The Beekeeper's Daughter

“Thanks for the tip. Maybe I’ll head there now and check out the job situation in the morning. And…thanks again for your hospitality, Annie.” He extended his right hand. “You took a chance asking a stranger with a story like mine into your home. I appreciate the opportunity to finally see Ambrosia Apiaries.”

Annie placed her hand in his. Touched by the gratitude in his eyes, she was tempted to invite him to stay for supper, but common sense prevailed. Still, she had to admit to a definite spark when his hand folded around hers. Even the way he said her name made it seem exotic, as if it belonged to someone else. Someone far more daring. She stepped back from the van.

“It was my pleasure, Will. All the best with…your road trip.”

He nodded and turned the ignition key. The engine’s rumble made any further talk pointless. Annie waved as he reversed, made a neat three-point turn and lurched forward. Will’s left hand tipped a quick goodbye. Annie watched until the van drove out of sight. When the last dust settled, she headed for the kitchen door, wondering why she felt so inexplicably deflated.

She cleared the table in silence and sat in the chair Will had just vacated, trying to see the room through his eyes. So ordinary really, lacking the flash of a modern kitchen. Yet there had been such awe in his face when he’d followed her inside that his odd story about the magazine article had rung true. His interest in the apiary was clearly serious and focused. She hadn’t wanted to admit that while he’d been dreaming of Garden Valley and beekeepers as a child, she’d been planning her escape.

Ironically, he’d more or less realized his fantasy while she…well, that was another story. A long one. Annie glanced instinctively upward to her bedroom and then closed her eyes. Once upon a time she’d thought by going off to college she could escape Garden Valley and for a while, she had. Until reality caught up with her in the form of an unplanned pregnancy.

Annie sighed and rose shakily to her feet. Tucking the letter deep into her dresser drawer had merely put it out of sight. When she reached her bedroom, she first piled her dirty laundry into a basket to take downstairs, retrieved soiled towels from the bathroom and, on the way, paused to peek into her father’s room. He’d made his bed and, as if he were coming home that night, had left his pajamas folded on top of his pillow. Annie teared up at the sight.

Finally, she opened her dresser drawer and took out the letters.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she read them again, starting with her aunt’s brief note. Annie knew that her aunt would expect her to call, especially with news of her father’s surgery. Although she appreciated Aunt Isobel’s wisdom and common sense, Annie also knew that this was her problem. Her aunt had done more than enough for her. Taking a deep breath, she opened the letter from the agency. Was Sister Mary Beatty the woman who’d counseled Annie? She remembered a woman whose quiet, non-judging manner had soothed Annie’s fears and guilt.

She lay back on the pillows at the head of her bed, letter still in hand, and stared up at the ceiling. She could simply toss it into the garbage and go on with her life. The agency wouldn’t bother her again. She closed her eyes, her thoughts flying back to August 12th, thirteen years ago, and the day she gave birth to a tiny baby girl.

And now that baby girl—a teenager—wanted to meet her. In spite of Annie’s curiosity about the person that baby had become, she wasn’t certain she wanted to relive an event from her past that still evoked guilt. The thought of coming face-to-face with…her daughter…was almost terrifying.

Daughter. The word sounded foreign to her, a concept she couldn’t connect with, even though she was a daughter herself.

If her mother were still alive, what advice would she give her? If her mother hadn’t set out for Essex on that icy winter morning, what would Annie’s own teenaged years have been like? If Annie hadn’t drunk so much the night of that frat party, what would she be doing that very moment instead of lying on her bed contemplating a meeting with the daughter conceived that night?

If, if, if. A useless word. Almost as pointless as the phrase I wish. She sat up, tossing the letter aside, and reached for a tissue on the night table. The clock radio told her it was almost six-thirty. Auntie Isobel had likely finished dinner long ago and was now dozing in front of the television. Annie hesitated, index finger poised above the phone. Then, before she could change her mind, quickly tapped in the number.

Annie could tell from the disoriented tone in her aunt’s greeting that she had indeed been napping. “I, uh, wanted to tell you that Dad and Shirley got away just before four and that Shirley will call you tomorrow after the surgery.”

There was a slight pause. “I know that, dear. We made those arrangements last week. Remember?”

Annie cleared her throat. “Oh, right. Well, I also wanted to tell you that I got your letter and…the one from the adoption agency.”

“So quickly! I just mailed them the day before yesterday.”

The ball’s back in my court. “I was surprised. No, more than that. Well, maybe closer to shocked.”

“I thought you might be, dear.”

Annie closed her eyes, knowing Auntie Isobel wasn’t going to ask the question. “The letter was from a Sister Mary Beatty. She said that the…that is, my…uh, daughter wanted to make contact with me.”

When her aunt finally spoke, she sounded almost sad. “I thought that might be the reason for the letter. I couldn’t think why else they’d be writing after all these years.”

“The thing is…I don’t really know what to do.”

“Of course you don’t. How could you possibly? Take your time, Annie. There’s no rush, is there?”

“No, but I… It’s just that Dad will be home in two or three weeks and…”

Auntie Isobel’s voice was soft. “You haven’t told him, I’m assuming.”

Annie waited for the pounding at her temples to ease. “No. There never seemed to be a good time and then—frankly—I left it so long I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“I know you’re worried about his reaction, dear, but you’re an adult now. He won’t be disappointed in you.”

“I never thought he would be. But he might feel hurt that I never told him in the beginning. And now all this time has passed and—”

“Your father may come across like a gruff man, Annie, but we both know he’s not really.”

“Telling Dad is the least of my… I just don’t know what I want…. Do you remember this Sister Mary Beatty? Was she the one who was so nice to me?”

“I can’t recall, Annie.” She paused. “I suppose this has brought back all the memories.”

“In a huge overwhelming flood.”

“Would you like me to come for a visit?”

“No, that’s okay, Auntie Isobel. I’ll be coming your way soon.”

“Do you think your father will give in and stay with Shirley’s cousin?”

“Hard to say. You know Dad.”

“Are you managing without him?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That’s good. So you’ll let me know when you’re coming? You might have a chance to pay a visit to the agency while you’re here.”

Annie felt as if time was squeezing her. Obviously she’d have to make a decision soon. “I guess so.”

“Just a suggestion, dear.” Her aunt must have picked up the tone in her voice. “Don’t feel pressured to decide before you’ve thought everything through very carefully. Otherwise, how’re things? Anything new in your life?”

Annie had a vision of Will Jennings waving goodbye from his camper van. “Not really,” she said. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.” When she hung up, Annie wasn’t certain if the call had helped or made her feel worse.

AS HE HEADED into Essex, Will scanned the paved road ahead for a sign indicating that campsite Annie had mentioned. When he spotted a small arrow-shaped sign, he let the van coast to a stop. Rest Haven Camp, a mere five miles away. Worth a look-see, he decided, and turned onto the gravel road. It was an unusual location for a campsite. How many tourists wandered this far off the highway?

Three miles in, he suddenly understood. Cresting a hill, Will jammed the brake and stared openmouthed at a jewel of a pond ringed by trees. It was the centerpiece of a stretch of green pasture at the bottom of the hill. The roof of a farmhouse reflected the setting sun. Beyond it, about half a mile to the north, were three shedlike constructions in a stand of trees and the wooden framework of a larger, rectangular building in progress. A dirt trail wound around the buildings out to the gravel road and the entire area was bordered by a split rail fence. The late-afternoon sun cast the scene in a rich gold that Will had seen only once before, in a book of paintings. He eased his foot off the brake and drove down the incline.

As he passed he saw that the farmhouse on his right was boarded up. The roof of the weathered gray barn behind the house had collapsed and the front yard was overgrown with tall weeds. Will gave the van more gas, anxious to check out the campground ahead. The sign fronting the entrance to Rest Haven was newer than the first one Will had seen from the highway. He turned onto the dirt lane. The van bumped and jostled along the potholed surface as Will drove toward the building with the Office sign.

He parked in front and climbed out. Except for the clamor of birds in the trees, the place was silent. There were no vehicles as far as Will could see and when he called out a hello, no response. Standing in the open clearing, Will made a slow circular turn and decided that the place either hadn’t opened yet, or the manager had been called away on urgent business. The office door was locked, as he’d suspected. Cupping his hands against the reflection, he peered through a window next to the door.

Squinting, he could just make out a telephone on an otherwise empty desk. Two or three chairs loomed in the shadows and he thought he saw the outline of a filing cabinet. If the place was open, it obviously wasn’t enjoying a busy season. He called out once more but when there was still no reply, he got back in the van and started up the engine.

Ten minutes later he was back on the highway leading into Essex. He had the money for a motel, but hated to spend it unnecessarily. What was there to keep him in Garden Valley? Annie’s face popped into his head as clearly as if he were still sitting across the kitchen table from her.

The small upturned nose with its sprinkle of golden freckles. Eyebrows arched quizzically at him above her large, tawny eyes. She was all golden light, he realized, like the painting he’d been reminded of moments ago, only drawn in clear, strong lines. There was nothing delicate or ephemeral about Annie Collins.