Marlon Rios, 57, spent 31 years yelling over radar static and diverting commercial planes around summer thunderheads before he quit to keep bees on 12 rolling acres outside Asheville, North Carolina. His biggest flaw is he’d rather square up to a defensive hive of Italian honeybees than make small talk with a stranger, and he hasn’t so much as flirted with anyone since his ex-wife drove to Portland with a roofing contractor in 2011. He only showed up to the county fire department’s annual chili cook-off because his 82-year-old next door neighbor Mabel had guilt-tripped him into entering his famous honey cornbread, saying the department’s new brush truck fund needed every dollar they could scrape together.
The air reeked of cumin, burnt hot dogs, and pine smoke curling off the bonfire at the edge of the gravel parking lot. A terrible local cover band was butchering a 90s Garth Brooks hit near the beer tent, and Marlon was already mentally calculating how fast he could sneak out to his beat-up Ford F-150 when someone’s elbow knocked the paper plate of cornbread samples right out of his hand.
It was Clara Voss, the new part-time library director who’d moved to town three months prior. He’d only seen her from a distance before, dropping off used beekeeping books at the county extension office, but up close she had crinkles around her hazel eyes that deepened when she apologized, leaning in close enough that he could smell vanilla shampoo and the smoked paprika in the bowl of chili she was holding. She reached down to help him pick up the crumpled paper plate at the same time he did, their knuckles brushing for half a second, warm and calloused from handling rough wood hive frames, and Marlon felt a jolt he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten what the tight, warm buzz in his chest even meant.
“Relax,” she said, leaning against the edge of the table so her shoulder was six inches from his, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her navy puffer coat even through his thick flannel. “I don’t bite. Unless you’re a yellow jacket that’s trying to steal my root beer.”
That made him snort, and he finally looked up. She was holding a paper cup of spiced apple cider, condensation beading down the sides, and when a kid ran past chasing a fluffy golden retriever, she stumbled a little, her elbow knocking into his ribs, and she grabbed his forearm to steady herself. Her hand stayed there for three full beats, her fingers pressing into the soft muscle just above the cuff of his leather work glove, before she pulled away, her cheeks pink even in the crisp 50-degree dusk light.
They talked for 40 minutes straight, ignoring the tinny announcements blaring over the loudspeaker about the chili contest winners. He found out she kept three hives behind her tiny 1920s cottage downtown, that she hated loud cover bands as much as he did, that she’d moved to North Carolina after her ex-husband died of a heart attack two years prior because she’d always wanted to live somewhere where the oak and maple leaves turned fire red and tangerine in October. He told her about the time a swarm of bees had followed him into his pickup cab when he’d forgotten to close the hive box lid, about the way the air smelled at 5 a.m. when he was checking the hives and the fog was still curled low over the valley, about how he’d spent 10 years avoiding every local event because the small-town gossip about his ex made his skin crawl. She didn’t flinch, didn’t offer empty pity, just nodded, and when the wind picked up, sending a flurry of red maple leaves swirling past their feet, she shifted a little closer to him, so their arms were brushing every time one of them moved.
By the time the bonfire was crackling high enough to send gold sparks flying into the dark indigo sky, Marlon had completely forgotten he’d planned to leave 20 minutes after he arrived. He hesitated for 10 whole, awkward seconds before he asked her if she wanted to come out to his property the next Saturday, to see his 17 hives, to taste the sourwood honey he’d harvested a month prior that was so sweet it tasted like pear candy and clove. She smiled, the crinkles around her eyes deepening, and said yes, as long as he brought extra of that honey cornbread, no samples required.
He fumbled in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt for a crumpled grocery receipt he’d scrawled his address and cell number on that morning, just in case, and when he handed it to her, her fingers brushed his again, this time on purpose, slow and soft, and she tucked the paper into the inner pocket of her coat, patting it once with her palm to make sure it was secure.
