Moe Pritchard, 61, spent 34 years as a minor league equipment manager for the AA Tennessee Smokies before retiring three years prior, now runs a vintage sporting goods pop-up out of the bed of his beat-up 2002 Ford F-150. He’s lived alone in a 1978 Airstream parked on 10 acres of wooded land outside Marshall, North Carolina since his wife Elaine died of ovarian cancer 8 years back, and he’s made a point to turn down every invite to community mixers, blind dates, even post-church potlucks, convinced anyone his age chasing romance is just performing for crowds, making a fool of themselves to outrun the quiet. He dragged his booth to the Madison County Fall Harvest Festival last Saturday, got there at 5:45 a.m., frost crusted thick on the grass, his work boots squeaking on the cold wet asphalt of the fairground parking lot.
His assigned spot was right next to the hot honey booth run by a woman named Clara he’d seen at weekly farmers markets all summer but never talked to. She was hauling a case of 4-ounce glass jars, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled tight under a faded Dolly Parton bandana, flannel shirt tied around her waist, work boots caked in red mud from her property out in the hills. He dropped a stack of 1990s Cincinnati Reds wool caps when he turned to grab his packing tape gun, and she stepped over to pick them up before he could bend down, their fingers brushing for half a second when she handed the stack over. He caught a whiff of cedar perfume and cinnamon lip balm as she leaned in, and she held eye contact for a full two seconds before grinning, saying “Those caps are way cooler than the overpriced pumpkin spice candles down the row.” He grunted a thanks and turned away, furious with himself for how warm the tips of his ears had gotten, like he was a kid fumbling through his first middle school dance.
The day picked up fast. Kids dragged their parents over to gawk at miniature vintage baseball bats, older guys stopped to swap stories about minor league games they’d snuck into back in the 70s, a group of teen boys bought out his whole stock of 2000s Braves trucker hats. Moe kept catching Clara looking over from her booth, snorting when he did a terrible impression of a notoriously grumpy former Smokies pitcher for a group of retired factory workers. Mid-afternoon, when the line died down, she brought him a paper cup of spiced cider, still steaming so thick it fogged his glasses, said “You looked like you needed something warmer than that sad flat diet soda you’ve been sipping all day.” He took it, their knuckles brushing again when she passed it over, and when they sat on their folding chairs during a 20 minute lull, their knees were pressed so tight he could feel the heat of her leg through two layers of worn denim. He kept telling himself he was being an idiot, that Elaine would roll her eyes at him for acting like a nervous 16 year old, that he was too old for this kind of silly, fluttery crush. A small, stupid, stubborn part of him wanted to lean closer anyway.
The storm hit at 7 p.m., right as most vendors were packing up for the night. The sky turned inky black in 10 minutes flat, wind whipping so hard it knocked over a stack of Moe’s leather catcher’s mitt display stands, the bluegrass band at the main stage cutting out mid-Foggy Mountain Breakdown when their amp shorted out. A sharp gust blew a whole stack of Clara’s custom honey jar labels, printed with little line drawings of bees, into Moe’s booth, scattered across the top of his crate of 1970s game-worn mitts. They both lunged for them at the same time, ending up crouched under the edge of Moe’s vinyl canopy, shoulders pressed flush together, rain soaking the cuffs of their flannels, water dripping off the brim of Moe’s worn Smokies cap onto Clara’s shoulder. He noticed a smudge of raw honey on the side of her wrist, reached out to brush it off with his thumb without thinking, and when he looked up she was staring at his mouth, her breath coming fast, the small silver hoops in her ears glinting in the dim string light strung under the canopy. He didn’t pull away when she leaned in, the taste of cinnamon and wildflower honey on her lips softer than anything he’d felt in 8 years.
They stayed huddled under the canopy for 20 minutes, until the rain slowed to a fine drizzle, talking between slow, quiet kisses, swapping stories about messy grief, disappointing exes, and the dumb stuff their grandkids had pulled that week. When the sun peeked out through the clouds, painting the sky pink and orange over the hills, Moe helped her load her honey jars into her beat-up Subaru Outback, and when she asked if he wanted to come over to her place for meatloaf and a cold beer later, he didn’t hesitate to say yes. He walked back to his own truck a few minutes later, a jar of her extra-spicy habanero honey tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket, his ears still warm, a stupid lopsided grin on his face he couldn’t wipe off if he tried.
