Chapter 5

Here’s a lesson that was ingrained in me by my mom starting at a very young age: If you’re expecting guests, then you’d better clean the house.

I’ll admit that when I was a kid, it didn’t compute. Why would anyone care whether all my toys had been put away in my bedroom or if I made my bed? It wasn’t as though any politicians or lobbyists made their way up the stairs to my bedroom while my parents were throwing their parties. They were too busy sipping wine and downing martinis and feeling very, very important. I remember vowing that when I was older, I wouldn’t care about such things. But lo and behold, with Natalie’s visit looming as a possibility, my mom’s directive came roaring back.

Long story short, after I finished my run and other exercises, I tidied up the house, ran the vacuum, wiped the counters and sink, cleaned the bathroom, and finally made the bed. Washed myself, too, while singing in the shower, and then spent the rest of the morning catching up on my reading. The section in the book I was perusing dealt with the effectiveness of music as an adjunct to therapy, and as I worked my way through the material, I remembered the years I’d spent playing the piano. In all candor, I’d always had a bit of an on-again, off-again relationship with the instrument; I played throughout my childhood, ignored it completely while at the Naval Academy, picked it up again while I was in medical school, and then didn’t so much as tap a key during my residency. In Pensacola, I played a lot, as I was lucky enough to rent a place with a beautiful 1890 Bösendorfer in the lobby of the building; but Afghanistan was another music-free period, as I doubted whether there was a single piano left in the entire country. Now, with missing fingers, playing like I once did was impossible, which made me suddenly realize how much I missed it.

When I finished studying, I closed the book, got in the car, and made a trip to the grocery store. I stocked up on the essentials and made myself a sandwich when I got home. By the time I rinsed the plate, it was coming up on one o’clock. Still uncertain as to whether Natalie would show up but hoping for the best, I headed out to the honey shed.

Like the house and the barn, it wasn’t much from the outside. The tin roof was rusting, the cedar planking had turned gray over the decades, and hinges supporting the large double doors screeched as I pulled them open. After that, however, the similarities ended; inside, the honey shed was like a museum. There was electricity, plumbing, and bright fluorescent lights; the walls and ceiling were insulated, and the concrete floor had a drain in the center. To the left was a stainless-steel sink with a long hose attached to a faucet, as well as shallow supers and queen excluders for the beehives, stacked neatly atop each other. On the right was a plastic garbage can filled with kindling for the smokers, next to deep shelves crammed with dozens of jars of honey. Directly ahead was all the other equipment and gear necessary for an apiarist: five-gallon plastic buckets with honey gates, a plastic wheelbarrow, crates filled with extra jars, and rolls of self-adhesive labels. On the back wall, supported by hooks, were nylon strainers, honey sieves, uncapping knives, two smokers, lighters, a dozen bee suits, and gloves and hoods in various sizes. There were also two extractors, which were used to spin the honey from the combs. I recognized the manual one I used to crank until I could barely move my arm, as well as the newer electric one my grandfather had purchased after his arthritis set in, and both appeared to be in perfect working order.

As for the suits, I knew I’d find ones that would fit both Natalie and me. He had so many because he was always willing to educate people—often groups—who were interested in learning about the bees. Most people weren’t comfortable visiting the hives without a bee suit; my grandfather, on the other hand, never bothered to put one on.

“They won’t sting me unless I want ’em to,” he would say with a wave. “They know I take care of ’em.”

Whether that was true or not, I don’t remember him ever getting stung while tending the hives. He was, however, a believer in the Southern folklore that bee venom could mitigate the pain of his arthritis, so every day without fail, he’d collect two bees. While holding them by the wings, he’d taunt them into stinging him, once in each knee. The first time I saw him do it, I thought he was crazy; as a physician, I now understand that he was ahead of his time. In controlled clinical studies, bee venom has actually been shown to relieve arthritis pain. If you don’t believe me, look it up.

I’d tended to the hives so many times in the past that the next steps were automatic. I filled the smoker with kindling, collected a lighter and an uncapping knife, as well as a pair of suits, hoods, and gloves. On an impulse, I also took down two jars of honey from the shelves and brought everything to the front porch. I shook the dust from the suits and hoods before draping them over the railing, stacking everything else on the small table near the rockers. By then, it was a quarter past one. Things weren’t looking good on the Natalie front, but even worse was the idea of her discovering me waiting for her on the porch if she did show up. A man has got to have some pride, after all.

I went back inside and poured myself a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher I had brewed the night before, then wandered to the back porch. As fate would have it, I had taken only a couple of sips before I heard a car pulling up in the drive. I couldn’t suppress a smile.

Walking back through the house, I opened the door just as Natalie mounted the porch. She wore jeans and a white button-up shirt that accentuated her olive-colored skin. Her sunglasses hid her eyes and her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, all of which made her especially alluring.

“Hey there,” I said. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “Sorry I’m late. I had to take care of some things this morning.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “My schedule’s pretty clear all day.” Then, remembering the jars I’d retrieved from the honey shed, I pointed to the table. “I pulled those for you,” I said. “Since you mentioned that you liked my grandfather’s honey.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” she murmured. “But are you sure you have enough?”

“More than enough. Too much, really.”

“You could always get a table at the farmers’ market if you want to get rid of it.”

“That probably won’t be possible,” I said. “Saturday mornings are generally when I read to blind orphans. Or rescue kittens from trees.”

“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”

“I’m just trying to impress you.”

A smile played about her lips. “I don’t know whether I should be flattered or not.”

“Oh,” I said. “Definitely flattered.”

“Good to know, but I can’t make any promises.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I countered. “And regarding the honey, Claude over at the Trading Post said he’d take all I could spare, so I’m guessing most of it will end up there.”

“I’ll be sure to stock up before the rest of the town finds out.”

For a moment, silence descended and her gaze steadied on my own. I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I know you came to visit the hives, but let’s sit out back first, so I can tell you what to expect. It’ll make things a bit clearer when you get out there.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. No more than an hour for everything.”

Pulling a phone from her back pocket, she checked the time. “That should be okay.” She went on. “I promised to visit my parents this afternoon. They’re at the beach.”

“I thought you had to make pies for your neighbor.”

“I did that yesterday.”

“Very efficient,” I commented. “Now come on in,” I said, waving her through the doorway.

Her footsteps echoed behind me as we passed from the family room to the kitchen. I paused. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Eyeing the sweating glass of iced tea in my hand, she nodded and said, “I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind.”

“Good choice—I just brewed it last night, as a matter of fact.”

Retrieving a glass, I added ice cubes and filled it with sweet dark tea from the refrigerator. I handed it to her, then leaned against the counter, watching as she took a sip.

“It’s not bad.”

“As good as your pies?”

“No.”

I laughed, watching as she took another sip and surveyed the house. Despite myself, I was grateful for my mom’s training. Natalie, no doubt, now thought of me as tidy, in addition to rather charming. Or maybe not. I knew I was interested in her, but she was still a mystery to me.

“You’ve made some changes to the place,” she noted.

“Though I loved living in a time capsule, I felt the need to update the decor.”

“It seems more open, too.”

“My grandfather had a lot of stuff. I got rid of it.”

“My parents are like that. On the fireplace mantel back home, there must be fifty framed photographs. Try to dust one, and they topple like dominoes. I don’t understand it.”

“Maybe the older people get, the more important the past becomes? Because there’s less future ahead?”

“Maybe,” she said, without adding anything else.

Unable to read her, I pushed open the back door. “Ready?”

I followed her out onto the back porch, watching her settle in the same rocker as she had the first night I’d met her. Unlike me, she didn’t lean back; instead, she remained propped on the edge, as if ready to jump up and run away if she had to. After all our banter, I was surprised that she wasn’t more relaxed, but I was getting the feeling that Natalie was full of surprises.

I took a sip of my tea, watching as she gazed toward the creek, her profile as perfect as cut glass.

“I think I could stare at this forever.”

“Me too,” I said, looking only at her.

She smirked, but decided to let my remark pass.

“Do you ever swim out there?”

“I did when I was a kid. Right now, the water’s still too cold.”

“That might be a good thing. Apparently someone sighted some alligators a little ways upstream.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s pretty rare to find them this far north. We get reports of them once or twice a year, but I’ve never had any luck sighting any. They tend to be in places cars can’t reach.”

“If you’d ever like to go out on the water, I’ve got the boat right out there.”

“That might be fun,” she agreed before folding her hands in her lap, suddenly all business again. “What did you want to tell me about the bees?”

“Let’s start with this,” I said, setting my glass aside. “How much do you know about bees? And how much do you want to know?”

“I have about an hour, maybe a little more. So tell me whatever you think will be important.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Bee colonies have an annual cycle. In the winter, a hive might have five or ten thousand bees. In the spring, once it warms up, the queen begins laying more eggs, and the population begins to grow. During the summer months, a hive might hold up to a hundred thousand bees, which is why an apiarist might add another chamber to the hive. Then, as autumn approaches, the queen begins to lay fewer eggs. The population starts to diminish again, because the colony somehow knows it hasn’t stored enough honey to feed all the bees. In the winter, the remaining bees eat the honey to survive. They also cluster together and vibrate to create heat, so the colony doesn’t freeze. When it begins to warm, the cycle starts all over again.”

She digested that, then held up a hand. “Hold on,” she said. “Before you go on, I want to know how you learned all this stuff. Did your grandfather teach you?”

“We tended the hives together whenever I was down here visiting. But I also heard him give the talk to lots of different people. When I was in high school, I even did a semester-long project on bees for my science class.”

“Just making sure you know what you’re talking about. Go on.”

Did I detect a bit of flirting in her tone? I reached for my tea again, trying not to lose track of my thoughts. Her beauty was distracting.

“Every hive also has a single queen. Assuming the queen doesn’t get sick, she lives from three to five years. Early on in her life cycle, the queen flies around and gets fertilized by as many male bees as she can before returning to the hive where she’ll lay eggs for the rest of her life. The eggs turn to larvae, and then pupae, and when they’re mature, the bees are ready to serve the hive. Unlike the queen, these worker bees live only six or seven weeks, and they’ll cycle through a variety of different jobs in their short lives. The vast majority are female. The males are called drones.”

“And all the drones do is mate with the queen and eat.”

“You remembered.”

“It was hard to forget,” she said. “What happens if the queen dies?”

“Bee colonies have a fail-safe,” I answered. “No matter what time of year, when a queen is weakening or not laying enough eggs, the nurse bees will start feeding several of the larvae a substance called royal jelly. This food changes the larvae into queens, and the strongest one will take over. If necessary, that new queen will then replace the older queen. At which point, she’ll fly away and mate with as many drones as she can before returning to the hive to spend the rest of her life laying eggs.”

“That isn’t much of a life for a queen.”

“Without her, the colony will die. That’s why she’s called the queen.”

“Still, you’d think she’d get to go shopping or attend a wedding every now and then.”

I smiled, recognizing in her humor something akin to my own. “Now, yesterday I mentioned a few of the jobs bees do during their life cycle—clean the hive or feed the larvae or whatever. But the majority of bees in any hive collect pollen and nectar. A lot of people might think that pollen and nectar are the same, but they’re not. Nectar is the sugary juice in the heart of the flowers. Pollen, on the other hand, are tiny grains that collect on the anthers. Want to guess which one leads to the making of honey?”

She pursed her lips. “Nectar?”

“Exactly,” I said. “A bee will fill its nectar sacs, fly back to the hive, and turn the nectar into honey. A bee also has glands that turn some of the sugar in the honey into beeswax. And little by little, honey is created and stored.”

“How is nectar turned into honey?”

“It’s kind of gross.”

“Just tell me.”

“When a bee gets back to the hive with its load of nectar, it passes the nectar mouth-to-mouth to a different bee, who then does the same to another bee, over and over, gradually lowering the moisture content. When it gets concentrated enough, it’s called honey.”

She made a face. For a second, I could picture her as a teenager. “That is kind of gross.”

“You asked.”

“What happens with bees who bring in pollen?”

“Pollen is mixed with nectar to make bee bread. That’s what they feed the larvae.”

“And the royal jelly?”

“I don’t know how that’s made,” I admitted. “I used to know, but I’ve forgotten.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Always,” I said. “But that brings us to another important point. Because the bees need to eat the honey to survive the winter, an apiarist has to be careful not to take too much when they harvest.”

“How much is that?”

“My grandfather would only harvest about sixty percent of the honey in any given hive, some in June and the remainder in August. Some of the larger producers will take a higher percentage, but it’s generally not a good idea.”

“Is that what happened to the bees?”

“What do you mean?”

“I read some articles saying that bees were dying out. And that if they did, humanity wouldn’t survive.”

“The latter part is true. Without bees spreading pollen from one plant to another, many crops simply can’t survive. As to the first part, the decline in the bee population probably has less to do with overharvesting than the overuse of chemicals to clear the hive. My grandfather never used chemicals because, really, you don’t need them. I’ll show you when we get out there, but I think that’s it for now.” I set my glass aside. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to know?”

“Yeah, about the guard bees. Why do they buzz around your face?”

“Because it works,” I said with a laugh. “People don’t like it, so they retreat. Keep in mind that in the wild, bears will ravage beehives. The only way a tiny bee can protect the hive from a giant bear is to sting it in the eyes, the nose, or the mouth.”

She hesitated. “Okay. But I still don’t like them.”

“That’s why we’ll be wearing suits. You ready?”

Natalie stood from her seat and led the way inside before stopping in the kitchen to deposit her glass. Meanwhile, I pulled two spoons from the kitchen drawer, wrapped them in a paper towel, and put them in my pocket. Retracing our steps to the front porch, I handed the smaller suit to her. “Slip this on over your clothes,” I said. I pulled off my shoes, then put on a suit; Natalie did the same, and I made sure everything was zipped properly. After we put our shoes back on, I handed her the mesh hood—it was connected to a hat with a round brim—and the gloves, then used the lighter to get the smoker going.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a smoker. It calms the bees.”

“How?”

“The bees interpret smoke as part of a forest fire and they’ll begin feeding on the honey in case they have to move the hive somewhere else.”

I collected the rest of the gear and motioned for her to follow. We set off in the direction of the hives, passing clutches of azalea bushes, into an area dense with dogwoods, flowering cherry trees, and magnolias. The air was thick with the sound of buzzing, and bees could be seen clustering on practically every bloom.