The Beekeeper's Daughter

In all the years since the birth and adoption, her aunt had never referred to that summer of ’92. Perhaps she’d sensed that Annie didn’t want to talk about it—which was true—or that the subject would be too painful for her. Also true. Yet it had been her aunt’s quiet, nonjudgmental support that had spurred Annie to finish college and become a teacher. And now she had to make the tough decisions on her own.

Annie glanced at the kitchen wall clock. It was almost four and Danny would be arriving soon. Working hard for a few hours was just what she needed to take her mind off the letter. She took it upstairs, along with her aunt’s note, and tucked them in her dresser drawer. This decision, she knew, wouldn’t be as easy.

On her way downstairs the telephone rang and she froze midstep, caught by the crazy thought that it was a follow-up from the agency. Paranoia. It was more likely Danny, telling her he was going to be late. She dashed to the kitchen phone.

WILL GRIT HIS TEETH as he listened to the digressions that popped up like detour signs in the shopkeeper’s account of how to get to Ambrosia Apiaries. He hoped the road there wasn’t going to be as winding as these directions because the van was already showing signs of fatigue.

“But if it’s their honey you want,” the store owner said, “I can sell you a jar myself. Save you the trouble of going all the way there.”

Will shook his head. “No thanks, I just want to have a look at the place.” The man’s raised eyebrow made him add, “I’m a friend of the family.”

“Oh yeah? Jack or Annie?”

“Uh…Annie.”

The man’s frown deepened. Will was painfully aware of the stillness in the fine food shop. No doubt the man was wondering why, as a friend of the family, Will didn’t know how to get to the apiary. Why hadn’t he simply told him the truth? That he’d read about Ambrosia Apiaries in a magazine article years ago and had come looking for the place.

There were only a handful of customers inside the store, and they’d stopped talking when he’d come in. Now a couple of them exchanged whispered comments, and he felt their surreptitious glances at his scar. He ought to be used to stares by now. The problem was, every stare was another reminder.

“Thanks for the information,” Will said and, every eye on him, hustled out.

He strode toward the van, parked half a block away. Of course he could have simply purchased the honey, as the man had suggested. But honey wasn’t his reason for coming to Garden Valley.

The sight of a brand-new Honda motorcycle parked behind his van made him smile, nostalgic. It was an auspicious reminder of his decision to walk out of his old life and begin a new one. He paused to admire the bike, much flashier than his old Harley Davidson.

The Harley had been the last of his personal possessions to go. Will had kept putting off selling it, the symbol of a wilder, more carefree life. Before the accident.

His gaze shifted to the somewhat beat-up camper van, a far different symbol for the new direction his life was taking. The flare of nostalgia suddenly died. No regrets. Will climbed into the van, carefully eased out of the parking spot and, with one last glimpse in his rearview mirror, headed down the main drag of Essex, North Carolina.

It was a pretty town with a larger commercial center than he’d expected for a population of eight thousand. Though he didn’t know if that figure—emblazoned on the town’s welcome sign—included the outlying rural area. What he did know was that as soon as the van had begun its descent from the foothills an hour ago, he’d been so awestruck at the size and beauty of the valley that he’d had to pull off the road.

Garden Valley was a fitting name for the lush countryside that rolled away beneath him. The rooftops of Essex, clustered at the base of the hill, glittered beneath the midafternoon sun. Surrounded by verdant pastures and tracts of woodland, the town sparkled like underwater treasure. It could be a scene out of a fairy tale. It was definitely a scene out of the magazine article folded up on the seat beside him.

He headed southwest, as the store owner had instructed, taking his time. Now that he’d finally reached his destination, he had no idea what his next step was. Pull out the article and confess he’d saved it since he was twelve years old? Yeah right. Now that he was here, what did he expect would happen?

That was the issue, he mused as he searched the signs at each crossroad after leaving Essex behind. His ex-wife had once accused him of running away from his problems and he’d bristled at the suggestion. Yet here he was, proving her right. Suddenly he caught the sign for Dashwood Side Road, slammed his foot on the brake and turned onto the hard-packed gravel.

Five miles in, the man had said, and then make a left at somebody’s orchards. Will had forgotten the name of the farm itself, but the barn behind the house was supposed to be bright red. Weren’t all barns red? He was going less than twenty miles an hour and had plenty of time to make his turn when he spotted a red barn and silo immediately ahead on his left. What he failed to notice was the other vehicle coming at him like a tornado.

Pebbles and dirt pelted the van as Will cranked the steering wheel right. By the time he’d straightened out the van, the other vehicle—a mud-brown pickup—had disappeared. Damn. Country drivers were no better than city ones. Will kept going, occasionally checking the rearview mirror in case the maniac in the pickup came back.

Another three or four miles after the turn, according to the store owner, and he’d see the sign at the end of a long driveway. Will passed fields of some kind of bushy, flowery crop on both sides of the road, crossed over a narrow stone bridge spanning a strip of bubbling water, rounded a curve and spotted a yellow and black sign up ahead on his left. As he drew nearer, he pulled over and turned off the engine.

The sign, with its curlicue scrawl Ambrosia Apiaries, J. Collins and Family, had seen better days. It had been fashioned out of sheet metal into the shape of a picture-book-style beehive. But the apex of the hive had twisted into a rusting knot. Will guessed that the scattering of black spots was supposed to be honeybees. Or maybe the yellow paint had just worn off.

He sat for a moment. What should he say? Just passing through from New Jersey and happened to notice the sign. He cursed again.

He’d never really expected to find the place. The article had been written years ago and who would have thought that the apiary, with its tired old sign, would still be here? A twelve-year-old kid’s boyhood fantasy. Buying honey was the plan. Besides, he couldn’t leave without at least seeing the place. Maybe he’d even catch a glimpse of the girl in the picture—Annie. The girl he’d once befriended in his imagination. Someone with a family that could be traced back a few generations.

He was about to drive up the lane when he noticed a vehicle approaching from behind. Will watched as it grew larger in the rearview mirror. Seeing the square front end of a mud-brown pickup, he frowned. The same crazy driver who had almost sideswiped him? The truck slowed as it passed. Maybe he’d have a chance to give the guy a piece of his mind. Then it turned sharply into the driveway to the apiary and lurched to a stop.

Will waited, his eyes riveted on the pickup. Someone was getting out, striding purposefully toward him. Male or female? The sun was in his eyes and Will couldn’t decide if the person was being confrontational or not. Trouble was the last thing he was looking for, but on the other hand…

Will realized with some relief that the driver was indeed female. Very female, he thought. Jeans and a loose shirt failed to conceal the evidence. The unbuttoned shirt flapped open in the breeze to reveal a form-fitting tank top. She marched right up to his open window.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Her voice was confident and challenging. She was blocking the sun and as Will peered up, he realized that it was her. Annie of the magazine article. Same honey-colored hair, no longer braided but skimming her shoulders, and same heart-shaped face. And definitely no longer an eleven-year-old girl.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh, was driving by and noticed the sign. Thought I’d buy some honey. Are you the owner?”

Her golden brown eyes narrowed. She pursed her full, naturally rosy lips and didn’t speak for a long moment. “Buy some honey,” she repeated slowly.

Her tone made the excuse seem wildly implausible.

She scanned the side of the van. “You’re not from Sunrise Foods, are you? A private investigator?”

“I’m just here for honey. And I’d love to see your apiary.” He climbed out of the van and leaned against the door.

“See the apiary,” she echoed, giving him the once-over.

Will sighed. He took off his baseball cap, realizing at once from the way her eyes widened that the inch of hair covering his scalp wasn’t a reassuring sight. “It’s actually a long story. Some years ago I read a magazine article about a family of beekeepers.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

“I know this may sound crazy,” he continued, “but ever since I read it I’ve wanted to see the place. And, uh, well, so I came.” When she still didn’t speak, Will reached through the window for the article on the passenger seat. As he straightened, he saw that she was looking at the scar on the right side of his face. Her eyes moved quickly back to his.

“Were you in some kind of accident?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Another long story.”

“Does it still hurt?”

It was a refreshing question, not the standard two or three he usually got. “Sometimes.” He stretched out his hand and she took the magazine article. She skimmed it for a few seconds, smiling.

The effect was transforming and when she raised her face again, her smile washed over him like warm water. He felt lighter somehow and the knot between his shoulder blades was gone.

“I remember when this was written,” she said.

“Is that you in the picture?”

“Yes, and my dog, Skipper. Long gone now.”

“And your parents?”