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The single jar of honey she’d brought inside sat on the counter. Golden amber in the sunlight, it looked dark as maple syrup in the kitchen’s artificial light. She picked up the bottle and studied the fanciful carousel label. Finally she twisted the lid. It opened with the lightest pop.
She touched the honey with the tip of her index finger. Shut her eyes. Brought her finger to her lips.
All the summers of her childhood came flooding back. She tasted the faintest hint of cherry blossom; a dash of dandelion, clover, and strawberry; a whisper of honeysuckle and touch of sourwood, all the flavors clean and fresh as a June morning. She dipped her finger again and tasted the days of summer growing longer as the bees gravitated toward lavender patches and blackberry brambles, bringing a complexity to the flavor notes. Then August arrived with summer nearing its end. The honey became rich and buttery from thistle, sage, and alfalfa.
Her weariness faded, and for a moment she felt as if all life’s secrets clung to the tip of her finger.
THE NEXT MORNING, SHE COULDN’T get Toby out of bed, so she set to work alone. Her arms ached as she piled the old wheelbarrow with the brushes, rollers, rags, and paint cans she’d found in the storage shed. She maneuvered it awkwardly down the drive. The farm stand sat gray and weathered in the shade of a hundred-year-old oak. A sloping roof and rudimentary floor supported its three walls, and a pair of splintered shelves ran beneath a long wooden counter. With the exception of a small storage shed attached to the back, the whole thing could have fit inside her old kitchen pantry.
A blue Honda minivan whizzed by, followed by another just like it, both bearing families heading for the still-chilly waters of the south beach, the island’s best swimming locale. She made two more trips back to the house for tools, the temporary poster-board sign she’d painted, and a dozen jars of last summer’s honey. This year’s crop wouldn’t be ready for harvest until August. She hoped she’d be long gone by then, although she couldn’t imagine where. She stomped to wake Toby up and discovered a deserted bedroom.
Her spirits lifted when the first car stopped just as she was sticking her poster board sign in the ground. “It’s about time you opened up,” the woman said. “We finished our last jar of Myra’s honey a couple of weeks ago, and my arthritis is starting to flare up again.”
They bought two jars. Bree was giddy from her success, but her euphoria gradually faded when no one else stopped.
She filled the time sweeping away cobwebs and old bird nests and nailing loose boards back into place. Finally she was ready to open the first of two cans of exterior paint she’d found in the shed, a buttery yellow shade she suspected Myra had chosen for just this purpose. She’d never actually painted anything herself, but she’d watched painters work, and how hard could it be?
Harder than it looked, she discovered after several hours. She had a crick in her neck, a splinter in her hand, and a nasty gash in her leg. As she swiped her forehead with her arm, smearing herself with even more paint, she heard a car slow. She turned to see a late-model red Cadillac come to a stop. Her excitement at finally having a customer faded when she saw who it was.
“You putting any paint on the wood or is it all ending up on you?”
Mike’s obnoxious hardy-har-har laugh felt like fingernails on a chalkboard, and she snapped at him as he came toward her. “I’m doing fine.”
Instead of leaving, he inspected what she’d done. “Looks like you’re going to need more paint. The wood’s really soaking it up.”
Something she’d already noticed, but she didn’t have money to waste on more paint, and she hadn’t figured out what to do about it. He nudged one of the almost empty paint cans with the toe of an expensive cordovan loafer, then stepped away to examine the sagging shelf. “Why isn’t Toby helping you?”
“You’d have to ask him.” She dropped the paint roller into the tray, splattering even more yellow paint on her only decent pair of sandals.
“I just might. Where is he?”
If her resentment hadn’t gotten the best of her, she wouldn’t have answered. “Next door with his new best friend.”
“He should be helping you.” He chose a bottle of honey from the carton on the ground, tossed in a bill, and returned to his car with it.
As he drove off, she realized she was shaking. Just the sight of him flooded her with painful memories. Nothing in her life had ever really gone completely right since the night he’d spied on her with David.
Even though she left the rear of the farm stand untouched, she still ran out of paint. As she worked her brush around the bottom of the can, the Cadillac reappeared with a sullen Toby sitting next to Mike in the front seat. Mike rolled down the car’s window as Toby got out. “He forgot he was supposed to help you today.”
Toby’s angry door slam indicated he hadn’t forgotten anything.
Mike got out and walked around to the trunk. “Come on, boy. Grab these for me.”
Even though
Toby was only twelve, she didn’t like hearing him addressed that way. David had gotten fired from one of the charter boats when he’d confronted a customer who’d called him “boy.” But Toby obeyed Mike without protest. Was Toby afraid of him? She eyed the two cans of fresh paint Toby pulled from the car trunk. “What’s this?”
“You were running out.” Mike pulled a paint bucket, some brushes, and another paint roller from the trunk. “I got you some more. No big deal.”
Her muscles clenched. “I don’t want you buying me paint. I don’t want you buying me anything.”
He shrugged and turned to Toby. “Let’s get that opened up.”
“No,” she said. “The paint’s going back, along with everything else.”
Toby shot her a disgusted glare, grabbed the screwdriver she’d left in the dirt, and shoved it under the lip of the can.
“Toby, I mean it. Don’t open that—”
