Rudy Galvan is 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, lives 10 minutes outside Saratoga Springs in a creaky cottage his grandfather built. His biggest flaw is he never lets a slight go, even the stupid ones. For 18 years, he’s carried a grudge against Lena Marlow, his late wife’s second cousin, for slipping a live goldfish into the breast pocket of his wedding tuxedo 10 minutes before he walked down the aisle. He’d had to dump the squirming thing in a flower pot behind the church, his tux front soaked through with fish water, and Lena had cackled so hard in the front row she’d snort-loud enough for the priest to pause his opening remarks.
His wife Ellie had laughed it off, told him Lena was just messy and impulsive, never meant harm. Rudy hadn’t bought it. When Ellie passed three years ago from breast cancer, he’d pulled away from most of her side of the family, Lena included. He spends his days restoring vintage Adirondack chairs in his garage, sells them at the downtown farmers market every Saturday, keeps to himself, only talks to the regulars who stop by to run their hands over the cherry and oak grain, ask about his finish process.
This Saturday is crisp, the air sharp with turning maple leaves and the scent of fried dough from the food truck at the end of the row. His arthritis is flaring bad in his right wrist, the joint swollen and hot, making it hard to hold the fine-grit sandpaper he’s using to smooth the arm of a white oak chair he’d spent three weeks on. He fumbles the sanding block, it clatters across the asphalt, skids to a stop two booths down, right next to a stack of glass honey jars.
Lena bends to pick it up, and Rudy’s jaw tightens. He hasn’t talked to her in four years, not since she’d shown up to Ellie’s memorial with a cooler of spiked seltzer and a story about the time she and Ellie had snuck into a country club pool as teens. She’s 58 now, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, freckles dusting her forearms from working outside, a flannel shirt tied around her waist over worn black Converse. She’s got a smudge of honey on her left cheek.
She walks over, sanding block held out, and she smells like cinnamon and raw clover honey, the kind Ellie used to stir into her tea every morning. “Still sanding the same way you did in shop class,” she says, grinning, the same gap between her two front teeth he’d forgotten about. “Too much pressure on the wrist, you’re gonna blow out that joint before you finish the chair.”
When he reaches for the sanding block, her fingers brush his. They’re warm, a little sticky from honey, and he freezes. He hasn’t felt a woman’s touch that wasn’t a nurse adjusting his blood pressure cuff or a cashier handing him change in three years. She doesn’t pull away immediately, her thumb grazing the swollen knuckle on his wrist for half a second before she steps back.
“I heard your arthritis was acting up,” she says, nodding at his wrist, and pulls a jar of golden honey from her apron pocket, the label handwritten: TURMERIC + CAYENNE HOT HONEY, FOR STIFF JOINTS AND STUBBORN ASS MEN. “I make this batch special. Rub a teaspoon on the joint before bed, wrap it in a heating pad. Works better than the prescription stuff you probably refuse to take.”
A group of kids chasing a golden retriever barrels between the booths, one slamming into Lena’s shoulder, and she stumbles forward, her chest pressing against his upper arm for a split second before she catches herself on the edge of his table. She apologizes, cheeks pink, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Rudy’s throat feels tight. He’d spent 18 years writing her off as reckless, immature, the kind of person who ruins important moments for a joke, but now he’s noticing the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the calluses on her fingers from lifting crates of honey jars, the fact that she’d remembered his arthritis from a throwaway comment his old neighbor made to her two weeks prior.
He doesn’t know what to say, so he turns, grabs the small oak cutting board he’d sanded the night before, the edge carved with tiny clover leaves, and holds it out to her. “For sampling,” he says, gruff, like it’s a burden to give it to her. “Your paper plates are flimsy, you’re gonna cut yourself on that knife you use to spread the honey on crackers.”
She takes it, her fingers brushing his again, and her grin softens into something quieter, no teasing edge. She dabs a drop of the hot honey onto her index finger, holds it out to him. “Taste it. First batch of the season, from the hives up on the mountain behind my new place.” He hesitates for a beat, then leans forward, licks the honey off her finger. The sweetness hits first, then a slow, warm burn from the cayenne, the earthy tang of turmeric lingering at the back of his throat. Her eyes are locked on his, no laughter, no teasing, just soft, and he realizes his heart is racing like he’s 17 again, asking Ellie to prom.
“I never told you,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear her over the bluegrass band tuning up at the end of the row, “the goldfish prank wasn’t just a joke. I had a crush on you for two years before you married Ellie. I was too nervous to talk to you, so I did the stupidest thing I could think of to get your attention.”
Rudy blinks, then laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t made in months. “I was so mad I didn’t even notice you wore that blue satin dress to the wedding. The same one you wore to senior prom. I thought you looked beautiful that night, never said anything.”
The market closes an hour later, the vendors packing up their tables, the crowd thinning out to a handful of people lingering by the food truck. Lena slings a tote bag full of leftover honey jars over her shoulder, nods toward the dive bar down the street, the one with the neon Pabst sign half broken in the window. “I’ll buy you a beer,” she says. “On one condition. You let the goldfish grudge go.”
Rudy tucks the jar of hot honey into the inside pocket of his flannel shirt, the glass warm against his chest. His wrist doesn’t hurt half as bad as it did that morning. He holds the door open for her, and for the first time in 18 years, he doesn’t think about the goldfish.
