoked brisket in my chili. He put beans. Sore loser is what he is.” She laughs too, loud enough that a few people glance over, and her knee brushes his where he’s standing behind the booth. The denim of her shorts is warm from the sun, and Manny’s mouth goes dry.
She asks him if he’s got plans after the festival wraps up at 8, says she wants to hear the full chili cookoff story over a beer at the dive bar on the edge of town. Every alarm bell in Manny’s head goes off. This is Roy’s niece. She’s staying with Roy. Getting involved with her is the exact kind of drama he’s spent 8 years avoiding. But she tilts her head, sun catching the gold hoop in her left ear, and he can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like they wanted to spend time with him, not just buy his honey or ask him for a favor. He says yes.
The bar is dim, smells like cheap beer and salted peanuts, and they slide into a booth in the back. Her knee brushes his under the table within the first five minutes, and by the time they’re on their second beer, her hand rests on his forearm when she laughs at his dumb joke about queen bees being the only real authority worth listening to. Her palm is warm, calloused a little from the watercolor painting she tells him she does on the side, and Manny doesn’t move his arm. He tells her about the divorce, about why he avoids town, and she nods, doesn’t pity him, just says Roy is an idiot sometimes, that he’s felt guilty about how everything went down for years, even if he’s too stubborn to say it out loud.
They close the bar down, walk out into the dark, crickets chirping so loud they drown out the distant hum of highway traffic. The sky is so full of stars you can’t see that many in Austin, and Manny’s got a light buzz, warm all over from the beer and from sitting next to her for three hours. They stop by her beat up pickup truck parked down the street, and she leans in, brushes a stray piece of grass off his shoulder, her fingers brushing his neck for half a second. She says she wants to come out to his farm tomorrow, see the hives, taste the orange blossom honey he mentioned that he doesn’t sell to the general store. Manny nods, says he’ll pick her up at 10, if she’s not scared of getting stung. She grins, says she’s scared of a lot of things, but bees aren’t one of them. She kisses him quick, soft, tastes like peach cider and honey, before she climbs in the truck, waves, and pulls out onto the road. Manny stands there for a minute, the ghost of her kiss still on his mouth, and shoves his hands in his pockets, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.
