“It’s not gonna fly here,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.Ireeled back.
“What won’t fly?”
“Carelessness,” she spat.
“Jesus,”Isaid, throwing my arms up in defeat. “Youhave one drunken encounter at a festival thousands of miles away, and you never live it down.”
“Yeah, well, you literally cost me my job.Andit’s not like it was a complete accident.Youwere in an off-limits area.Yourflagrant disregard for the rules got me fired, cost the bar a lot of money, and could have seriously hurt someone.”
“IfIrecall correctly,”Isaid, stepping forward, knowingIdamn well did recall correctly given how many timesI’dreplayed the day in my mind, “you were breaking the rules, too, not using a trolley.Soyou were just as responsible asIwas for what happened.Andbesides,I’mnot the one who lost her shit over it in public.”
Teddy stepped forward, too, until we were just inches from one another.Hermouth was at my eye level, andIwatched as the corner of her lip twitched downward in rage.
“That job is mine,” she whispered. “Ifanyone is getting a permanent job atGwenynen, it’s me.”
My expression dropped into one of confusion.Didn’tshe already work forGwenynen?Iknew she was only here half the year, but hadJenbrought me on full time over her own niece?
I didn’t have a chance to ask any of the questions swirling through my mind, though, becauseIheard the back door open again, andJenwalked in, asking if soya milk was okay.Teddyimmediately took a step back, an empty smile appearing on her face in place of the scowl she’d worn just a moment ago.
“Yes, that’s great, thanks,”Isaid, not looking away fromTeddy.Iwatched her eyes as she watched me back; the scrutiny didn’t go away, even if the frown had.Thenshe turned and walked back out of the room,Willowstill in perfect heel behind her.
Chapter6
Teddy
IfIhad a single talent in life, it was compartmentalising.TeddytheHorticulturist,TeddytheLoyalNiece,TeddytheDog’sBestFriend;Icould rotate them on a dime, keep theanxieties quarantined, and pretend one didn’t exist while the other ran the show.So, after the train wreck ofChloe’sreintroduction into my life, in the three daysIhad until she came back onThursday,Iintended to letTeddytheRelentlessFarmhandtake over.
Which was handy, becauseAprilon the farm was a crisis of work.Therewere hives to inspect, seedlings and saplings to plant, compost to spread, more seeds to start, and half the orchard to prune.IfIlooked at the to-do list for too long,Iwas pretty sureI’dhave an aneurysm.
The nice thing about bees was that they simply didn’t care about my issues.Opena hive, andIentered their reality: drones and queens, hunger and rain, every problem solvable with hard work, and every threat life-or-death.Itreally put my own non-problems into perspective.Firstlight,Iwas out there in my veil, smoke canister in one hand and hive tool in the other.Willowcame, too, but she’d learned to keep her distance, ever since the time she’d gotten too curious and discovered just how defensive bees could be.
The hives had overwintered better than expected, thanks to a mild season.Ichecked each frame for brood pattern– tight and uniform, just how we wanted it– then for honey stores, queen presence, and any sign of the telltale varroa mites that, if left unchecked, would slaughter the whole colony by autumn.Hivethree was a particular troublemaker: too many queen cells, with workers clustering around the entrance like they were plotting a coup.Imade a note in the battered logbook to make a split later, then scraped away a bit of burr comb, saving it for the soapsI’dstarted making from excess beeswax.
I didn’t mind the repetition.Everyframe was a nuanced little ecosystem; its own puzzle to solve.AndIpreferred the tedium to a crisis, given that crises now could have downstream impacts on harvesting, mead production, and the viability of the farm.
By mid-morning,I’dfinished with the apiaries for the day and was halfway through mending the gate that kept the sheep in the next field from eating our blueberry canes.Rainmoved in by lunchtime– a persistent, sullen drizzle– soIducked into the warehouse to work on the soap.
The soap was supposed to have been my little side project last season, but it had mutated into a fixation, andI’dlet myself get even more excited about it over winter, stuck thousands of miles away in my van.I’dused honey and wax from our own hives, scented with whatever herbs we had available: rosemary, lavender, and sometimes thyme, ifIwas feeling wild.Thisbatch used vanilla.Thebasic recipe was easy: fat, lye, liquid, and a little heat.Therewas satisfaction in the monotony of measure, mix, pour, wait.Theafternoon’s only interruptions wereWillowperiodically sighing at the door and the occasional ping of my phone– usually a reminder fromJento take breaks.Inever got any other messages, except maybe from my dad, thoughI’dheard from him precious little sinceI’darrived.
I also didn’t get any messages fromChloe, which was a relief;Jenhad apparently committed me to participating in some “content creation” efforts, but clearlyChloehadn’t worked up the nerve to break the seal, which suited me fine.ThelessIthought aboutChloe, the better.
But every timeIlet my guard down, there she was; or, at least, the memory of her.Theway her hair had tumbled over her shoulder as she’d turned to face me.Theway she’d confidently held out her hand, as if she’d been genuinely glad to see me.
I poured the last of this batch of soap into silicone moulds, wiped down the counters, then got to work on labels.Jenhad mocked up a few designs, but they were all too … well, twee.Myaesthetic ran more modern and minimalist, while hers was more “just found out aboutWordArt”, which was ironic, sinceJenwas the artist.
That gave me an idea, actually.
I ran to her studio, having to push a stack of canvases aside just to get in, and found one of her works in progress, which was currently nothing more than a goldenrod-coloured smear of watercolour across a canvas.Itook a picture of it with my phone and then sent it to my computer, whereIopened it in the graphic design appIsometimes used for event materials.Iisolated the colour from the painting, then layered over the simple serif font from theGwenynenlogo, listing everything we needed to include on the labels– ingredients, weight, etc.Theresulting label looked much more sophisticated than whatJenhad mocked up, but still undeniably like it was ours.Isent it to the printer, which started juddering away in the corner of the studio, andIdreamed of the dayIcould order professionally printed labels once the soaps were approved for sale.
By the time the sky cleared enough for a pre-dinner walk, my arms were dusted with dried wax, and my brain was as close to empty as it ever got.Iopened the door forWillowand headed for the orchard.Sheshot off, nose to the ground, beelining for something in the hedgerow.Mostof the trees in the orchard were still in bud, ready to explode into white and pink the second the sun held for more than an hour.
AsIsucked in the country air, filling my lungs, it caught in my throat.I’dkept the ache at bay all day, but the momentIhad space to breathe, it crept up and took root in my chest.
No matter how successfullyIignored it,Chloebeing here changed everything.I’dhalf convinced myself that this was the yearIwouldn’t have to leave; the yearI’dstop packing up my life every six months.TheyearI’dget to see the farmhouse covered in snow, and helpJenandMaggieclear ice from the drive.TheyearIcould start callingGwenynenmy home and mean it– not just fifty per cent, but one hundred.Instead, hiringChloehad set us back months, if not years if she stayed on long-term.So, where did that leave me?WasIstupid to think there was a future for me atGwenynenat all?
Just asIfelt myself getting worked up– my breath shallow, my cheeks hot, my chin wobbly–Isaw a flash of orange among the apple trees.Ileaned to one side to seeMaggie, in a hi-vis jacket, bend over double and start hacking away at a root ball with a mattock.
Willow bounded over, with no regard for the sharp implement being bandied about, and started lickingMaggie’sface.Shestood up, stretching to her full six-foot height, and my quivering lip curved into a smile.Boy, was she a sight for sore eyes.
