I’ve done many crazy things in my lifetime. This one might take the cake.

     Despite a healthy instinct for self-preservation, I was marching directly toward danger. Blithely approaching potentially hostile combatants, all armed and ready. True, I was wearing armor that should protect me from their main weapons, but there were thousands of foes. 

     At least I wasn’t alone. My friend Greg Wright and his sister, Emily Zimmer, marched by my side.

     “Relax, Jackie.” Emily turned her head and smiled encouragingly at me through her own protective helmet. “It’ll be fine.”

     I drew in a deep breath as I continued to walk toward the confrontation, trying to slow down my racing heart rate. If Emily, who was barely five foot two—eight inches shorter than me—could lead the charge without a hint of worry, maybe I could summon a fraction of her bravery and follow suit. 

     Catching a glimpse of Greg keeping pace with us, video camera in hand, reminded me that everything was being captured for posterity. The last thing I wanted was to show fear on film. Steeling myself, I turned back to Emily. “You aren’t scared at all?”

     She shrugged one shoulder. “Scared? No. Cautious? Always.”

    Her answer should have been comforting. Instead, it only made me more aware of the hum of tension in the air, and the faint, foreboding buzz of something I couldn’t yet see, but knew was there.

    Though I hesitated to give voice to my biggest concern, I had to ask, “You sure the bees won’t sting us?”

    “The bees won’t sting unless they’re provoked. And I have my smoker. The smoke calms them.”

     “Why would smoke calm them?” I asked, wrinkling my brow. “Smoke in my face would upset me.” Greg chuckled, his camera steady as he kept pace with us, capturing every step as we approached the towering stacks of bee boxes, their quiet—for now—inhabitants waiting inside.

    Emily echoed his laugh. “Well, calm is the wrong word. When bees become alarmed, they release a pheromone to alert other bees. The smoke disguises the odor and disrupts their ability to communicate.”

    “So it’s more they aren’t able to spread the panic alarm?”

    “Exactly.”

    “And the smoke doesn’t harm them?” I asked, glancing nervously at the little puffs drifting from Emily’s small metal smoker. 

     She shook her head. “No. This smoke is made of safe materials—mostly dried pine needles, wood shavings, or burlap. Nothing harmful. And it’s not hot. In fact, I  test the smoke every single time by blowing it on my skin first, before I garb up.”                                      

     She lifted the smoker in her hand. That, plus a helmet and veil, were her only defense against the bees. I trailed behind her, shifting uncomfortably in my full-length bee suit. The mesh veil blurred the world slightly, casting everything in a soft haze that did nothing to calm my nerves.

    “Don’t worry, Jackie,” Emily said with another chuckle, probably noticing how I twitched at every buzz around us as we finally reached the first stack of boxes. She squeezed the smoker lightly, sending a soft plume over the hive entrance, the smoky scent mingling with the crisp winter air. Her voice carried a steadiness I hoped would settle the bees as much as it settled me. “The girls are usually more docile in the winter. They’re just huddling together for warmth.”

    Greg snuck in close to us, camera in hand, catching every moment. He gave me an encouraging nod, as if to say, You’re doing great. 

     I glanced over my shoulder to spot my brother, Daniel Norwood, leaning against     Emily’s pickup as he observed the scene, completely calm. Of course he was relaxed; he was over fifty feet away from us. His expression made it clear he was thanking his lucky stars it was me in the hot seat and not him.

    Not that it was actually hot. Emily had said they were having a “warm spell” for early December in southwestern Oklahoma. But as a California girl, temperatures in the mid-fifties were still chilly—at least, if I weren’t bundled up in a white beekeeper’s suit insulating me from both stings and the occasional brisk gust sweeping down the plain.

    Emily was more casually dressed, wearing a cream-colored sweater and jeans, along with the protective hat and veil. She lifted up a tool resembling a mini-crowbar and gently pried off the lid, giving the hive another light puff of smoke. I held my breath, ready to let out some choice words if the bees swarmed. Then I noticed the microphone clipped to my jacket—which reminded me to keep things clean…and engaging for my viewers. I quickly asked, “So, I haven’t seen many bees flying around right now. Do bees hibernate for the winter?”

    Emily shook her head. “Bees don’t really hibernate. They cluster together in order to preserve heat, while pumping their flight muscles to generate heat like a tiny furnace.”

    “So is it okay we’re opening up the hive now?” I asked. I was afraid of bees, but I also didn’t want to harm them. I liked food, and bees pollinated food, so I didn’t want them to freeze.

    Emily nodded. “I inspect the hives periodically during the winter to make sure the colonies are healthy, and they have enough food. I usually choose a warm day like today, at least over fifty, and I try to do it on a non-windy day. Thankfully, last night’s wind gusts have mostly calmed down.” She lifted the lid up, letting us, and the camera, see into the hive.

    Cluster was an accurate description as I checked out the large, undulating mass of bees squished together. Emily didn’t flinch, leaning in to inspect them with the same care you’d use to check on a sleeping baby. “They’re doing well,” she said softly, her voice calm and approving. “Keeping warm, huddling around their queen. Good for them.”

    The bees shifted, clustering closer together like a living, pulsing blanket. I couldn’t help but stare, caught between awe and terror at how fragile and dangerous they looked all at once. Emily gave the bees another light puff of smoke and eased the lid back down.

    I relaxed, just a little. Her calmness—punctuated by the rhythmic puffs of smoke—were contagious, and I tried to channel some of it. But it was hard to shake the feeling that at any moment, the buzzing would turn from soft to angry.

Emily turned to me with a gentle smile behind her veil. “See? They’re just like us, huddling together to stay warm through the winter. Nothing to be afraid of.”

    I nodded, feeling a flicker of relief, even managing a return smile. Maybe she was right.

    “Why don’t you check on the next colony?” Emily suggested, pointing to a light green tower of boxes about twenty feet away.

    My anxiety ramped up again.

    “You’ll be fine, Jackie,” Greg said. 

    Emily held out the long metal bar to me. “Take this. It’s called a hive tool.”

     “How did they ever come up with that name?” I asked, wielding sarcasm like a weapon. It would probably work better than this small bar.

    She laughed, a light and bright sound. “Not original, but I didn’t name it.” She gently laid her hands on my shoulder blades and aimed me at the hive. “Now, calmly approach the hive, then squeeze the hive tool between the crack and pry open the cover.”

    “And you promise they won’t swarm?” I know I had just seen her do it safely, but still. They knew her. I gingerly placed the bar in the seam.

    “They won’t swarm,” Emily said.

    I then glanced at Greg. “And I have to do this?”

    “This is solid footage, Jackie,” Greg said with a grin. “Your fans are gonna love it. Don’t be nervous.”

    I shot him a sideways glare. “Don’t be nervous while standing near a bunch of flying needles?”

    “Just say something for your fans. This will be for our first full-length video, with a holiday theme.”

    “Right. Because nothing says Christmas like bees.” I took a deep breath and pried open the box. After we checked on this set of bees—also healthy—I closed the box with relief. “This is Jackie Norwood, along with beekeeper Emily Zimmer, cameraman Greg Wright, and thousands of our buzzing friends, wishing everyone Happy Holidays and a Merry Christmas. Ho, ho, honey.”

***

    “So, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” Emily asked as we approached her pickup truck, a faded red relic that looked well-used and well-loved.

    Emily pulled off her protective helmet and veil, freeing her long, dark hair, which tumbled out in curls. I couldn’t help but notice it was just as unruly as her brother’s—though, if I were being honest, the look suited him better. I might have been biased.

As I wrestled with my headgear, Greg set down his camera and stepped in to help, his touch careful and his smile warm. No wonder I preferred his appearance. But when I took off my left glove, the ring on my fourth finger reminded me why I still had to wait. At least until the state of California said I was free. If Simon Levenson would ever agree to the divorce terms.

    I shook my head to clear my thoughts, sending my own hair flying. 

    Greg’s smile softened. “You don’t usually wear your hair down.” He started to reach out, his hand rising like he was tempted to touch it. At the last second, he seemed to change his mind, his hand shifting to adjust his glasses instead. The silver rims caught the Oklahoma morning sun, glinting briefly as he pushed them higher on his nose.

    “I couldn’t wear it up underneath the helmet,” I said, removing the hair tie I had looped around my wrist. “I’m so used to keeping it tied back in the kitchen. Having it down feels downright wrong.” With a quick twist, I gathered my hair and secured it, instantly feeling more like myself.

    Daniel smirked, leaning against the truck. “Well, at least she’s graduated from when she’d wear her hair in two braids like Wednesday from the Addams Family. If Wednesday had blond hair instead of black, that is.”

Since Daniel was already reminding me of our childhood, I stuck my tongue out at him. “Thank God I’ve progressed. You, on the other hand, still look the same.” Well, other than the fact he was taller now, his once-skinny frame filled out with broad shoulders and an annoyingly athletic build. His dark hair, perpetually messy, still gave him that mischievous “I didn’t do it” look he’d perfected as the younger brother. The only real difference was the laugh lines starting to crease around his brown eyes.

    I instinctively reached up to smooth my own skin. Two years older than him—was I already starting to have wrinkles? Hopefully, my lifelong dedication to sunscreen, born out of my tendency to burn at the mere suggestion of sunlight, would keep them at bay.

    Emily grabbed the protective gear from my hands and tossed it into the bed of her truck, where it landed among her already-scattered equipment. “Ready to see some more?”

    Greg, who hadn’t yet taken off his protective suit, shook his head. “Let me grab the tripod from the field and take some footage of bees going in and out of the hive for my B-roll.”

    “Ha,” I said with a chuckle, “you’re getting B-roll of bees.”

    Emily raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled. As Greg wandered over to film the hives and retrieve his second camera, I filled her in. “B-roll is the extra footage that adds flavor to a video—like cutaways, close-ups, or scenic shots. It’s not the main action, but it helps set the mood or fill in gaps. Greg’s probably going to mix in some of this with the shots of us opening the hives, and some wide shots from the second camera, and make it all look smooth and polished.”

    Greg returned a few minutes later, quickly and efficiently packing up his camera equipment. He gave his sister a quick nod. “Okay, all set. Let’s move out.”

    “I call shotgun,” Daniel called out, opening up the front passenger side door. Twenty-eight, and he was still playing those games. Since that put me in the back seat with Greg, I didn’t complain. 

    “How many hives do you have?” I asked as we drove off the field and onto the road. “Oh wait, you called them colonies.”

    “The hive is the structure housing the bees,” Emily clarified. “A colony is a group of bees inside the hive. Most people use the terms interchangeably. And A to Z Apiary boasts over two hundred colonies now,” she said, her voice brimming with pride.

    “She started with just three,” Greg added, his tone warmer and prouder still, “and grew it year by year into what it is today.”

    She flashed him a grin in the mirror. “Fortunately, Nick helps me with that as well, in addition to his work on our farm.”

    I had met her husband Nick the night before, although I had yet to meet Parker, their three-year-old daughter. 

    We checked out some more hives, which went smoothly, and then got back on the road. I scanned the sprawling fields and spotted a cluster of cows grazing in the distance, far from the road. “You said you have two hundred hives? Do you own all this land? And the cows?”

    Her smile faded. Beside me, I noticed Greg tense up. Whoops, what had I stepped in?

     Emily straightened her posture, her expression carefully neutral. “Most of the land belongs to Bruce Armistead, my ex-husband. It’s part of his ranch.”

     Ah. So that’s what I had stumbled into. Oops.

    “However,” she went on, her tone steady, “as part of the divorce settlement, I was awarded forty acres, including the barn where I have all my extractor equipment, and the land where I’d already established hives. In return, he maintained a stake in my business. But let’s not talk about him right now. He and I are in the middle of a big disagreement.”

    I figured it was a good time to steer the conversation in a different direction. “So we’ve only checked twenty of the two hundred hives so far, right? I was kind of hoping we’d skip to the part where I get to eat the honey. If I’m here to judge events at your honey festival, I should get to try the honey. Daniel, you need to write that into my food festival contracts from now on. I get to taste the food before having to do any work.”

     Emily laughed, then suddenly veered onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires, before whipping the truck into a sharp U-turn. “We can do that. Let’s head back to the barn.”

    The centrifugal force threw me against Greg, his grin widening as I leaned into him. For a split second, I let myself enjoy the warmth radiating from his shoulder against mine. But then my gaze drifted to the glint of my wedding ring. Exhaling, I eased back, creating just a hint of distance. 

    It didn’t take long before we turned down a winding gravel path onto Emily’s forty acres. A handful of buildings dotted the land, framed against the blue Oklahoma sky. The main house sat at the top of a slight hill, overlooking the rest of the property. The spacious farmhouse was painted a soft, sunshiny yellow, with a wraparound porch that probably saw its share of early-morning coffee and sunrise views. It looked welcoming and new. 

    At the front of the expansive property sat a smaller house Greg had referred to as the guesthouse—a compact, older version of the main home. Daniel and I were staying there for now, with plans to be joined later in the week by our friends who were also coming for the honey festival.

    But the real attention-grabber was the barn just behind it. Like the main house, it was new and painted yellow, and from the hive-shaped sign above the doors, I figured this was the heart of Emily’s honey operation.

    Emily laughed, nodding toward the barn. “There it is, Jackie—what you asked for. All the honey you can eat. But don’t think you’re getting out of work. Once we’re done tasting, we’ve got more hives to check.” 

    I followed her up the path to honey goodness.

    Inside the barn, I half expected to be hit with the rich, sweet smell of honey—but then remembered it was December, and honey processing had happened months ago.

    The barn was impressively clean, with a few industrial-sized honey extractors lined up along one side and shelves stacked with empty jars.

    “Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “It’s like a honey lab in here.”

     Emily chuckled, crossing her arms as she leaned back against one of the worktables. “Keeps things organized. And this way, I can get everything processed on-site.”

    I nodded, running a hand over the smooth surface of one of the extractors. “I can’t wait to try the honey.”

    “Follow me.”

     We headed to another section of the barn. It had the charm of a winery’s tasting room, complete with a wooden table surrounded by six chairs. I perked up when I saw the neatly arranged shelf displaying an array of honey jars, each one promising a taste of liquid gold. I noticed Greg positioning two tripods, angling the cameras perfectly to capture every moment of the tasting.

    Behind the table stood Nick Zimmer, Emily’s husband. While organizing the honey jars with one hand, he cradled Parker, their three-year-old daughter, in one arm. While I had met Nick the night before, Parker had been asleep when we’d arrived, much to Greg’s disappointment.

    And then Emily had roused us at an ungodly hour to get out the door—an hour that felt even more brutal to me since Oklahoma time ran two hours ahead of California. 

    Nick turned around, catching sight of us. A smile spread across his striking face. His dark hair was pulled back neatly at the nape of his neck, accentuating his sharp cheekbones and strong jawline. His deep brown eyes held a quiet intensity, and his skin carried the warm, sun-kissed tone of his Comanche heritage. Parker clung to him, her lighter complexion a softer echo of his. Her dark curls framed a round, curious face, and she peeked out shyly from the safety of her father’s embrace.

    “Emily,” Nick said warmly, his voice carrying an easy affection. At the same moment, the little girl’s face lit up as she cried, “Mommy!” Her small arms stretched eagerly toward Emily, her whole body leaning toward her mother in anticipation.

     Emily stepped forward to take her daughter, seamlessly transferring her from Nick’s arms to her own. “Were you a good girl, Parker?” 

    “Uh-huh. Helped Daddy.”

    “She did,” her father confirmed. “She carried the spoons while I got the jars of honey.” He turned toward me. “So, how was it meeting the bees?” 

     “Better than I expected. I can’t believe how easily Emily does it. Your mommy is very brave,” I told Parker.

    Parker peeked at me, then waved a tiny hand. “Yeah!” she said, nodding emphatically. “And she make yummy honey.”

    “What a good saleswoman you are,” Greg said, reaching out to take his niece. She ea gerly jumped into his arms. “Parker, let me introduce you to my friends. This is Ms. Jackie, she used to be on television on the Gourmet Channel.”

    “And your uncle still works for the Gourmet Channel,” Nick explained. “We’ve watched some of his shows.”

    Her eyes were wide. “You on TV?”

    “I’m behind the camera on the shows I work on,” Greg said. “Jackie was in front of it, on a show called Dinners, Drinks, and Decadence.”

     Parker’s brow wrinkled in confusion, and Greg hurried to explain. “Decadence means something super fancy and extra special—like the best chocolate cake with lots of frosting.”

    “Uh-huh,” Parker replied. Then she crinkled her face again. “Drinks? Milk? Lemolade?”

    “Those would have been better than the ones I drank,” I said, forcing a smile. The truth was, the drinks had been my downfall. I’d leaned far too heavily into the “drinks” part, and the resulting alcoholism had cost me my show, my restaurant, and many other things.

     But now I was sober and determined to rebuild.

     “And this is her brother Mr. Daniel,” Greg continued, lifting her up higher so she could better see my six-foot-two brother. 

     “Hi Parker!” Daniel said. “That’s a pretty name.” He glanced over at her parents.       

     “Was she named after Parker Stevenson? He played Frank Hardy on the 1970s Hardy Boys show.” Although Daniel hadn’t even been thought of in the 1970s, as a huge mystery fan—and hopeful mystery author—he loved everything about the Hardy Boys mysteries.

    Nick shook his head. “No. She’s named after Quanah Parker. He was a great Comanche leader. And one of my ancestors, known for his bravery and wisdom.”

    “Nick takes after him,” Emily said as she stepped behind the counter. “Being both brave and wise to marry me.” 

    “Best choice I ever made,” Nick confirmed. 

     She winked at him, then folded her hands in a way that somehow made honey tasting feel as serious as wine tasting. “Okay, are we ready to taste honey? Honey might all look similar, but each type has its unique flavor, texture, and even aftertaste. This isn’t just about tasting sweet—try to pick up on the floral notes, the earthy undertones.” 

    It really did feel like wine tasting.

    Parker, in Greg’s arms, was already leaning eagerly toward the table, her eyes wide with excitement. He gently set her down on one of the stools, keeping a protective arm around her as he settled onto his own. I caught Daniel’s eye and couldn’t help but chuckle at the eager expression spreading across my brother’s face as he took his seat. Daniel’s sweet tooth was practically legendary, and this was clearly his kind of scene.

    “I do want to try the honey,” I said. “But before that, can you remind us of the schedule for the rest of the week?”

    She nodded. “The rest of today is for inspecting the colonies. Tomorrow, we’ll head into town to set up the hall at the First Baptist Church. They have the biggest hall in town, but they always have something going on Friday morning. So we can’t set up until the late afternoon. The vendors will be setting up in the evening.” She pulled out a flyer with bold, cheerful lettering across the top stating Haymes Honey Festivaland pointed at the schedule of events. “The festival kicks off Saturday at nine a.m. and runs until five. There will be a Baby Bumblebee contest first thing, but you don’t have to judge that.”

    “I’m glad. I know food, but I don’t know anything about babies.” I nodded toward Parker. “Other than this one is a cute one.”

    “Not a baby,” Parker protested.

    “You’re not,” Emily agreed. “But you were cute enough to win two years ago. Anyway, Jackie, you don’t have anything until two p.m., with the Bee-Totaler Punch competition—non-alcoholic drinks made with honey. I thought it would be a great fit for you, considering your...situation,” she said delicately. “We’ve also got the local Catholic priest and the Presbyterian pastor judging since those churches don’t have anyone competing this year.”

    “I loved the idea of the Bee-Totaler competition when you told me about it,” I said, remembering. “Especially the name—so clever.”

    Nick chimed in. “It started as a fun little contest at one of the Baptist churches. Friends from other congregations heard about it and wanted to join in, so it grew into a family-friendly activity. The local bars got in on it as well. Each year, the winning drink is served free to all designated drivers. And the contest was one of the ideas that inspired the Haymes Honey Festival three years ago.”

    “That…and the Minco Honey Festival,” Emily added. “Minco, Oklahoma is about an hour and a half away from here. They’ve been holding their honey festival for over thirty years on the first weekend of December. That’s why we chose to do ours on the second weekend.”

    “Makes sense,” I said, reading the program. “So, Saturday has the Bee-Totaler competition and the savory foods judging at four p.m.”

    “That’s right,” Emily said. “Then on Sunday, it’s a shorter schedule. We start with the sweets contest at eight a.m. and end the day at noon.”

    “So early?” I groaned.

    Emily chuckled. “That way, people still have time to make it to church if they want.” She hesitated, looking a little sheepish. “I wish I could have scheduled you for a cooking demonstration like you’ve done at the other festivals, but this is my first year running the event, and Frances, the previous organizer, wasn’t exactly thrilled with some of my changes.”

    “You’ve been doing a great job,” Nick said with an edge to his voice. “Frances needs to chill.”

    Emily beamed at him. “Thank you, honey.”

    “And talking about honey.” I slapped my hands on the table. “Let’s taste.”

Emily gestured to jars lined up on the table. “We’re going to try three different types of honey: clover, wildflower, and blueberry. Each one has a slightly different flavor profile. Of course, I should mention that we can’t guarantee the honey is exclusively from those plants. While we do have to collect the honey right after the flowers bloom so that it’s the only nectar available, bees aren’t exactly great at following instructions.”

    “Which one are we trying first?” Daniel asked.

     “We’ll try the—wait!” She paused, looking at me. She spun the jars around so we couldn’t see the labels. “Close your eyes.”

    I obeyed, listening to the sound of jars rapidly sliding around the table.

    “Okay, you can open your eyes. Let’s play a game. I’ll let you try each honey without telling you what it is. You can guess after you taste it. Start by appreciating the aroma. Then when you put it in your mouth, leave it on your tongue and let it sit there for a moment. The flavors will change.” She dipped spoons in the jar, careful not to show the label, and doled them out. 

    I noticed Parker skipped right past the advice to savor the aroma and went straight for the good part, popping the spoon into her mouth without hesitation.     The rest of us tried to follow Emily’s advice. I inhaled deeply, tilting the spoon slightly to watch the light-amber-colored honey flow lazily. Finally, I tasted it. She was right, the flavors did change as I held it in my mouth. “In terms of aroma, I first smelled the sweetness and maybe a slight odor of grass. Once I tried it, I initially got a sweet, buttery flavor. Almost caramel. Then at the end, there was a hint of flower.” 

    “Do you think it’s wildflower?” Daniel asked. 

    I shook my head. “I think it’s the clover.”   

    Emily raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment. “Exactly. Clover honey is known for its mild taste. This means it can be used in any preparation. It’s also the honey we produce the most of, since so many of our hives are near cattle-grazing fields.” Her expression shifted slightly, a shadow crossing her face, and I realized she was probably thinking about her ex. 

    Nick quietly reached for the next jar, opening it and holding it out to her with a small smile. Her eyes lit up as she took it, her smile returning.

    “It was delicious,” Daniel said. “Parker and I are ready for the next one now.” 

    The little girl nodded her agreement enthusiastically. “Yeah!” She held out her tasting spoon and tapped it to Daniel’s before Emily disposed of the used cutlery.

     Emily gave us the next spoonful. Parker made a thoughtful face, tapping her chin with a sticky finger. “Tastes like sunshine,” she said earnestly. “Yummy sunshine.”

    Emily laughed. “I like that, Parker. It is a golden, sunshiny color.”

    While I couldn’t beat Parker’s description, I tried my best. “This one’s brighter, almost floral, with a little more complexity than the clover honey.” Since I figured the blueberry one would be tarter, I hazarded another guess. “Wildflower.”

    Nodding, Emily started spooning out the next honey. “You’re good. Wildflower honey is also interesting, since it depends on what flowers the bees used. The flavor profile will be different between colonies, between years, even between jars. I grow a huge variety of flowers in the back twenty acres of our farm. So for the next one—”

     “I know, I know. It’s blueberry,” Daniel blurted out.

     “How could you ever guess?” Emily asked, shaking her head as she exchanged looks with me. “Little brothers.”

     I smiled at her but didn’t want to dwell too much on age differences. While Daniel was two years younger than me, I believed Greg was six years younger than Emily. Which made Greg four years younger than me.

    Emily passed out the spoons of blueberry honey. “As Daniel so cleverly figured out, the last one is blueberry honey, coming from bees that are next to our blueberry bushes.”

    “Me love blueberries,” Parker declared proudly.

     “I love blueberries,” Nick gently corrected her.

    “Me too!” Parker replied. “Me love blueberries.”

     I almost choked on the honey as I held back a laugh. After waiting for the flavors to settle, I nodded in satisfaction. “I was right. There is a tartness, or a tang, at the end. It’s a nice counterpoint to the sweetness.”

    “Exactly,” Emily said. “Greg wasn’t exaggerating—you really are as qualified a food judge as he claimed.” She grinned slyly. “And just as cute as he said, too.”

    I couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter as Greg’s face turned red. 

    He tried to deflect attention, pointing at his niece. “Parker’s getting a sugar rush. She’ll be bouncing off the walls soon.”

    Emily turned to place the jars back in their exact spots on the shelf, her movements precise. Then she spun around with a decisive snap. “Perfect! We’ll leave her with you while Jackie and I check out more of the hives. I could use some girl time with her anyway.”

    After a quick lunch, we were rumbling down a narrow dirt road, past fields stretching endlessly, a quilt of bare soil and faded gold under a pale winter sky. With no hills or trees to block the view, I could see for miles. Worried she’d start asking me about my intentions with her brother, I desperately searched for something to talk about.

    “So, you’ve got a jerk for an ex-husband, do you?” Okay, I chose a bad topic, but I was desperate. “Me too. Well, I would, if he’d ever agree to the divorce. Simon keeps thinking I have money hidden somewhere. But rehab wasn’t cheap, although it was a total lifesaver and a total life changer.”

    “Yeah, Greg mentioned that,” she said demurely, confirming her brother had probably told her all about me.

    “He hadn’t mentioned your ex, though,” I said. “It’s got to be hard to share a business with him. What happened between you, if I may ask?”

    She rolled her eyes, but not with actual rancor. “Oh, the typical thing. We married way too young. I was eighteen actually, right out of high school. He was older, domineering, and I was naïve. He thought I should be a good wife and stay on the ranch. But I was bored. Even after his father died and we moved into the larger ranch house, I was still bored. I wanted to take college courses, but he didn’t approve. He was happier when I started working with the bees, at least at first. But when it actually grew and started making money, he resented it.”

    “I don’t get guys like that,” I said. “The ones intimidated by a smart woman.”

    “Yeah. But I didn’t see it that way. Not then. I thought he was proud and wanted to provide for the family. Still, it didn’t stop me from working hard on the business. Then he claimed I was neglecting him. Which meant he felt totally fine cheating on me.”

    “Yeah. I’ve heard that line before,” I said, thinking of Simon.

    We stopped to pull over and check on a set of six colonies. This time, I wasn’t as nervous. Not just because I was getting used to the bees, but because my attention was wrapped up in Emily’s story.

    Once back on the road, Emily continued. “We were married for eight years. Eight years of me bending over backward, trying to be everything he needed. And for what? So he could cheat on me with Crystal Rose Rodgers.”

    “I don’t even know her, and I don’t like her,” I stated.

     “Oh trust me, you’ve chosen wisely. Crystal Rose was married, too, not that she cared any more than Bruce did. But her husband was a really good guy. The kind you don’t screw over unless you’re the absolute worst.”

    “Did he find out about the cheating?”

    “Yeah,” she sighed. “I was the one to tell him. Honestly, he didn’t look all that surprised; he probably knew what she had been up to. And I think he would have kept forgiving her.”

    She glanced at me briefly, then back at the road. “You ever look back on your life and realize you’ve been monumentally stupid?”

    “All the time,” I admitted. “I totally get that.”

    “Well, that was me. Stupid enough to ignore all the red flags. But Crystal Rose? She was my wake-up call. I took one good look at myself in the mirror and thought,     ‘What the heck am I doing?’ So, I finally got smart and filed for divorce.”

    “How did Bruce react to that?” I asked.

    She snorted. “At first, he tried to talk his way out of it. Said it wasn’t a big deal, and it didn’t mean anything.” She shook her head. “But I knew better. When he finally realized I was serious, he actually granted me the divorce quickly, with very little fuss.”

    “I envy you for that,” I said.

    “I’d say it was one of the first times he did the right thing, but I think it had more to do with Crystal Rose than me. She left her husband and moved in with him before the ink was dry on the divorce settlement.”

    “Did they end up married?” I asked.

    She shook her head as she aimed the truck toward our next stopping point. “No. Not sure whether that is his choice or hers.”

    “How long ago was that?”

    “Six years. Definitely a hard lesson to learn, and one I wish I’d figured out a lot sooner.” 

    I thought back to my marriage to Simon, and more importantly, on the time I had spent drinking. “Again, I get that.”

    After another interruption to our discussion by a bee health check, I slid off the protective gear and threw it in the bed of the truck.

    “So, what is the disagreement you and Bruce are having now?”

    Emily’s face tightened. For the first time, she looked angry rather than annoyed.  “Bruce wants to send all of our colonies to California for the winter.”

    I furrowed my brow. “For a bee vacation?” After taking another second to think about it, I realized the probable truth. “Oh, for pollination purposes?”

    “Yes. For the almond industry. He’s convinced we’d make a fortune renting out the colonies, but I won’t do that to them.” She glanced at me, frown deepening. “Too many stressors out there—overcrowding, pesticides. It’s risky. Bees can get sick; some never come back. Plus, even if I were to agree to do this, I’d only send my healthiest colonies. He wanted to send all of them.”

    “He doesn’t care about the bees?” I asked.

    “No,” Emily said with a shake of her head. “He never cared about the bees; not as living beings.”

    “And he still gets a say in the business?”

    “Unfortunately, yes. The judge awarded him thirty percent of the profits, in exchange for the barn, the colonies, and a guaranteed spot for all my hives. I also kept the house we lived in when we were first married. And fortunately, that’s on the opposite side of the property from his house.”

    “That must have been tough, staying in that house,” I said.

    “It was,” Emily admitted. “That’s why, when Nick and I got married, we built a new house and turned the old one into the guesthouse. I hope you’ve found it comfortable.”

    “Very,” I said. “Not even a hint of bad juju from your ex lingering around.”

     Emily laughed. “That’s good. And now, we have a place for Greg’s friends. Who all are coming again?”

    “Let’s see, Marshall Montclair is coming tomorrow. He’s also a chef and a Gourmet Channel star. In fact, he’s been filming about an hour away for his new show Small Towns, Big Flavor. Be warned, Marshall comes with puns. Lots of puns. Also tomorrow, Benjy Hayes, another chef, is going to try to come up from Houston. He’s not sure if he can make it, so he said he’d get a hotel if he did.”

     “He’s an ex-boyfriend, right?” Emily asked, keeping her eyes on the road. I figured Greg must’ve filled her in about Benjy, someone he clearly saw as his competition.

    “He is, yeah. We dated in culinary school, but then someone deliberately broke us up under false pretenses. We only found out the truth in May, at the crab festival. Greg probably told you about what happened there, right?”

    Emily nodded. “Crazy stuff. It seems crazy stuff keeps happening at all of your festivals. This one should be pretty boring. Nothing ever happens in Haymes.”

    “That’s good—I could use a break from drama. Speaking of which, I’m hoping my friend Skylar Brooks can make it to the festival on Saturday. She’s not the source of drama, but her parents might be, especially after the dangerous situation we got into in Washington state. Skylar’s only seventeen, and her parents are overprotective. She wants to be a chef, but they actively discourage her. I’m not sure if it’s because of her autism—which absolutely shouldn’t hold her back—or if it’s just because they’re wealthy and pushing for a ‘respectable’ white-collar career. Honestly, either reason is irritating.”

    “I disagree with them discouraging her from doing what she wants,” Emily said. “I know I’m not in their shoes, but I feel like you shouldn’t limit a child’s potential like that, regardless of the reason.”

     “Agreed. Still, I hope Skylar will be at the festival, but she’ll be getting a hotel room for her and her tutor. Also getting a hotel room is April Yao. April is my AA sponsor—Alcoholics Anonymous, that is. She’s also a chef and owner of very successful Taiwanese restaurants in San Francisco’s Chinatown. And she’s working with Benjy Hayes to turn his restaurant into a chain.”

     “So…” Emily’s smile got slyer. “Once the divorce is final, do you think you’d be interested in dating Benjy again? Or is there anyone else you’d be interested in dating?” 

     I was spared having to answer her obvious matchmaking attempt with her brother by her exclamation of surprise. I followed her gaze through the dirty windshield and saw a lone rental box truck awkwardly parked, half blocking the road, near another group of hives. The back door of the rental truck yawned open, revealing an empty storage bay ready to receive anything brought up the metal ramp, which was extended to the ground.

    “What’s a box truck doing—Bruce,” she hissed, a mix of shock and anger flashing across her face. “That absolute snake.” She quickly threw in a few more phrases that made me glad her daughter wasn’t around to hear. “He must be moving my bees!”

Before I could even register what she’d said, she had the truck in park and was halfway out the door. I scrambled to keep up as she stormed toward the moving truck.

     “Emily, wait!” I called after her as I slid out of the pickup. Not that it mattered—she was on a mission, and nothing short of a cattle prod was going to stop her. I hurried to catch up to her.

    Then, halfway to the cab, she froze. “Oh no. Oh no. Bruce!”

    I followed her gaze and saw it—a figure slumped on the ground by the open driver’s side door. I was guessing it was her ex-husband, but he was lying there like he’d just taken a nap on a bed of gravel. Only, no one naps like that.