Like Honey (4 page)

G
ray swung his bag into the bed of his truck. All of his worldly belongings in the back end of a pickup. Of course, he didn't need much since he'd been staying at his grandparents' place in the guesthouse. He went to the main house for all his meals and so on. He had his books, computer, and a few changes of clothes. What else did a man need?

He decided not to answer himself.

He was not into beekeeping—and he hoped the bees wouldn't mind—but he did love the things surrounding bees, the mythology, the history, and of course, the honey. Now, he did love his honey.

He was thrilled to be moving into the stone cottage where he was certain the original D'Amico had lived with his Italian bees. He might have been the first Scottish importer of those bees. Italian bees were some of the most mild-tempered bees on the planet. As long as you left them to their work, they were happy and productive.

When he pulled up the long drive to the big house, he noted the trucks all sitting in a row. Workers were placing boxes of bees onto the back of them. And in the middle of it was Jennifer in work clothes, hair pulled back in a ponytail, sweating like a pig as she lifted another box into the truck. Still, she made his balls tighten. Most bee farmers were hands-off, excluding his parents, who were a little too involved.

He pulled his truck alongside of the drive and exited.

“Need help?” he asked with a pleasant smile.

“Grab a box,” she said, nodding. “You know, of course, to be careful. We don't want to disturb them too much.”

“Did you tell them the big news?” he said, grabbing a box. The other men were noticing him. One went by and nodded a hello to him.

“What's that?” she said, wiping her hands together to get rid of some dirt.

“That I'm moving in.”

She laughed. “I suppose I forgot to tell them.”

“The bees do like to be kept informed,” one of the men said, and stopped, placing his hands on his hips. He had a thick accent. “Hello,” he said, “I'm Ian Grady; you must be the new boss.”

“Just call me Gray,” he said. “Any relation to—”

He nodded. “There's three of us brothers. We all work for Ms. D'Amico, part-time. Heard Liam was a little out of line the other day. Sorry about that.”

Gray nodded, but wondered where the young man was and what exactly had gone on between Liam and Jennifer.

All five trucks were loaded up with boxes of new bees off to find their hives, ready to move out to the starflowers, just in bloom. Most of the snow had melted but a few patches were left, which prompted Gray to worry a bit.

“Think it's still too cold?” Jennifer said, coming up beside him as he slid the last wooden hive onto the truck bed.

He turned around and glimpsed a moment of uncertainty in those green eyes.

“I don't know,” he said. “Anybody who tells you they can predict Scottish spring weather is a damned fool.”

“I'd just like to get a spring crop in so that we have some actual money coming. The locals buy the early crop. Bakeries. Restaurants. If you want to go out with the guys, go ahead. I have paperwork piling high on my desk. You can move in later. Doesn't look like you have much.”

“Ready to roll,” Ian said. “You coming, boss?”

“Sure, I'd love to,” he said, following him to the other side of the truck. And there stood Liam, looking sheepish.

“Mr. McGhilly,” he said, extending his hand. “I owe you an apology. You caught me at my worst the other day, I'm afraid.”

Gray extended his hand and they shook. But he decided to keep his own counsel.

“Our Liam is a bit lovesick,” Ian joked, and slapped him on the back, then slid into the truck. “He'll get over her.”

Gray looked at Liam, who was digging his feet into the ground.
Something was not right about the man.

Hard to imagine a woman like Jennifer would have anything to do with this guy. Evidently, she'd given him enough of her time to make him fall pretty heavy. Not professional. She should know better than that. A hot, burning sensation formed in the pit of his stomach. Was it jealousy? Injustice? Disappointment?

He slid into the passenger's seat. Shaking off the feeling because, after all, despite her substance, Jennifer D'Amico was just a flesh-and-bone woman. A young widow at that. Her personal life was none of his business. Unless it had to do with his mission.

W
henever Jennifer approached her bees, the humming sound always relaxed her. She knew they were okay—even after such a harsh winter. She'd de-winterized them last week and knew there'd be no honey yet, but she liked to check on them once a week or so. These bees were a gift from Ren, who had set them up closer to the house so that Jen would have easier access.

Dressed in her white beekeeper clothes, she smoked the vertically stacked beehive. A passerby who didn't know anything about bees might think it was a white chest of drawers. The smoke served as a distraction. She'd still been stung a few times, even with all the precautions she took.

She pulled out the top hive—she usually only checked the first two hives because that would tell her the bees were okay and she really wanted to disturb them as little as possible. She hardly ever opened the bottom two hives, always leaving whatever honey was there for the bees. She asked her beekeepers to do the same. Many commercial beekeepers took all the honey and left the bees with only sugar water for the winter.

Several bees were crawling around on the screen, and she was delighted to find eggs everywhere. She slid the screened hive-drawer back in place and pulled out the next, where she saw the very beginning of droplets of honey. She slid the drawer back in place, picked up her smoker, and went to her shed to take off her work clothes.

As she stepped out of them, then hung them on the hook next to Ren's, she was reminded of the first time she had harvested her honey. When she had pulled out the first hive, she was surprised at how heavy it was—about five pounds of capped honey with a layer of wax on top of it. She had expected to be thrilled by the honey, but she was more than thrilled as she gleamed the golden syrup. She was awestruck by the bees and her role as caretaker in a sort of universal, natural process. When she came back from the hive that day, she was sobbing from the sheer joy and awe and wonder of it all.

Ren had teased her—but only halfheartedly. He was moved by the bee's harvest as well.

“Bees won't go hither, thither, and yon,” he told her. “When they find a flower they love, they stick with it. That's how I feel about you.”

Jennifer made her way to the house. As she got closer, she smelled the chili she'd started. Her stomach growled.

 

Later Jennifer poured the chili into a huge jar, grabbed her bag, and took off for the beekeeper's cottage. She hoped that it wasn't too late to visit. She started down the path toward the cottage and heard a rustle in the garden. She turned around to emptiness. Must have been an animal. She shuddered, hoping it wasn't a rat. Since closing up two wings and the upstairs of the house, her fear was that rats would take up lodging in them. But honestly, why would she keep them open when the house bled money?

She knocked at Gray's door. No answer. She knocked again.

“Just a minute,” came a muffled voice.

“It's just me,” Jennifer yelled in.

“Just you?” he said, opening the door, grinning in a slightly damp, white T-shirt, form fitting, his nipples poking out. “Please come in.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, mumbling. “I should have called first.”

“Nah, I'm just getting out of the shower,” he said.

An image of him in the shower swirled around in her mind and rose to her cheeks, where they flamed.

“I, ah,” she said. “Ah, I brought you some chili and cornbread. Bottle of wine.”

“Thank you. I've not had chili since I've been here. Can't wait to try it,” he said, taking the jar and the bag from her. He set the jar down and dug around in the bag. “Salad, too. And to think I was just going to hit the sack without eating tonight. I'm beat.”

“How did it go today?” Jennifer said, trying hard to remember she was his boss.

“It went well. You've got a pretty good crew,” he said. “Oh, look, cake.”

“Honey cake, of course,” she said.

“An ancient D'Amico recipe, of course,” he said with a mocking tone.

“Something like that,” she said. “I hope you like it.”

“Join me?” he said, for a moment looking like he was sixteen instead of thirty-two. Maybe he was as lonely as she was? There could be nothing wrong with joining him, talking business, talking about home. Her insides tugged at her. Not a good idea.

“Thank you, Gray, but I've already eaten and I've got some bookkeeping tonight. I better get to it,” she said.

“Some other time, then?” He looked hopeful.

“Meeting first thing in the morning, Gray. In fact, I'll have breakfast for you,” she said, walking toward the door.
Was he flirting with her? Had it been so long that she just didn't recognize the signs?

“I'll be there,” he said, walking her to the door and opening it.

When he opened it, she heard the same sound again—another rustling, this time closer to the cottage. She tilted her head. “Did you hear that?”

“I did,” he said in a hushed tone. “Let me go and check it out.”

“Is that necessary?” Jennifer said. “I heard it on my way here, too.”

“More reason for me to check it out,” he said. “You stay here.”

He came back momentarily. “I didn't see anything,” he said. “Maybe it was just an animal.”

“Okay, then. Good night, Gray,” she said, and stepped out into the cold, starry night. She welcomed the cold—much more comforting than the heat coursing through her body.

 

But he had lied to her.

There was definitely a footprint. Maybe two.

She was being watched by someone other than him.

He hoped it wasn't who he thought it was. Was it possible that she had no knowledge of the other half of the business? Did someone need to get her out of the way, just like they did her husband?

This job had just gotten more interesting.

He reached for his cell and dialed Kasey.

“What?” she said. She was sort of groggy, maybe breathless.

He explained what happened.

“Good move not to tell her. She'd just freak out,” Kasey said. “In the meantime, you know what to do.”

“Soon enough, I'll catch whoever it is.” He tried to keep his excitement from showing. Tracking was one of his talents and one of the things he loved.

“In the meantime, you are a beekeeper, let's not forget that. You lose that cover, you're fucked and on your own,” she said, and hung up.

Nice.

He grabbed his jacket and his gun.
Can't be too careful.

He circled back around the corner, where he had spotted the footprint; he snapped a photo of it with his cell phone. About a size 11 boot, he reckoned.

The way the grass was broke off to the east side of the footprint led him to believe that was the direction the perpetrator had moved.

It still wasn't dark, but the glimmer of twilight was just starting. He took off through the grass toward the woods where the crushed grass led him. When he came to a small clearing, he paused and looked around. Maybe this was where the tracks came to an end. It was on the edge of the front of the property—the direction in which he'd seen Jennifer travel every morning. Since he'd seen her walk this way and the trail was cold, he walked down the slope and around a stand of trees.

At first he saw the small but almost formal garden scooped out of the wildness around it. No flowers were in bloom, but he saw that great care had been taken. And from the side he caught the flickering of a flame.

A candle. Inside of a crypt or mausoleum. The family mausoleum, he reckoned as he felt a chill travel the length of him.

This is where she came every day.

Maybe she sat on that very bench, looking out over the well-manicured lawn and garden, and meditated or prayed or communed with her dead husband. A tear pricked his eye.

A bunch of dead flowers were wrapped with red ribbons, sitting on the concrete bench.

This woman maintained a devotion to a dead man that most women he knew couldn't maintain to a live one. He shook his head.

He hadn't known her long at all. But he'd bet she knew nothing about the illegal underpinnings of the business.

But then again he'd been fooled more than once in his life, especially when it came to beautiful women.

The crack of a branch snapped him back. He turned.

“What are you doing here, Gray?” Jennifer said. She was wrapped in a knit blanket of autumn colors, orange, crimson, yellow, which played against her green eyes.

He cleared his throat, tucked his gun in his jacket, and brushed away his tear. “I was a bit restless. Sometimes I just need to walk.”

“With your gun?”

He grimaced. She was one sharp woman—she'd probably followed him down to the crypt. “You caught me,” he said. “I wasn't convinced earlier. Didn't think I should worry you.”

“So, you saw the tracks, too? I didn't want to worry you. New job and already there's weird problems,” she said, and offered a halfhearted smile.

His heart felt like it traveled into his throat.

“But to tell you the truth, that's just the beginning of the weirdness. I want you to stay. I need the help,” she said, and gave a long deep sigh. “But I understand if this freaks you out and you feel like you need to go. If you do, I suggest you take your gun with you.”

He stood for a moment, looking at her as the wind blew just a bit through her long brown hair. “I'm not going anywhere. Neither is my gun. But there is one thing.”

“What?”

“You need to tell me about all the weird things going on,” he said.

She considered him for a moment. “We'll talk in the morning.”

Jennifer wrapped her blanket closely around her and turned to go, and his eyes drifted to her backside as she made her way up the hill.

“Coming, Gray?”

“In a bit,” he said, almost unable to ignore the feelings in his stomach, at once pulling, yearning, and hollow, as he watched her walk away.