Page 8 of Echoes of a Southern Song

He sets the jars on the counter with a clink, their golden contents glowing in the sunlight. The labels are handmade, as always—Dad’s messy scrawl declaring Parker’s Wildflower Honey - Summer Batch.

I sink into a chair at the table. “Looks amazing.”

Dad beams, popping the lid off one jar and pushing it toward me. He hands me a spoon. “Taste.”

I scoop just a tiny bit. Honey is not one of those things anyone can eat by the spoonfuls. The honey is rich, floral, with a hint of something earthy. “Wow.”

“Right?” Dad’s practically vibrating with excitement. “The bees have been loving those new lavender plants. I’m thinking of expanding the field. I’ve been doing some research about some of the other flowers the bees love.”

I sit there, spoon in hand, watching Dad as he launches into a full-blown lecture about bees. His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. He’s pacing, gesturing wildly with his hands. Mom’s still weaving her lopsided basket, but she’s got this soft smile on her face, like this is her favorite show.

“So, I started researching bee behavior— Did you know bees can recognize human faces? They’re like little detectives with wings!” Dad’s voice rises as he talks. I can’t help but snort into my spoon. He doesn’t even notice. “And their dance language? Absolutely fascinating. They wiggle their butts to tell the other bees where the good flowers are. It’s like a tiny bee rave out there!”

I glance at Mom, who’s biting her lip to keep from laughing.

“Bee rave?” I repeat.

She shrugs and keeps weaving.

Dad continues, completely oblivious to the fact I think he’s just a little crazy. “And the honey! Jinnie, this batch is special. The lavender gives it this floral note, but then there’s this underlying richness from the wildflowers. People are going to love this!”

“Before you start planning a bee nightclub, I’ve been thinking,” Mom says with that sparkle in her eyes that says she’s got her own wild idea. “What if we start selling these at the farmer’s market?” She holds up her basket, tilting it like she’s inspecting it for quality. “People love handmade things. We could pair them with the honey—buy a jar, get a basket. Or add them to the produce stand. Something unique to draw people in.”

Dad pauses mid-gesture, his brow furrowing as he considers it. “Baskets and honey... That could work. It’s got a folksy charm.”

I grimace. My parents get very, very excited about the things they do with their own two hands. Sometimes their ideas are amazing. Other times, they need me to help bring them back to reality in the gentlest way possible. “Mom, no offense, but your basket looks like it was made by a drunk raccoon.”

Mom laughs. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, dear. But that’s why I’m practicing. I’ll get better. And even if they’re not perfect, people appreciate the effort.” She smooths a stray reed back into place. “It’s about the story behind it. Handmade by a local beekeeper’s wife—doesn’t that sound exciting?”

Then it starts. They feed off each other’s energy. They’re going back and forth about how they can expand on the idea of baskets and honey.

I try to listen, but it’s hard when my mind is thinking about Sam. Not Sam, but the lack of the annulment. Maybe I should have told my parents about the marriage so they could have helped me with the lawyer.

But I don’t want to lay that on them. Besides, the last thing they need to be doing is giving me money. Or loaning it. They are comfortable but don’t have huge savings because they’ve been focused on doing what they love. They make enough to get by and that’s enough for them. They don’t care if they ever become rich. They just want to work the land and do their crafts.

It’s better if I just handle things myself. Jack is helping me, so that’s a good thing. He’s a shoulder to lean on.

Unless he leaves.

That thought makes my heart race.

“David,” Mom interrupts gently, nodding toward me.

Dad’s smile falters as he really looks at me. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Just tired.” I take another nibble of honey. “Long morning.”

They exchange a glance—that silent parental communication I’ve never quite mastered.

Mom sets aside her basket. “Everything okay with the bakery?”

“Bakery’s fine.”

“With Jack?” Dad asks, too casual.

My face heats. “Jack’s fine too.”

Another glance between them. They don’t push, though. Just let the silence stretch while I lick honey from the spoon.