Eli Rourke is 61, runs a 12-hive honey operation out of the back of his 10-acre property outside Hendersonville, North Carolina. His biggest flaw is that he’s spent the last seven years since his wife passed treating any flicker of romantic interest like a stray yellow jacket he can swat away before it stings. He tells himself he’s too busy tending hives, bottling wildflower and sourwood batches, and dropping off stock at the local farmers’ market to bother with small talk over bad coffee at the town’s senior mixers, even when his friends badger him to go.
He only showed up to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff because the event organizer begged him to donate a case of small honey jars for the dessert table, and he owed the guy a favor for helping him pull a fallen oak off a row of hives back in spring. The gravel parking lot of the fire station reeks of charred meat, cumin, and cheap beer, the air hums with the chatter of half the town, and he’s already plotting his escape 90 seconds after he steps out of his beat-up Ford F-150, crate of jars slung over one shoulder.
That’s when he slips on a puddle of spilled pink lemonade, his boot skidding out from under him. Before he can hit the gravel, a hand wraps around his bicep, firm and warm, steadying him. One jar slips out of the crate, and the same woman catches it with her other hand, her dark curls falling forward over her shoulders as she leans down. It’s Clara Voss, his next door neighbor’s niece, in town for three months to help her aunt recover from a total knee replacement. He’s only spoken to her three times before, quick waves over the fence when she’s out walking her aunt’s golden retriever, but he’s noticed her: the silver streaks threading through her dark hair at the temples, the way she laughs so hard her eyes crinkle shut when the neighbor tells terrible old jokes, the ink of a honeybee peeking out of the cuff of her flannel shirt when she rolls up her sleeves to garden.
“Whoa there, honey man,” she says, grinning, holding the jar out to him. Their fingers brush when he takes it, calloused from working hives against her soft, ink-stained hands (she’s a children’s book illustrator, he remembers his neighbor saying). He can smell lavender laundry soap and smoked paprika on her shirt, and he fumbles the jar for half a second before he gets a good grip on it. She doesn’t let go of his bicep right away, her thumb brushing the edge of the faded air show tattoo he has on his upper arm, like she’s curious about it.
He mumbles a thank you, already flustered, already reaching for the excuse he has lined up to head home. But she tugs his arm gently, nodding toward a half-empty picnic table off to the side, away from the loud crowd by the chili stations. “C’mon. I grabbed a bowl of the fire marshal’s chili, it’s so hot it’ll peel the paint off your truck. I could use some of that honey of yours to cut the burn.” He hesitates, the voice in his head yammering that this is a bad idea, that she’s 13 years younger than him, that everyone in town will side-eye them if they sit together, that he’s just going to make a fool of himself. But then she looks up at him, her brown eyes bright, and he finds himself nodding.
They sit side by side on the splintered wooden bench, their knees knocking under the table when they shift to reach for the paper plates. He drizzles a half teaspoon of his wildflower honey into his bowl of chili, and she laughs, copying him, their hands brushing again when they reach for the same stack of napkins. She leans in close to whisper a joke about the fire chief’s entry, which is so thin and watery it looks like dish soap, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, and he snorts so hard he snorts chili up his nose. She hands him a napkin, cackling so hard she snorts too, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t feel self-conscious about being loud, or messy, or like he’s supposed to be grieving 24/7.
They talk for an hour, about her illustration work, about his hives, about the way the sourwood bloom was extra good this year. She asks him to teach her how to spot a queen bee sometime, and he agrees before he can overthink it. When the sun starts to dip below the treeline, she leans back against the bench, stretching her legs out, and her foot brushes his ankle. “You mentioned you make honey butter biscuits once, right? Your neighbor brought a batch over last week and I’ve been craving them ever since. You got any back at your place?”
He freezes for half a second, the old voice in his head screaming that this is too fast, that he’s going to mess this up, that he’s too old, too stuck in his ways, too still half married to a woman who’s been gone seven years. But then she smiles, slow and warm, and he pushes that voice down so far it can’t be heard. He stands, slinging the half-empty crate of honey jars over his shoulder, and holds a hand out to her to help her up.
They walk the two blocks back to his house in the golden twilight, their shoulders brushing every few steps, the sound of the cookoff fading behind them. He pulls a tin of biscuits out of the cooler he keeps on his front porch, still warm from the oven that morning, and she takes a bite, closing her eyes and moaning soft at the taste. She reaches up, wiping a crumb of butter and honey off the corner of his mouth with her thumb, and she doesn’t pull her hand away when he turns his head to press a light kiss to the palm of her hand.
