Ronny Voss, 62, spent 31 years teaching high school shop before retiring three years back, now spends 40 hours a week in his garage workshop turning reclaimed barn wood into custom birdhouses he sells every Saturday at the Summit County farmers market. His biggest flaw, one he’s actively nurtured since his wife left him for a traveling pharmaceutical rep in 2015, is avoiding even casual conversation with anyone who isn’t buying his work, convinced his habit of rambling about joinery and local bird migration patterns would drive anyone else away before the first drink was poured. He’s got a thin scar across his right knuckle from a table saw accident senior year, chews spearmint gum nonstop when he’s nervous, and has perfected the art of staring at his work boots when someone nearby needs a hand, to avoid getting roped into small talk.
The August air sticks to his skin like damp canvas when he unloads his first crate of birdhouses at 7 a.m., the market still half-empty, only the coffee vendor and heirloom tomato farmer set up so far. He’s halfway through hanging his first copper-roofed wren house when he hears the sharp clatter of glass jars hitting asphalt two booths down. He hesitates for three full seconds, then wipes his hands on his faded Carhartt overalls and walks over.
Mara is on her knees, brushing broken glass off a burlap tablecloth, jars of wildflower honey rolling across the pavement toward the curb. Her hair is silver streaked with honey blonde, pulled back in a braid slipping down her shoulder, and she’s wearing a flannel shirt tied around her waist over a faded bee-themed t-shirt. He grabs a rolling jar before it hits the curb, hands it to her, and their fingers brush. Her skin is warm, calloused at the fingertips, and she smells like clover and lemon Pledge, the same kind his mom used to dust the living room with when he was a kid.
“Thanks,” she says, holding his eye contact a beat longer than polite, grinning so the tiny scar on her left cheek crinkles at the edge. “I swear these crates fall apart every other week. I’m Mara, the new honey vendor. You’re the birdhouse guy, right? I’ve been staring at that bluebird house with the little porch on your table for ten minutes straight. I’ve got a pair of bluebirds nesting in my oak tree that would lose their minds over it.”
Ronny feels his face heat up, which is ridiculous—he’s 62, he hasn’t blushed since a girl turned him down for prom in 1979. He mumbles something about the joinery being reinforced with cedar, shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t fidget. He’s torn suddenly, between the urge to stay and ask her about her bees, and the familiar twist of anxiety that reminds him everyone in this town knows his business, that if he so much as laughs at one of her jokes, the gossip mill will be churning by dinner, people asking if he’s finally “over” his ex, prying into every part of a life he’s worked hard to keep private. He nods, turns to walk back to his booth, and feels stupid before he’s even three steps away.
An hour later, she shows up at his booth with an 8-ounce jar of honey, labeled with his name in messy cursive. “For the help,” she says, setting it down on his table, leaning in a little so their shoulders are almost touching, so he can smell the clover on her again. “Tastes like clover and wild blackberry. I harvested it last month, down by the river. You should try it on toast.”
He thanks her, and this time he doesn’t look away when she holds his gaze. The market is packed now, the hum of hundreds of voices mixing with the sound of the food truck’s generator, the smell of grilled sweet corn and fresh cut peaches hanging thick in the air. He finds himself glancing over at her booth every few minutes, watching her laugh with customers, let little kids hold the jar of bee pollen she keeps on her table for show. He’s half-convinced he’s imagining the way she glances back, the way she grins when their eyes meet.
The rain hits without warning, a sudden mid-afternoon summer downpour, fat cold drops that soak through his flannel in 10 seconds flat. Everyone scrambles to pack up, tarps flying, produce crates hauled to cars as fast as possible. Ronny’s table gets knocked over by a kid running for cover, three of his birdhouses hitting the wet pavement, and before he can grab a tarp to cover the rest, Mara is there, holding a heavy blue plastic tarp over his stock, her hair already plastered to her forehead, laughing so hard she’s snorting a little.
They huddle under the edge of the tarp for 10 minutes, shoulder to shoulder, rain drumming so loud on the plastic they have to lean in to hear each other talk. She tells him about the bee sting that left the scar on her cheek when she was 7, about how she started keeping bees after her husband died four years prior, something to get her out of the house when all she wanted to do was sit on the couch and watch old westerns. He tells her about the table saw accident that left the scar on his knuckle, about how he started making birdhouses after his wife left, something to keep his hands busy when he couldn’t sleep. For the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel the urge to cut the conversation short, doesn’t worry that he’s rambling too much, doesn’t care that half the market vendors are glancing over at them, already whispering.
The rain lets up as quick as it started, the sun coming out so fast there’s a faint rainbow over the parking lot. They finish packing up his booth together, he carries her last two crates of honey to her SUV, and when she’s done loading them, he leans against the side of his beat up 2008 Ford F-150, and asks her if she wants to get a burger and a chocolate milkshake at the diner down the road, the one with the neon sign that’s been half broken since 1992.
She says yes before he even finishes the question, grinning so the scar on her cheek crinkles again.
He tucks a stray wet strand of hair behind her ear before she climbs into the passenger seat of his pickup, his thumb brushing the scar on her cheek, and he doesn’t even glance at the group of regular market vendors staring from the food truck line.
