Chapter 23
Molly
The motel in Paso Robles has exactly one room left, and it has exactly one bed.
"I can sleep in the truck," Taz offers for the third time as I stare at the receptionist like maybe she'll magically produce another option.
"It's supposed to hit a hundred and five degrees tomorrow," I say. "You'll literally cook."
"I've slept in worse," he says, with a stubborn little shrug.
"That's not the flex you think it is," I tell him.
The receptionist, a tired-looking woman named Doreen, according to her nametag, slides a key across the counter. "The room has AC and a travel crib we can bring up. Take it or leave it, honey, but I've got six people behind you who'll take it in a heartbeat."
I take it.
The room is small but clean, dominated by a queen bed that seems to grow larger the longer I stare at it. The travel crib fits awkwardly in the corner, and Clem is already fussing about the car ride and the strange environment and the general injustice of being a newborn.
"I'll take the floor," Taz says, setting down the bags.
"You'll need somebody to winch you upright tomorrow," I tell him. "I'd rather use your remaining mobility to carry the booth."
He eyes the corner. "The chair, then."
I look at the decorative armchair. "That thing was designed to hold a brochure. Get the spare pillows. We'll put them down the middle of the bed."
He brings them over without comment, which is worse than laughing. I stack them into a barrier while Clem objects to the entire accommodation industry from her travel crib.
"Your side is nearest the door," I say. "Mine's nearest Clem. Nobody interprets a foot crossing the middle as an invitation."
"Agreed," he says, very solemn, like we're dividing up a ranch. "If I knock a pillow over in my sleep, you can put it back without declaring war."
"I'll assess the damage before committing to terms," I tell him. "Go shower. I need to change her, and then I want ten minutes in the bathroom with nobody asking where a towel is."
"I'll locate all towels in advance," he says, and disappears.
He closes the bathroom door. I look down at Clem. "Your mother has excellent judgment. This is a temporary suspension of service."
After the sun goes down, I check the latch on the travel crib while Taz folds tomorrow's booth cloth.
"The sample spoons are in the side pocket," I tell him. "Please don't use the whole packet before noon. You tend to hand people three of anything."
"I don't want anybody leaving hungry," he says.
"It's a tasting, not disaster relief," I say, snatching the spoons out of his hand. "And the price cards go in front of the jars. No telling people to pay whatever they feel like."
"I was planning to charge extra if they insulted it," he says.
"Then I'm keeping you away from customer complaints," I tell him. "Your job is to be useful and visually distracting at a safe distance."
He looks up. I point toward the folded cloth before he can enjoy that too much.
"Put it in the truck," I say. "Then we can stop pretending we need another hour to organize six boxes."
By the time I come out of the bathroom, he's under the covers on his side, leaving me space to get in. The pillow wall wobbles when I sit down.
"If this collapses," I say, "we blame the motel. I won't have my engineering reputation damaged."
"I'll testify that the foundations were questionable," he murmurs.
I turn off the lamp. The AC hums, and Clem breathes softly in the corner. Taz lies still on the other side of the pillows.
"There's a question I've wanted to ask," he says. "If you'd rather sleep, tell me."
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. "Ask. I can always refuse afterward."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Would you go on a date with me? A real one. With an actual reservation and me picking you up at your door, which I realize you've opened for me a thousand times, but I'll knock."
I feel myself smile in the dark. "You're asking me out."
"Attempting to, yeah. It's been a while. I might be rusty."
"What kind of date?"
"The kind where I try very hard to impress you and you pretend I'm succeeding."
"Will there be stolen kisses?"
"God, I hope so."
The pillow wall seems smaller now, less significant. I reach out in the darkness, find his hand across the barrier, lace my fingers through his.
Clem stirs in the travel crib and settles again. The drive and booth preparations ran long, and I'm so tired my bones ache.
Taz lets go of my hand and switches on the bedside lamp. He sits on the edge of the bed in his sleep clothes, setting out the clean bottles for morning. His hands are careful. Practiced now.
"Long day," he says quietly, not looking up.
"Yeah." I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "Long day."
He puts the last clean bottle beside the others. Then he turns to me, and I don't move away when he leans in.
The kiss is soft. Brief. His hand cups my jaw like I'm something that might break.
I pull back first. He lets me.
"I'm exhausted," I whisper.
"Me too."
We don't talk about what this means. He turns off the lamp, and we settle back under the covers, and his hand finds mine again over the pillows. I hold on.
The wanting is still there. It's always there. But right now, this is enough.
In the morning, Taz emerges from the bathroom wearing the apron I bought as a joke three years ago, HONEY'S HUSBAND in big block letters across the front, and I nearly spit out my coffee.
"What are you doing?" I sputter.
"Booth duty." He adjusts the apron strap like it's totally normal. "You said I could help."
"I said you could carry things. Heavy lifting. Not—" I gesture at the apron. "Customer service."
"Too late," he says. "I'm committed now."
The festival is chaos: a sprawling collection of tents and booths and honey enthusiasts packed into the fairgrounds under a merciless sun.
Taz installs himself behind our table with Clem strapped to his chest in her carrier, and I watch in horrified fascination as he proceeds to charm and intimidate in equal measure.
"This is our orange-blossom sage," I explain to a woman who's examining our sample jars. "It's got a really unique—"
"It's the best honey in California," Taz interrupts. "Possibly the world. My wife's been perfecting this recipe for seven years, and if you don't buy at least two jars, you're making a mistake you'll regret forever."
"Taz," I hiss.
"What?" He blinks at me. "I'm helping."
The woman laughs and buys three jars.
A man in a Hawaiian shirt turns a jar over. "What's the best price you can do if I buy two?"
"The one on the card," Taz says. "She priced it before we left."
"Never hurts to ask," the man says.
"Certainly doesn't change how much work went into it," Taz says.
I step closer before this becomes a standoff involving floral prints. "You can taste the blend before you choose. Orange blossom and sage, with a stronger finish than the orange blossom alone."
The man tries a sample, then sets two jars on the table. "I'll take these."
"Thank you," I say, giving Taz a look while I wrap them.
Once the man has gone, Taz leans toward me. "I didn't threaten him."
"Your eyebrows opened negotiations without you," I tell him.
"I believe in the product," he says.
"Then let the product speak," I say, "before you summon the cattleman's association."
Clem stirs against his chest. He checks her position and settles a hand behind her head. A woman waiting beside the table smiles at her.
"Beautiful baby," she says. "How old?"
"Eight weeks," he says. "She's in charge of breaks."
"Clearly doing a wonderful job." The woman looks at me. "You have a lovely family."
"Thank you," I say, and manage to keep my voice steady.
Taz doesn't turn it into a moment. He simply reaches for another paper bag while I explain the blend. That makes it easier to stay beside him.
By mid-afternoon, we're nearly sold out.
The judges have made their rounds, tasting samples and taking notes, and I've tried not to think too hard about the competition.
Sagebloom is small. We're up against operations that have been running for generations.
The idea that we could actually win anything feels laughable.
The results are announced at four o'clock.
I'm packing up our remaining stock when I hear it over the loudspeaker: "And the award for Best Blend goes to..."
I freeze.
"...Sagebloom Honey's orange-blossom sage!" the announcer finishes.
I have a jar in each hand. Taz reaches for them before I can drop either.
"Put those down, Mol," he says. "They called you."
"There could be another Sagebloom," I say faintly.
"Then we'll have an awkward conversation at the stage," he says. "Go. I'll watch the table."
"And Clem," I remind him.
He looks down at the baby strapped to him. "I'd have to work quite hard to forget her."
I set down the jars. My hands have apparently stopped accepting simple instructions.
"Do I have honey on my face?" I ask.
"You look wonderful," he says. "Go get your prize before I go up there and explain it to everyone myself."
"That is a very effective threat," I tell him.
I start toward the stage. Behind me, Taz lets out a whoop that turns heads across the fairground. He's got one hand supporting Clem and the other punching the air, and for once I don't care who films him.
When I return with the ribbon, Taz is still announcing the result to anyone within reach. My honey won Best Blend. For the first time in months, I'm collecting congratulations for a thing I made without an epidural.
"We won!" Taz is yelling. "That's my wife! Her honey! Best blend in the damn festival!"
"Taz, people are looking—" I protest.
"Let them look!" He pulls me into a one-armed hug, Clem supported safely against him, and kisses me hard in front of everyone. "You won, Molly. You won."
And standing there in the middle of that fairground, with the sun blazing down and my daughter cooing and my husband beaming at me like I hung the moon, I think maybe... just maybe... he's right.