Elias Voss, 52, has kept bees outside Asheville for 18 years, and he’s spent the last seven of those perfecting the fine art of bailing on any social interaction that doesn’t involve explaining the difference between sourwood and clover honey to weekend tourists. His biggest flaw, the one his late sister used to nag him about nonstop before she passed, is that he’d rather sleep on a cot next to his hives in a thunderstorm than admit he’s lonely. He hasn’t so much as held anyone’s hand since his wife left him for a hot air balloon tour operator in 2016, and he’d convinced himself he preferred it that way, until today.
The rain started halfway through the final hour of the weekly farmers market, cold and sharp, blowing sideways under the canvas awnings and soaking the cuffs of his frayed flannel. A jar of raw wildflower honey slipped out of his grip as he was stacking cases, shattering at his feet, sticky golden sweetness seeping into the mud and mixing with the rain. He swore under his breath, mopping it up with a roll of paper towels, his hands slick and sweet-smelling by the time he was done. He was rushing to pack the rest of his stock, already mentally running through the list of hive checks he had to do at dawn the next day, when he dropped a full case of 12 jars, the cardboard soft from the damp.
He reached down at the exact same time she did. Her hand brushed his first, warm even through the thin knit of her gloves, then her forearm pressed firm against his when they both grabbed the edge of the case at the same time, and he froze. It was Marnie, the woman who’d stopped by his booth every Saturday for the past month, always asking too many questions about the difference between fermented honey and regular, always lingering long after she’d bought her jar, even when there was a line of tourists waiting behind her. He’d avoided making eye contact more than strictly necessary, told himself she was just a bored new librarian at the senior center who had nothing better to do on a Saturday.
“Looks like you could use a hand,” she said, laughing, and he could hear the rain hitting the hood of her wool coat, could smell lavender hand cream mixed with the wet pine scent drifting over from the Christmas tree lot at the end of the market. He opened his mouth to say no, he had it handled, like he always did, but she was already lifting half the case, her bicep flexing under the coat, so he shut up and lifted the other half, carrying it over to his beat-up 2008 F150 parked at the edge of the lot. Their shoulders kept brushing as they walked, the rain spitting harder now, and he could feel the heat off her even through two layers of clothing.
He was halfway through unloading the last box of honey sticks into the truck bed when she said she’d been trying to make mead with his honey for three weeks, kept messing up the fermentation, and would he mind coming over to taste what she had, maybe tell her what she was doing wrong. His first instinct was to say no, he had to be up at 5 a.m. to check the hives for mite damage, that he didn’t have time for fooling around. But then he looked down at her, her dark hair stuck to her forehead, a smudge of beeswax on her left cheek that she must have gotten from touching the sample block on his booth earlier, her eyes bright like she was nervous he’d say no, and the words died in his throat.
She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her breath on his chin when she reached up to wipe a glob of honey off his jaw that he’d missed when he cleaned up the broken jar. Her thumb brushed his skin, warm and soft, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t make a stupid joke about how he was just storing a snack for later like he usually would. He could taste the wild honey he’d sampled an hour earlier still on his tongue, could hear the distant rumble of thunder over the sound of vendors yelling as they hauled their goods to their cars.
“I can stay for an hour,” he said, and her face lit up so bright he almost looked away. She scribbled her address on a slip of receipt paper, her handwriting loopy and messy, and pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering for half a second longer than they needed to. He noticed her hands were shaking a little, same as his.
She waved as she walked back to her little hatchback, honking once when she pulled out of the lot, and he waved back, the slip of paper crumpled in his sticky hand. He tucked it into the inner pocket of his flannel, right over his chest, and ran a finger over the spot on his jaw where her thumb had touched, still warm, still tingling a little. He pulled his phone out, texted his 19-year-old neighbor who’d been bugging him to let him help with the hives for extra cash, asked if he could cover the 5 a.m. check tomorrow, said he’d pay him double.
He climbed into the truck, turned the key, the old engine sputtering to life, and pulled out of the parking lot, turning left instead of right, the direction he usually took to get back to his farm.
