Rafe Ortega, 53, has been tending bees on his 12-acre plot outside Asheville for 21 years, and he hates county events with every fiber of his calloused, bee-stung hands. He only showed up to the summer community barbecue to drop off three cases of his wildflower honey for the bake sale raffle, planned to be back in his apiary before the first hot dog was even grilled. He’s wearing his work boots caked in pine sap, a faded Merle Haggard tee that’s got a hole in the left elbow, and a scowl he’s perfected over seven years of avoiding small talk ever since his ex-wife left him for a county zoning administrator.
He’s hauling the last crate of jars to the raffle table when his boot catches on a loose patch of gravel, sends him stumbling sideways, and a warm, firm hand wraps around his bicep to steady him. He looks down, meets the bright green eyes of Lila Mae Carter, his 31-year-old next door neighbor who moved in six months prior, the same woman he’d assumed was spearheading the new zoning proposal that would shut down small agricultural operations like his. Her palm is soft against the scar on his arm from a bad hive split last spring, she’s got a smudge of indigo ink on her wrist from grading library books (he’d seen her carry stacks of them into her cottage a dozen times), and she smells like lavender lip balm and lemon Pledge.
“Y’know, if you’d stop hiding behind those hive boxes every time you see me outside, you’d know the gravel right there is a death trap,” she says, grinning, and she doesn’t let go of his arm right away, her thumb brushing the edge of his tee sleeve by accident. Rafe flinches like he’s been stung, and he hates himself for it. He’s spent six months avoiding her, partly because he thought she was out to ruin his livelihood, partly because he caught himself staring at her freckled shoulders when she was gardening last month and felt like a dirty old man for even noticing. He’s 22 years older than her, still raw from the divorce, and he’s convinced anyone that nice has an angle.
She doesn’t let him escape. She says she baked a peach pie for the bake sale using a jar of his wildflower honey she bought at the downtown farmers market, insists he try a slice before he leaves. He can’t think of a polite way to say no, so he follows her to a rickety picnic table under an oak tree, sits across from her while she hands him a paper plate with a thick, oozing slice of pie. It’s the best thing he’s tasted in years, sweet and tart, the crust flaky enough that crumbs stick to his thumb, and he says so out loud, before he can stop himself. She lights up, leans forward across the table, and her knee brushes his under the edge, warm through the thin floral fabric of her sundress.
He learns real quick he had her all wrong. She’s not on the zoning board to push out small farmers, she’s the one fighting the proposal, has been for three months, collecting signatures from every resident within five miles, she just didn’t tell him because she knew he hated county staff on principle, thanks to his ex. She laughs when he admits he’d been avoiding her, says she noticed, that she’d been leaving jars of wild blackberries on his back porch every other week since she moved in, was starting to think he hated them. Rafe blinks, he’d thought those were from Mrs. Henderson down the road, had left jars of honey on her porch in return for months.
The old country cover band that’s playing the barbecue launches into a slow, twangy version of “Amanda” halfway through their second slice of pie, and Lila stands, holds her hand out to him. “C’mon. Dance with me.” Rafe freezes, says he hasn’t danced since his wedding, that he’s terrible at it. She rolls her eyes, wiggles her fingers. “That’s the dumbest excuse I’ve ever heard. No one here is watching, anyway.” He hesitates for three full seconds, then takes her hand, her fingers small and warm in his, calloused at the tips from turning book pages. She runs a thumb over a fresh bee sting on his knuckle, raised and red, and raises an eyebrow. “You really don’t wear gloves when you work hives, huh?” Rafe huffs a laugh. “Bees only sting if you’re scared of ‘em. Haven’t been scared of much in a long time.”
They sway on the patch of grass next to the band, her hand resting light on his shoulder, his on her waist, and he can feel the heat of her through the cotton of her dress, the faint sway of her hips matching his. She leans in close enough that her auburn hair brushes his jaw, and her breath is warm against his neck when she speaks, quiet enough only he can hear. “I saw you carrying a hive box back in April, no gloves on, covered in bee stings, and you were smiling like you’d just won the lottery. I knew I wanted to talk to you then. Just took me six months to corner you.”
Rafe’s throat goes tight. He hasn’t felt this light, this seen, since before his marriage fell apart. The song ends, and neither of them moves to let go. He tells her he’s got a jar of his rare sourwood honey back at his place, just pulled off the comb that morning, nothing like the stuff he sells at the market, if she wants to taste it. She grins, squeezes his hand, says she’d like that more than anything. He grabs his empty honey crate from the table, she laces her fingers through his free one, and they walk the half mile back to his property, the sound of crickets chirping loud over the distant hum of the barbecue, fireflies flickering in the brush along the dirt road.
