Ray Mendez, 62, spent 30 years as an air traffic controller before he retired to sell beekeeping supplies out of his two-car garage in central Ohio. His only flaw, if you asked his 28-year-old daughter, was that he’d spent the eight years since his wife Carol passed treating romantic interest like a federal no-fly zone. He’d turned down a dinner invite from the town librarian last spring, ignored the flirty texts from the woman he’d met at the state beekeeping convention, convinced any new connection would feel like cheating, even if Carol had told him weeks before she died to stop being an idiot and live his life once she was gone.
He was leaning against a splintered pine picnic table at the town’s annual Oktoberfest when it happened, a half-full stein of amber lager in one hand, a bratwurst slathered in spicy mustard in the other. The air smelled like roasted almonds, burnt pretzel salt, and crisp apple cider, the polka band’s accordion rattling so loud the metal stein vibrated against his palm. He’d come alone, like he did most community events, content to people-watch for an hour before heading home to check on his 12 hives out back.
The collision happened fast. A group of teen boys sprinted past, chasing a runaway golden retriever, and the woman next to him stumbled sideways, her elbow knocking the bottom of his stein. Beer sloshed over the rim, soaking the cuff of his gray flannel shirt, and she yelped an apology, fumbling in her crossbody bag for a napkin before he could even say it was fine. He recognized her instantly: Lena Voss, 58, his daughter’s old JV soccer coach, who’d moved back to town six months prior after a messy divorce from a college professor in Cleveland. He’d seen her around the grocery store a handful of times, but he’d never worked up the nerve to say hello, too stuck on the old, unspoken rule that you didn’t flirt with your kid’s former teachers, even if your kid was 10 years out of high school.
She leaned in close to dab at the wet spot on his sleeve, her wool coat brushing his forearm, and he caught the scent of cinnamon lip balm and pine soap, faint underneath the sharp tang of the hard cider she was drinking. Her hand lingered on his wrist for half a beat longer than polite, and when she pulled back she was grinning, her dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners, streaks of silver threading through the black hair pulled back in a loose braid. “I swear those kids are gonna take out half the festival before the night’s over,” she said, nodding at the teens who were now trying to corral the dog by the cotton candy stand. “I’m Lena, by the way. I think we met a few times back when your daughter was on my team.”
He nodded, wiping beer foam off his thumb with the back of his hand. “Ray. Yeah, I remember you. You benched Mia for half a game her sophomore year because she skipped practice to go to a concert. She was mad for a week, but I told her she had it coming.”
Lena laughed, the sound loud and warm, cutting through the accordion noise. She slid onto the bench across from him, setting her plastic cup of cider down on the table, and their knees brushed under the wood when she shifted to get comfortable. For the next 45 minutes they talked, Ray telling her about the beehives, the supply shop he ran out of his garage, the time a new beekeeper had accidentally let a swarm loose in the library parking lot last summer. She told him about the new house she’d bought on the edge of town, the half-acre backyard she wanted to fill with native flowers, how she’d been thinking of getting a hive of her own but was too nervous to set it up alone.
The guilt pricked at the back of his throat when she asked if he’d come over sometime to show her where to put the hive. Part of him screamed that it was a bad idea, that the town would gossip, that Carol would roll her eyes at him for even considering it, that it was wrong to want to spend time with someone who wasn’t her. But Lena leaned forward, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, and her thumb brushed the scar he’d gotten from a bee sting three years prior, and the guilt melted a little, replaced by a warm, fizzing excitement he hadn’t felt in almost a decade. “I totally get if you’re busy,” she said, pulling her hand back, her cheeks pink, like she was worried she’d overstepped. “I just didn’t know who else to ask.”
“Nah, I’m not busy,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “I can come over this weekend, if that works for you.”
The polka band switched to a slow, waltzing track right then, couples stepping onto the patch of grass they’d cleared for a dance floor, wrapping their arms around each other to sway. Lena tilted her head, nodding at the floor, her eyebrow raised. “You gonna make me ask twice, Mendez?”
He stood up, his palms sweating a little, and took her hand when she offered it. Her skin was soft, her fingers calloused at the tips from years of coaching soccer, and when they stepped onto the grass she rested her other hand on his shoulder, her face so close he could see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose he’d never noticed from the soccer stands all those years ago. He told her he’d always watched her at the games, back when Mia was on the team, thought she was the only coach who didn’t yell at the kids for making mistakes, and she laughed, her breath warm against his neck. “I noticed you too,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “Always the quiet dad in the beat up folding chair, never screamed at the refs even when they made garbage calls. Thought you were cute, but your wife was always there, so I never said anything.”
The song ended a minute later, and they didn’t let go of each other, swaying through the next one too. By the time the festival started wrapping up, the sky dark and streaked with purple, the temperature dropping enough that Ray could see his breath when he exhaled, he offered to drive her home, since she’d walked, and she agreed without hesitation. He opened the passenger door of his beat up 2016 Ford F-150 for her, and before she climbed in she leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, her lip balm leaving a faint cinnamon tingle on his skin.
He climbed into the driver’s seat a second later, turning the key in the ignition, the heat kicking on to blow warm air through the cab. He glanced over at her, her braid coming loose a little, grinning as she pulled his beekeeping supply business card out of her pocket to tuck into her phone case. The radio cut on, playing an old Johnny Cash song he and Carol used to dance to in their kitchen when Mia was a baby, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty about smiling.
