Plan Bee (5 page)

Patti’s face transformed instantly into a big, wide, excited grin. “Good. And just because you’re my best friend, I’m going to share some news with you that I think you’ll appreciate knowing, even though it isn’t exactly the best news.”

I’d begun to turn away, my mind more on Stanley’s observation beehive and the three-deep group of interested spectators surrounding it. I wanted to be over there with
them, telling honeybee stories. The first thing I would talk about was the way my bees sounded when they were busy and happy, which for bees went hand in hand. I can tell by the low frequency when I walk among my hives. They actually sound happy as they fly over to inspect me. And if their collective mood changes because of some perceived or real threat, they warn me with a loud, shrill, high-pitched sound.

What Patti said next stopped me in my tracks, and if I were a honeybee, I’d be piercing the air with the same hostility they reserved for their worst enemies.

Because Patti said, “Something’s going on over at your ex-husband’s house. I think Clay is back.”

Please, say it ain’t so! Please!

I instantly experienced all the physical symptoms of a woman suffering a major heart attack. Since I’d experienced these same feelings many times during our marriage, I wasn’t too worried about my actual health. But I felt clammy, sweaty, and light-headed just thinking about the jerk.

An anxiety attack threatened. To describe my immediate future as “impending doom” was Patti-like overkill, but imagine something two degrees milder. And I was sick to my stomach remembering some of the stunts he’d pulled. I should have burned down his house as soon as Lori Spandle mentioned that he might come back.

Not that Clay was some kind of monster. He didn’t drink excessively or blow through our money during our marriage. He wasn’t abusive, either physically or mentally—unless you want to count the long list of embarrassing affairs. Sadly, the man had an uncontrollable sexual addiction. Or so he said. And I was supposed to be understanding and supportive, even when he propositioned every one of my female relatives. My guess is that his so-called sexual addiction didn’t really exist as a certifiable medical condition. Certain people just don’t have any self-control,
so they try to shift responsibility away from themselves. Clay fit that bill.

Having my ex-husband living next door had sucked big time, and I was
not
going back to that bad situation even if it meant extreme measures. Like, as I said before, torching his place.

After all, I have Patti for a friend. She’d jump at the chance.

And I had the effects of a full moon to blame if I was caught.

“Are you absolutely sure he’s back?” I asked P. P. Patti, collapsing into one of the Adirondack chairs in front of The Wild Clover.

“Someone’s over there. That’s all I know. Who else could it be?”

“Didn’t you use your telescope to get an ID?”

She shook her head.

Leave it to her to miss an opportunity to use the thing when it counted the most. Patti swung that thing in every direction, which was the main reason I had solid, thick shades on all my windows.

“It’s daylight,” she informed me. “I can’t see inside windows until night.”

“You don’t have infrared?”

“Don’t I wish.” Patti looked wistful, then she perked up. “Should we check out the house? Do a little investigating?”

Part of me wanted to race right over there, but the other
part of me put on the brakes. “Maybe later,” I said, not willing to deal with my ex yet. “I have work to do.”

And with that, I made a sweep through the inside of the store to be sure everything was running smoothly. Then I joined Stanley and Carrie Ann at our booth and observation table. For a few hours I didn’t want to think about anything troubling, so this was the perfect place to perch, next to the familiar routine of honeybees and the wonderful by-products of all their hard work.

Stanley Peck might have a lot to learn about beekeeping, but he really had a gift for entertaining a crowd of spectators.

“I have a big batch of mead ready to bottle,” he told them, referring to the honey wine most of us beekeepers like to make. Mead is the oldest alcoholic beverage known to humans. Ancient cultures planned weddings around full moons and served lots of mead, which is where
honeymoon
came from.

That little trivia popped into my head, reminding me of our own full moon and Patti’s pessimistic (but textbook) view of its effects on human behavior.

“You should have brought some of your mead to the festival,” someone said to Stanley. “We’d buy it.”

“Yeah,” someone else said. “Go get a case or two.”

Stanley shot me a questioning look. I shook my head to remind him that that was a really bad idea. We’d discussed his mead earlier. Before putting some products up for sale, they have to get a seal of approval by passing government inspection. Mead was one of them.

And Stanley, a bachelor since his wife died (and you sure could tell by his habits), made mead in his bathtub. No way was it ever going to pass. Not that he really planned on trying. An outspoken group of locals, of which Stanley happens to be the ringleader, avoid government interference like bird flu.

But, come on? The bathtub? Who’d want to drink anything that came out of Stanley’s tub?

The rest of the morning flew by. I didn’t see much of the people who had given me grief earlier. Occasionally I’d glance over at Aggie’s booth, where surprisingly she appeared to be steadily selling her junk and making a nice profit. Aggie, I noticed, made serious eye contact with people as they wandered past, stunning them with something similar to hypnosis and drawing them in like snagged fish dangling on hooks.

How did she do that?

I tried to copy her but only got strange looks for my efforts. Besides, we were doing well without it, so I put away the hypnotic stare and went back to being my normal self.

Aggie’s son, Bob, wandered over and joined the beehive enthusiasts. He’s a big guy and a hothead, I’ve heard. We didn’t see much of the Petries around Moraine; they live in a small community called Colgate, like the toothpaste, about twenty minutes away. Most reports of Bob’s wrongdoing come through snippets in the local paper or unconfirmed tongue-wagging in the store. Bob’s wife, Alicia, is okay. Last year she came to a class I gave on making honey lip balm, and I got to know her a little.

All the vendors were doing well, judging by the crowds and all the shopping bags I spotted.

My hometown is located in southeastern Wisconsin, nestled between ridges and valleys that occurred naturally during the ice age, and it’s right on one of Wisconsin’s most scenic drives. So we draw a lot of tourists who come our way sightseeing, fishing, camping, all the outdoor activities that make a place special. Water lovers can even put their canoes and kayaks in the Oconomowoc River at a launch near my house.

Good old Moraine was coming through for us again. Maybe this wasn’t exactly a Harmony Festival for me, but it was living up to its name for our visitors and sellers.

I spent at least two blissful hours having fun, meeting
new people, and chatting up friends from other communities who turned out for the festival. But eventually, after meeting and greeting, the ex-husband situation was back in my mind and I couldn’t shake it off.

Throughout the lunchtime hours I couldn’t find any time to get away, but mid-afternoon, after my staff took turns getting something to eat, I dropped Dinky in the back room for a much-needed nap and walked over to my house.

My family home now belongs to me. I’d been raised here, so it really
is
home. After my father had a fatal heart attack, Mom relinquished it willingly when I expressed interest. Mom likes to have a lot of say in other peoples’ business, so she moved in with my grandmother where she has the control she craves. And since Grams is a carefree soul, she doesn’t seem to mind at all. A win-win situation for all of us.

I’d repainted the pretty Victorian house bright yellow with white trim and planted bee-friendly flowers and bushes all around it. Someday I hoped it would have another family living in it. My own. Although with my “man luck,” which until recently has been zilch, children and a faithful husband might turn out to be a pipe dream.

Of course, I
do
have Hunter, a really appealing prospect. The guy is hot and well worth pursuing. But I suspect a serious commitment issue. Carrie Ann claims he never married before because he was waiting for me to get my act together. That might be true. Or not.

Whatever the case, our relationship is moving as slow as the proverbial molasses, and at thirty-four and counting, I can’t help feeling like my days are numbered. Everything has a shelf life, and mine will expire eventually, like a loaf of moldy bread. Lately, it’s all I can do not to look at Hunter like he’s a piece of prime steak I want to wrap up and take home.

Desperation does not look good on me. How come that
little ticking clock is so darn loud and intrusive and hard to ignore?

As I crossed the street, I wondered if Patti’s self-pitying attitude was contagious, because I was starting to feel sorry for myself big time. Especially if jerk-face was really back next door. I couldn’t stand the possibility.

The truck parked in his driveway didn’t look familiar. And Clay’s modus operandi didn’t include driving a truck, anyway. He liked to own chick magnets like red sports cars with convertible tops. So this was encouraging.

I knocked on the door. As it opened, I saw a red and yellow Hawaiian shirtsleeve. This was so un-Clay I wanted to break out in song.

I looked up at the rest. Fiftyish, scruffy, beer belly, bulbous nose, and missing a tooth, which became obvious as soon as he smiled. Definitely not my ex-husband, who prided himself on keeping trim and fit for all his extracurricular activities.

“Is Clay here?” I asked just to be on the safe side.

“Clay who?”

Those two words were music to my ears. What a relief! My ex wasn’t back. I’d been worried for nothing.

“Never mind,” I said. “I thought you were somebody else. I live next door.”

He looked up from my chest and over at my house. “Is that right?” he said, with kind of a leering look back at me. “I’m Ford. Why don’t you come in and stay awhile, keep me company. Just how friendly a neighbor are you, Tootsie?”

I had a pretty good idea what that question was supposed to mean. Nobody had ever called me “Tootsie” before, and I decided I didn’t like his attitude.

“You didn’t buy this house, did you?” The for-sale sign was still out by the curb, but I felt those heart-attack symptoms coming back, imagining this guy living next door for an extended period of time. I wasn’t a snob, but Ford had
trouble
stamped all over his Neanderthal forehead.

“I rented it,” he said. “A nice real estate lady had an ad in the Milwaukee newspaper to lease it on a month-by-month basis, but I talked her into short-term.”

I felt all the blood drain out of my head. Lori Spandle and my ex-husband had rented the house to this character? “But it isn’t even furnished. What are you doing? Sleeping on the floor?”

“I brought my camping gear. And it’s just for the weekend. By then we’ll be done.”

I should have asked what he meant by that. Looking back, much later, I wish I had, especially the “we” part. But at the time, I was so grateful that he wasn’t going to be my permanent neighbor that I just wished him a good stay then backed away and trotted off.

The rest of the afternoon’s activities went as smooth as silk, as American as apple pie, as rosy as an heirloom tomato. Mom stayed out of my hair, too busy to bug the bees. Or else Grant had actually taken my threat against DeeDee seriously enough to tell her to leave the beehive exactly where it was. In that case, Mom would be mad and I’d hear about it eventually. But for now, life proceeded without a glitch.

At five o’clock the vendors began to shut down their booths and organize for tomorrow, which should be another big day. Sunday would feature the noon parade with Grams as Grand Marshal and DeeDee as Honey Queen. I could just imagine that little thief, sitting on the backseat of a convertible waving her sticky fingers at the crowd as she lapped up the moment.

I refocused before that particular topic carried me back into a funk. I firmly believe we can control our minds and attitudes, and that we get what we create. My mom’s negativity is a case in point. I banned her from my mind, right along with all other pessimistic thoughts. Gone.

I raised my eyes to the sky, taking in lazy cotton-ball clouds, lit orange from the setting sun. A flock of Canadian geese flew overhead in their familiar V-formation. Here in Wisconsin in August the days are getting shorter. That’s a clue for the monarch butterflies, bats, and migratory birds to fill up their tanks for the trip south.

Trent and Brent Craig, the twin brothers who’d been working for me since they were sophomores in high school, offered to close up. They were both thoughtful college students now, and helped out as much as they could. School wouldn’t start for several weeks, so I had them both on the schedule for the entire weekend. It didn’t take me long to accept their offer.