At the edge of the property, the vegetation grew denser. Directly ahead I caught sight of one of the hives; though my grandfather had built his own, they were similar to ones that could be purchased as kits or used by commercial farmers, consisting essentially of a stand supporting a stack of wooden chambers, along with lids. As always, I was amazed by the idea that it would be home to more than a hundred thousand bees.

“We should stop here and put on the rest of our gear.”

After donning our gloves, we approached the hive, bees bumping against the mesh of our hoods.

I added air to the smoker and puffed out some smoke near the hive before setting it on the ground.

“That’s it?”

“You don’t need much smoke,” I explained. “Bees have an acute sense of smell.” I pointed toward an area beneath the lip of the lid. “Do you see this? It’s how the bees get in and out of the hive.”

She took a cautious step closer. “How long do we have to wait for the smoke to work?”

“It’s working now,” I said. “They’ll be calm for fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Does the smoke hurt them?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Let me show you the inside of the hive.”

Lifting off the top lid—or outer cover, in beekeeper-speak—I set it aside. Then, using the uncapping knife, I loosened the inner cover. Always a bit sticky, it was harder than usual to pry off, probably because it hadn’t been removed in months.

Once I freed the inner cover, I set it on the ground as well. “Come take a peek,” I said. “They’re friendly now.”

With obvious trepidation, she peered over my shoulder. I pointed to the top chamber. “This part of the hive is called the upper deep. It’s the food chamber. There are ten hanging frames, and this is where most of the honey is stored.”

Pointing to the chamber beneath it, I went on. “The one right below is called the lower deep, and it’s the brood chamber.”

“Wow,” she murmured. There were hundreds of slow-moving bees crawling on top of and between the frames. Natalie seemed genuinely rapt.

“I’m glad you were interested in coming here,” I said. “Otherwise I probably would have forgotten to add the shallow super and the queen excluder. I didn’t remember until I saw them in the honey shed.”

“What are they for?”

“The shallow super adds additional honey storage to the hive for the larger summer bee population. It’s like the upper deep, only smaller. The queen excluder ensures that the queen won’t up and fly away.”

“You don’t need them year-round?”

I shook my head. “You’ll want a smaller hive in the winter so it’s easier to keep warm.”

On the upper deep, bees continued to crawl around with unflagging energy and purpose. I pointed to a large wasplike one. “See this one?” I asked. “That’s a drone.”

She peered closer, then eventually pointed to another. “That one, too?”

I nodded. “As I told you, they’re greatly outnumbered by the females, like Hugh Hefner in the Playboy Mansion.”

“Nice metaphor,” she drawled.

I grinned. “Let me show you something.”

I removed my gloves, then reached down and gently picked up one of the worker bees by her wings. She was still docile from the smoke. Using the thumbnail on my other hand, I provoked her until she tried to sting me through the nail.

“What are you doing?” Natalie whispered. “Are you trying to make her angry?”

“Bees don’t get angry.” I manipulated the bee again, and again it tried to sting me three, four, and then five times. “Watch this,” I went on. I put the bee on the back of my hand and let go of the wings. Instead of continuing to try to sting, the bee took a few steps and then flew slowly back toward the upper deep.

“The bee doesn’t care about me, or what I just did to her,” I said. “She was just trying to protect herself. Now that the threat is gone, she doesn’t hold a grudge.”

Through the mesh, I read fascination and newfound respect.

“Interesting,” she said. “Way more complex than I imagined.”

“Bees are extraordinary creatures,” I said, hearing the echo of my grandfather’s voice. “Do you want to see the honey? And the larvae?”

“I’d love to,” she said. Using the uncapping knife, I loosened one of the frames at the top edge, then loosened the other side until I could slowly pull it free. As I did, I watched Natalie’s eyes widen; the frame was covered with hundreds of bees on both sides. After checking it over and determining that the cells didn’t have the variety I wanted, I slid it back into the hive. “There should be a better one,” I remarked. “It’s still early in the season.”

It took three frames before I found the one I wanted, and I removed it fully from the hive. Like the others, it was swarmed with bees, and I held it in front of her. “Do you remember when I told you that big producers use chemicals to clear the hives? So they can harvest the honey?”

“I remember.”

“This is why you don’t need chemicals.” I took a small step back and with a quick motion, jerked the frame up and down. Nearly all the bees flew away and I held up the virtually empty frame in front of her. “That’s all you have to do to clear the bees from the frame so you can get to the honey,” I said. “Just a single, quick shake.”

“Then why do the big producers use chemicals?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “I haven’t been able to figure that out yet.”

Angling the frame for a better view, I pointed to various cells as I spoke. “These cells up here in the corner, covered in the beeswax, are filled with honey. These lighter ones down here contain larvae and eggs. And the empty ones will all be filled with honey by the end of the summer.”

More comfortable with the hive now, Natalie moved even closer. There were still a few bees on the frame, and she slowly reached a finger of her gloved hand toward one of them, marveling as it ignored her completely. Another slowly crawled over her gloved finger then onto the frame again. “They’re not mad that you shook off all their friends?”

“Not at all.”

“What about killer bees?”

“They’re different,” I said. “As a colony, they’re a lot more aggressive in protecting the hive. These bees might send out ten or fifteen guard bees when they feel the hive is threatened, but killer bees will send out hundreds of guard bees. There are some historical and evolutionary theories as to the reason why, but unless you’re really interested, we can save that for another time. Do you want to taste some of the honey?”

“Now?”

“Why not? We’re here.”

“Is it…ready?”

“It’s perfect,” I assured her. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the spoons and unwrapped them. I held one out to her. “Would you mind holding this for a second?”

She took the spoon while I used the other to crush my way through some of the beeswax-coated cells. Raw, pure honey spilled onto the spoon. “Trade you,” I said.

Natalie took the spoon with honey, while I did the same to mine. “Hold this one for a second, too, okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes flickered from me to the honey, golden in the sunlight. I reassembled the hive, picked up the smoker and uncapping knife, then took one of the spoons from her. We walked away from the hives, in the direction of the shed. When we were a safe distance away, I motioned to her that it was fine to take off her hood and gloves.

When I could see her face without the mesh, it was glowing with excitement and interest, her skin dewy with a light sheen of perspiration. I held up the spoon, as though making a toast. “Ready?”

I tapped my spoon against hers, then ate the honey, finding it was sweet enough to make my teeth hurt. After she tasted hers, she closed her eyes and took a long breath. “It tastes…”

“Flowery?”

“And delicious. But yes, there’s a very strong floral flavor.”

“Honey will taste different depending on where the hive is located, because the nectar the bees collect will be different. That’s why some honey is sweeter than others, some have a slightly fruitier flavor, others more flowery. It’s kind of like wine.”

“I’m not sure I’ve noticed a big difference in flavors until now.”

“Most commercial honey is clover honey. Bees love clover, which is why there’s a clover patch on the property, too. But honey is also one of the most manipulated and lied-about foods on the planet. A lot of commercial honey is actually honey mixed with flavored corn syrup. You have to be careful where you buy.”

She nodded, but there was something trancelike about her demeanor, as if the combination of the sun, the soothing droning of the bees, and the elixir of honey had relaxed the defenses she usually erected around herself. Her lips were parted and moist, her aquamarine eyes drowsy and translucent. When her gaze drifted from the hive to meet mine, I felt an almost hypnotic pull.

I took a step toward her, the sound of my own breath loud in my ears. She seemed to know how I was feeling and was flattered by it. But just as quickly, she caught herself and picked up the hood and gloves, severing the thread of the moment.

I forced myself to speak. “Would you like to see how the honey is extracted? It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

“Sure.”

Without another word, we started in the direction of the honey shed. When we got there, she handed me the hood and gloves, then proceeded to take off the bee suit. I did the same and put everything back in place. I moved the manual extractor away from the wall. She came over to inspect the extractor but was careful to keep a safe distance.

“To harvest the honey, you take frames from the hive, shake off the bees, and load them in the wheelbarrow to bring them here,” I began, slowly but surely regaining my equilibrium. “Then, one at a time, you load the frames into the extractor, between these slots. You turn the crank, and it spins the frame. Centrifugal force will push the honey and beeswax from the combs.” I turned the crank, demonstrating how it worked. “Once the honey is spun out of the frame, you place one of those nylon bags into a plastic bucket, set it beneath the nozzle on the extractor, open the nozzle, and let the honey drain into the bucket. The nylon bag captures the wax but lets the honey pass through. After that, the honey goes into a jar and it’s ready to go.”

Wordlessly, Natalie took in the rest of the shed, wandering idly from one station to the next, finally stopping in front of the plastic garbage can. Lifting the lid, she saw the wood chips and shavings; by her expression, I knew she’d figured out that the contents were for use in the smoker. She examined the back wall, inspecting all the equipment, and waved at the rows of neatly labeled jars of honey.

“It’s so organized in here.”

“Always,” I agreed.

“My dad has a work shed like this,” she commented, turning to face me again. “Where everything has a purpose, everything has a place.”

“Yeah?”

“He buys old transistor radios and phonographs from the 1920s and 1930s and then repairs them in a shed behind our house. I used to love spending time there as a little girl when he was working. He had a high-backed stool and he’d wear these glasses that magnified everything. I can still remember how big his eyes were. Even now, whenever I visit them in La Grange, the shed is usually where the two of us talk about life.”

“That’s an unusual hobby.”

“I think he finds it peaceful.” She sounded wistful. “And he’s proud of it, too. There’s a whole section in the store with refurbished electronics on display.”

“Does he sell any?”

“Hardly.” She laughed. “Not everyone shares his fascination with antique electronics. Sometimes he talks about opening a small museum, maybe one that’s attached to the store, but he’s been talking about it for years, so who knows?”

“What does your mom do while your dad is tinkering?”

“She bakes,” she answered. “Which is why I know how to make a great piecrust. And she sells what she bakes at the store, unless we eat it first.”

“Your parents sound like good people.”

“They are,” she said. “They worry about me.”

I stayed quiet, expecting her to go on, but she didn’t. I finally offered a gentle prod. “Because you’re a deputy?”

“Partly,” she conceded. Then, as though realizing the conversation had veered in an unintended direction, she shrugged. “Parents always worry. That’s the nature of parenthood. But that reminds me I should get going. They’ll be waiting for me.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

We left the shed, walking down the pathway toward the drive. She drove an older model, silver Honda, a sensible car she probably intended to keep as long as it still ran. I opened the driver’s side door for her; inside, I saw her handbag on the passenger seat, and a small crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror.

“I enjoyed the day so much,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I did too,” I admitted. “And you’re welcome.”

The sun was at her back, making her face difficult to read, but when she placed her hand lightly on my forearm, I sensed that she, like me, didn’t want the day to end just yet.

“How long will you be at your parents’?”

“Not long,” she said. “I’ll visit for a couple of hours and then head back home. I have to work tomorrow morning.”

“How about we meet for dinner later? When you get back?”

She studied me carefully, then hedged. “I’m not sure what time that will be.”

“Any time is fine,” I said. “You could shoot me a text when you’re leaving and I could meet you somewhere.”

“I…um…”

She trailed off before reaching into her pocket and pulling out her keys.

“I don’t like to go out in New Bern,” she finally said.

Though I could have asked her the reason, I didn’t. Instead, I took a step backward, giving her space. “It’s just dinner, not a commitment. Everyone’s got to eat.”

She said nothing, but part of me began to suspect that she wanted to say yes. As to why she was holding back, I still wasn’t sure.

“I could meet you down at the beach if it’s easier,” I offered.

“That’s out of the way for you.”

“I haven’t been to the beach since I’ve been back here,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to go.”

Well, not really. Not until just now, anyway.

“I don’t know of any good restaurants at the beach,” she said.

“Then how about Beaufort? You must have someplace you like there.”

As I waited for her answer, she jingled her keys. “There is a place…” she began, her voice barely audible.

“Anywhere,” I said.

“The Blue Moon Bistro,” she said in a rush, almost like she was afraid she would change her mind. “But it can’t be too late.”

“Pick the time. I’ll meet you there.”

“How about half past six?”

“Perfect.”

“Thank you again for the beekeeping lesson today.”

“Glad to do it,” I said. “I enjoyed spending time with you.”

She let out a soft exhale as she slipped into the driver’s seat. “Me too.”

I closed her door and she turned the key. The engine came to life, and glancing over her shoulder, she backed the car out. As the car stopped and then began to roll forward, I reflected on the mystery of Natalie Masterson. By turns confident and vulnerable, revealing and secretive, she seemed to be a woman of complex instincts.

Still, what had begun as a flirty diversion had already begun to morph into something deeper, a desire to connect with and truly understand a woman whom I couldn’t figure out. Nor could I shake my desire to connect with the real Natalie—to leap the wall she seemed compelled to build between us—and perhaps form something even deeper and more meaningful. Even to me, it struck me as a romantic notion that bordered on the ridiculous—I reminded myself again that I didn’t really know her—but at the same time, I know what my grandfather would have said.

Trust your instincts, just like the bees do.

Walking back to the house, I spotted the jars of honey on the porch table and realized she’d forgotten to take them. I put them in the SUV, then spent the rest of the afternoon on the back porch with a textbook in my lap, trying not to think about Natalie or even my own feelings, but finding it impossible to concentrate. Instead, I replayed our time together over and over again, finally admitting to myself that I was simply counting the minutes until I could see her again.