Rudy Galvan, 62, retired public high school woodshop teacher, hauled the last of his restored Adirondack chairs out of his beat-up 2008 F-150 just before 8 a.m. on a late August Saturday, gravel crunching under scuffed work boots. His plaid flannel hung unbuttoned over a faded Johnny Cash tee, half-empty cup of gas station cold brew sweating in the cup holder beside him. The Saratoga County farmers market was just waking up: vendors yelled greetings across the lot, the fried dough truck fired up its fryers, sending curls of cinnamon and hot oil through the humid air. He’d held the same spot by the heirloom tomato stand for seven years, had every routine down to a science, hated surprises more than he hated splinters in his palm.
He noticed the new stall two spots down while hammering in his last tent stake. A woman with thick silver streaks running through dark wavy hair, overalls rolled up to her calves, bare feet in scuffed leather sandals, was wrestling with a tent stake wedged under a maple root. She swatted at a bee buzzing near her stack of glass honey jars, muttering sharp, playful curses under her breath, and didn’t catch him staring until she walked over, wiping dirt off her overalls leg. A smudge of beeswax sat on her left cheek, her eyes the exact color of burnt wildflower honey, and she asked if he had an extra mallet—hers had snapped in half on the drive over. He handed it over, their knuckles brushing when their fingers touched, her skin warm and calloused from lifting hive boxes. He caught a whiff of clover and beeswax off her hoodie, held eye contact a beat too long, then looked away first, mumbling that she could keep it as long as she brought it back before close. She laughed, low and throaty, said her name was Mae, she ran a small apiary out near Ballston Spa, first time at this market. He told her his name was Rudy, nodded back at his stacked chairs, said he did woodwork.
He spent the next three hours sneaking glances at her stall between customer conversations. Watched her let little kids hold unopened honey jars up to the light to see the golden color, laughed when a toddler stuck his whole hand in a sample pot and licked it clean, slipped a free beeswax candle to an elderly woman who couldn’t afford the $4 price tag. He was annoyed at himself for paying attention, ran a hand over the gray stubble on his jaw, told himself he was being an idiot. He’d turned down every blind date his sister had set him up on since his wife Linda died of ovarian cancer eight years prior, convinced letting anyone new get close was a betrayal. He was halfway through walking a regular through the cedar grain on a lake house chair when the sky went black, wind whipping hard enough to throw a stack of his canvas cushions across the parking lot. Thunder rumbled so loud it shook his truck, cold rain poured down in sheets, and every vendor scrambled to pack up before their stock got ruined. He was shoving the last chair into his truck bed when he heard a yell, looked over to see Mae’s tent collapsed, half her honey jars rolling across the gravel, one spinning straight for the storm drain.
He ran over before he could overthink it. Grabbed the runaway jar right as she did, their hands pressed tight together, honey seeping out of a cracked nearby jar onto their wrists, sticky and sweet. He yanked her out of the way of a flying tent pole that snapped loose from the tomato stand, his arm wrapping around her waist for a split second, and he could feel the soft curve of her hip through her soaked linen shirt. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, she was laughing so hard she was snorting, said she knew she should’ve checked the weather app that morning instead of trusting the sunny forecast. They spent ten minutes shoving her unbroken jars and crumpled tent into the back of her rusted Subaru, rain soaking through both their shirts, and he didn’t even notice he was shivering until they were standing under the faded awning of the diner down the street, dripping onto the sidewalk.
He was about to mumble a goodbye, head home to change and sand down a new set of chair legs, pretend the last half hour never happened, when she pulled a jar of wildflower honey out of her waterproof bag, held it out to him. The label had a hand-drawn bumblebee on it, her handwriting messy and loopy, and she said it was thanks for the help. She asked if he wanted to come inside, get a slice of pie and a hot coffee, wait out the rest of the rain. He hesitated, throat tight, for a second hearing Linda’s voice in his head, the way she used to tease him for being too stubborn to take a dumb, fun chance. He nodded, said pecan pie was his favorite. She grinned, said she was partial to apple, and held the diner door open for him.
They sat in a scuffed vinyl booth by the window, rain streaking down the glass, the diner smelling like bacon and maple syrup and old coffee. She twisted open the honey jar, dipped her index finger in, held it out across the table, said he had to taste this batch, it was from hives by the old apple orchard, had a faint tart kick. He leaned forward, licked the honey off her finger, sweet and warm and a little tangy, exactly like she said. He didn’t feel guilty, not for a second, not like he’d spent eight years assuming he would if he ever let himself get close to someone new. She told him she’d gotten into beekeeping after her husband died five years prior, that the hives had kept her from falling apart when nothing else did, and he found himself telling her about Linda’s cancer battle, about the woodshop kids who still stopped by his garage to say hi, things he hadn’t told anyone outside his family in years.
When the waitress dropped off their refills of black coffee, he was already asking her what days she’s going to be at the market next month.
