Page 7 of Honeycombs & Homecomings

“Hey, hey—” He didn’t want to talk about the fact that he and Shelly should’ve been married five days from now on Saturday.

“Fine,” Tim said. “Whatever this is, just take care of it, and get back here, all right? You have friends here and we worry about you.”

Cash chuckled. “Ah, look who’s getting sentimental?”

“Real men have feelings, you waste of space,” Tim said. “Call me when you come to your senses.”

The men said their goodbyes as Cash turned off the highway and made a right onto Maple.

A few minutes later and he was turning onto Sycamore and driving past the Cornucopia Inn. To his left, the Harvest Ranch Festival filled the large open space the community liked to call a park, but really it was just a field with a huge pond in it. A Ferris wheel rose high into the sky above the old church, an empty building and the big red barn that acted as the cultural hall, its bright light shining in a brilliant white. Other rides and tents surrounded it, filling the park with the reason for the season.

The streets were jam-packed with people heading to the festival.

Cash groaned. He’d forgotten about the festival, which meant getting down Main Street would take five times longer than it normally did.

He considered making a U-turn when a little shop at the end of Sycamore and the head of main came into view. He remembered it as one of two dirty rundown buildings at the end of main that the city considered tearing down. Now it was something else.

The painted yellow brick that had been dingy before was now clean, probably had been repainted. The second-story balcony had baskets filled with brightly colored mums. The front windows that had been boarded over, like the building to its south, were now filled with sparkling clean glass that could only have stayed that clean from constant washings. He turned right on to Main Street, glimpsing the cute little wooden sign hanging from the side of the building, like all the stores on main had. Above a carved in beehive with bees flying around it, the name “Sticky and Sweet” and below “Honey Co.” told him the name of the store.

A smile stretched across his lips as an excited tingling unfurled in his stomach. “Sticky and Sweet Honey Company?”

That had Jo-Jo written all over it.

By some miracle, the parking space directly in front of the shop was empty, and he took it. He hopped out, passing a couple with a labradoodle, barely remembering to take his keys with him. Stopping at the double doors, he peered in.

The floor was wood and decorative, with flowers and bees carved in individual pieces and fit together like a puzzle. The twins always had Mr. Ward wrapped around their little fingers, and it seemed now was no exception because he knew of no one else who could have made anything so beautiful as that floor except for him.

To the right of the double door, stood a glass counter with an old-fashioned bronze register, and next to that a square reader for credit cards. Behind the counter sat more containers than he could count of products that claimed to “heal skin,” “stop aging,” “soothe dryness” and more.

The rest of the walls in the store were covered in shelves, each lit from the sides, and all containing glass jars of the most beautiful honey he’d ever seen, in shades of gold, and golden red, and golden orange, and molasses gold he’d not know was possible, their labels only on the lids to showcase the color.

He glanced down to check for store hours and found a sign that read “Closed at six all month. Find us at the festival.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced down the road toward the events entrance, his heart beating a rapid staccato against his chest.

This was crazy. He hadn’t seen Jo in over a decade. Every time he’d come into town since he’d moved away fourteen years ago had been at night, and he’d never gone out when he’d visited. There’d been no need, as his mom always kept the house stocked with his favorite everything. And with the miles of trail behind his family home, he could always go for a run without fear of being seen. And he hadn’t wanted to be seen.

All his trips home, until the last one, had been a mere attempt to stay out of the town gossip net, and it had worked until his last trip when his mother had accidentally let it slip that he was there.

He’d just opened his second restaurant, which was reason enough for everyone to get excited, but apparently the famous oyster dish that he served in his first restaurant was now a topic of extreme debate, the older women in town all sure he’d modeled it after their recipes. He hadn’t had a moment’s peace that entire trip and had insisted his parents come to visit him ever since.

There’s no way Jo wouldn’t have known he’d been here.

He turned from the store facing the festival straight on. An older lady passed with a labradoodle and smiled at him as she went. Maybe it was the same dog, only switched hands?

The smells of cooking corn, stews, hot dogs, and pies and other delicious things filling his nose and beckoning him like a siren. It’d been so long, so long since he’d had a decent Appalachian meal.

And seeing this shop. Seeing Jo’s dream having come to fruition made his chest ache near his heart, ache with pride. She’d done it. She’d finally done it.

And she was in there. With all that delicious food. He could just grab an oyster plate, look around, and find her. It could all be so casual. And he could tell her he’d seen her shop. That he saw it and was overwhelmed by its perfection. He could tell her that. After all these years it might not mean much to her, but he wanted her to know that he’d seen it and was proud.

He took a step forward, and then another.

He really shouldn’t. His mother and father were expecting him. And there was a reason he hadn’t seen her for all these years—he was sure she was the one person who could bring him to his knees. Did he want to deal with that?

No.

But . . .

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