How to Charm a Beekeeper's Heart

by Candice Sue Patterson

  “Tell you what, Grandma.” Mallory, the bride’s sister and maid of honor, picked up her purse as well. “If you don’t finish that sentence, I’ll buy you some ice cream.”

  Grandma agreed and left the shop without another word.

  What the woman didn’t realize was that Huck Anderson couldn’t be caught. He might resemble the noble hero in a classic western, but he was really the villain. And she’d been his victim.

  Huck the acquaintance, she could keep at a safe distance. Huck the landlord, however, would be a whole different story.

  ~*~

  Bees flew in and out of the fascia boards of Widow Haywood’s peeling, orange, Cape Cod. She’d called Huck in a panic the night before, terrified her house was infested. Said their buzzing interfered with her hearing aid, and she could smell honey seeping through the walls.

  The woman had been fifty-two cards short of a full deck before her husband was abducted by aliens. Bee infestations were a common problem, but there was no way they interfered with her hearing device.

  Huck strapped his tool belt around his waist and climbed the extension ladder, slowly approaching the hidden hive. Bees smacked into his veiled helmet and buzzed around his arms.

  He ignited the bee smoker and pumped it, sending a cool white cloud through the nozzle. With gloves in place, he sprayed the entrance to the hive with a few short puffs. Dazed bees scattered. The aged, brittle boards moaned as he detached them from the studs. Normally, bee droning relaxed him, but nothing in the past two days had erased Arianne’s face from his mind.

  Why couldn’t his uncle have left him something practical, like his fifty-state spoon collection or antique lobster buoys? Huck would’ve gladly accepted the mint-condition Chevelle. He hadn’t even known Uncle Marty owned real estate. Why leave the building to Huck?

  A man owning a bridal shop was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. Well, he didn’t own the business, but owning the building was bad enough. Uncle Marty knew how Huck felt about marriage. The whole thing was nothing but a bad excuse to spend money and eat cake.

  Six stepdads proved his point.

  He rolled his head from side to side to ease the tension in his neck. How bad was Arianne’s financial position? Her last name had changed. Didn’t she have a husband to support her? ‘Course, there’d been no ring. Yeah, he’d noticed. Along with her hourglass curves and distrusting blue eyes, all of which he’d like to see a little closer.

  And the kid. A tiny copy of her mother who’d looked at him with wonder, like he was a celebrity or something. The same way Arianne used to, until he’d blown it. Big time.

  If only his new tenant had been a stranger. Anyone but Arianne. He couldn’t evict her now. There’d be tears involved. Maybe he could help her find a new location, or offer a good price if she’d buy the building.

  With the swarm captive and secured in his truck bed, fascia boards back in place, he loaded the ladder, running through his options before his meeting with Arianne tomorrow. He cursed under his breath. If he hadn’t witnessed his uncle’s struggle with pneumonia, he’d swear the man had died on purpose.

  After the death of Queen Elizabeth I, England’s economy plummeted. The poor and unemployed were encouraged by ministers and political leaders to start over in The New World. This exodus was referred to as “hiving off.”

  —Bees in America: How the Honey Bee Shaped

  a Nation by Tammy Horn, The University Press of Kentucky, 2005

  3

  The rickety wooden chair groaned as Arianne leaned against it and studied the sketch in front of her. She squinted and tipped the paper one way, then the other. The charcoal pencil dangled loosely between her fingers as she studied the dress: sweetheart neckline, beaded bodice, ball gown silhouette with multiple layers of tulle. She slipped her thumbnail between her teeth.

  Something was missing.

  “Mommy, I’m hungry.” Emma sat amidst her Barbie collection, the majority of which had been Arianne’s when she was a child. Their rubber legs were chipped and scuffed. A few dolls sported spiky hairdos from when Arianne had decided to try her hand at hairdressing. Edward Scissorhands would have done a better job.

  “All right, precious, give me a few more minutes.”

  Arianne curled her leg beneath her and continued to examine the sketch. “Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo” filled the room, disrupting her creativity. She tucked the pencil in her bun and shifted her attention to the small television, where Cinderella’s fairy godmother waved her wand and transformed the girl’s rags into an exquisite silvery blue gown.

  That’s it! Arianne yanked the pencil from her hair, bringing loose strands with it. She grazed the charcoal across the paper a few more times then brought out her pastels. With a feathery-soft touch, she added the slightest hint of robin’s egg blue to the hem, giving the bride her “something blue.”

  The front door slammed. Arianne jumped, dumping her pastels on the carpet. Missy barreled into the room, shuffling through a stack of white envelopes. “I’m famished. What’s for supper?”

  Was that all she was good for around here? Though she didn’t mind feeding Emma, waiting on her loafing sister, who was capable of fixing her own supper, and finding a job if she really wanted to, was a whole different matter.

  Arianne opened her mouth to say as much, but swallowed the words instead. It was her fault Missy acted the way she did. Arianne pulled off her glasses, set them on the desk, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I was just getting to that.”

  “Ooh, my hair salon has a discount on highlights this month.” Missy held up a postcard and smiled.

  Where did an unemployed, single woman find money for highlights? Arianne touched the loose tendrils escaping her messy bun. She hadn’t had a haircut in almost a year. Her thick, natural curls had slackened into waves as it grew. But when she’d have a little extra cash, Emma would grow four inches overnight. It was either her hair or her daughter.

  She glanced at the little stinker, encircled by an explosion of miniature eighties outfits and tiny shoes. Emma focused on the television, her legs stretched in front of her. Her jeans ended an inch above her thin purple socks. It was time to go shopping again.

  “Here’s your mail.” Missy handed over the stack. “There’s a final notice for something in there.”

  Arianne closed her eyes and drew in a patient breath. “Thanks for the good news.”

  “Someone’s sassy today.” Missy sank onto the couch and sprawled her body the length of the cushions. With a dramatic sigh, she lowered her lids as if she’d just returned home after an exhausting day’s work.

  “Forgive me, but you seem a little too eager to drive that final nail into my coffin.”

  Missy yawned. “What’s your deal? Did you have another bride back out on you or something?”

  “Well…yes. Among other things.” Like the fact that there’s more month than money, Huck’s trying to close me down, I’ve gained six pounds, and I’m noticing fine lines around my eyes.

  She stared at her twenty-five-year-old sister. Missy’s jeans formed to her perfect, lean legs. Her flawless tan complexion glowed against her walnut-colored hair. No glasses, pimples, wrinkles, or cellulite. Enough to make a supermodel jealous.

  Arianne’s stomach howled. Supper—a problem she could fix. She put away her art supplies, tucked her dreams back into the compartment of her heart marked Maybe Someday, and patted Emma’s head on her way to the kitchen. As Arianne filled a stock pot with water, she let the sound of rushing liquid from the faucet wash over her. Time for plan…what letter was she on now, G?

  Missy entered the kitchen and went to the fridge, scanning the miniscule selection. “So what excuse did they give this time?”

  “What do you mean?” Arianne turned off the water and set the pot on the chipped stovetop to boil.

  “The lost bride. What reason did she give?”

  “Same excuse as the others.” Arianne twisted the burner knob to high. “She kept looking and found he
r dream gown at a couture salon.”

  Missy shuffled through the fridge and pulled out a soda can. “Last one. Can I have it?”

  Arianne’s shoulders drooped. Diet Mountain Dew. Her one splurge. “Sure.”

  The can hissed as Missy popped the tab with her French-manicured, artificial nails. Arianne looked down at her own blunt fingernails, barely revealing any white. She sighed and turned her attention to the bubbles skimming the bottom of the pot.

  “You have that problem a lot. Have you ever considered carrying higher-end designs?”

  Arianne rolled her eyes. “No, it never crossed my mind.” She pulled uncooked spaghetti noodles from the dingy yellow cabinet. “Of course I’ve thought about it. But that takes money I don’t have.”

  She retrieved a skillet and set it on the stovetop. “The gowns aren’t the problem. The problem is that brides don’t know what they want. They think they have an idea, but they really don’t have a clue. I work hard to find a vintage dress that fits their style and personality. Then they walk into a couture salon and get enchanted by a modern Italian label with a diamond-encrusted bust line.”

  Missy leaned against the counter and slurped the carbonation from the can’s rim. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it might be because your dresses are so…old-fashioned.”

  Arianne spun to face her sister. “Vintage. My dresses are vintage. There’s a difference. And what woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to look like Elizabeth Taylor on her wedding day?”

  “Apparently, lots.” Missy clicked her fingernails on the dull, Formica countertop. “Your original designs are a perfect blend of modern and vintage. Why don’t you start making your own gowns and selling them in your shop?”

  Did her sister think her incapable of coming up with a good idea on her own? She’d only dreamed of that since she was five. “I’d love to, but again, that takes money. Money for materials, money to pay employees to run the shop while I sew, money to pay a skilled seamstress to take over alterations on the ready-made gowns…the list goes on and on.”

  “You’ll get there someday.”

  “Doubtful.” Arianne added salt to the boiling water, followed by the noodles.

  The aluminum can clanked against the countertop. “What’s this, the eternal optimist throwing in the towel?”

  Arianne fetched a package of ground beef from the fridge and dropped the thawed meat into the skillet. It sizzled, like the sound of her life going up in flames. “I’d rather quit on my own terms than be forced out by cowboy Casanova.”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m losing the boutique.”

  “What are you talking about?” Missy leaned her elbows on the counter, standing close enough for Arianne to smell the freesia scent weaved into her clothes. Had Missy been into her perfume again?

  “Martin Billings, the man who owns the building—”

  “He’s not going to start making you pay rent again is he? You guys had a deal.”

  Arianne shook her head. “Worse. Do you remember Huck Anderson from high school?”

  Her sister chuckled. “Who could forget Huck? He was every girl’s southern fantasy.”

  “Turns out he’s Martin’s nephew.” Arianne planted a hand on her hip. “Huck inherited the building when Martin passed away last month. I just found out a few days ago.” The browned beef blurred in her teary vision. “I feel awful for not attending his funeral. Martin was so good to me.”

  She sniffled, and Missy pulled her into a hug. “There, there. You didn’t know…” Missy rubbed her palm on Arianne’s back. Her sister might be flighty, but she was always there when Arianne needed her.

  “So what makes you think you’re losing the business?” Her soft voice reminded Arianne of their mother’s.

  “And this apartment. Huck came by the other day to tell me about Martin. He brought up the rent issue several times. He clearly wasn’t happy.”

  Missy pulled away. “But you had a deal.”

  “Not in writing.”

  Her sister’s expression looked as hopeless as Arianne felt. Then her eyes widened and her lips curled. “That was Huck I ran into when I dropped off Emma the other day?”

  Arianne nodded.

  “Wow. It was like hitting a brick wall.”

  Arianne stirred the noodles, ignoring the visual of perfectly sculpted muscles her sister had just put into her head.

  “I didn’t think he could get any hotter.”

  Agreed, but Arianne wasn’t about to admit it. “Please. The guy’s a celebrity in his own mind.” She rubbed her nose. “He was going to hand me my death sentence the other day, I could feel it, but we were actually busy for once and kept getting interrupted. He wants to meet with me after work tomorrow to discuss it. Can you watch Emma for me?”

  Missy crossed her arms and cast a mock glare. “What do I look like, a nanny? I’m already watching her for your date tomorrow night.”

  “Actually—my jobless sister who crashes on my couch several times a week, eats my cooking, wears my perfume, and drinks my last Diet Mountain Dew—you do look like a nanny.”

  Missy smirked. “Wake me up when supper’s ready.”

  The quiet kitchen amplified Arianne’s gloomy thoughts. She’d wanted to carry her personal designs in a shop she owned for as long as she could remember. Her dream lingered on her tongue, but she couldn’t fully taste it. She glanced around the run-down kitchen. This wasn’t where she’d imagined herself on the precipice of thirty.

  Then again, she hadn’t imagined her husband running out on her three years into their marriage, either. How she wished she could go back and see that one coming. Love truly was blind. And clueless.

  When supper was ready, she placed the ice-filled glasses, bread and butter, napkins, silverware, and spaghetti on the table. The trio gathered around the tiny, round table. The only thing absent was a chocolate cake.

  “Mommy, Mommy.” Emma pushed from her chair and sprinted back into the living room.

  Arianne put down her glass and followed her daughter’s enthusiasm, wishing she could grasp pieces out of the air. “What’s up, pumpkin?”

  “Watch, Mommy, it’s our favorite part.”

  Little fingers hooked around her hand, and together they watched Cinderella and Prince Charming burst through the church doors and climb into the horse-drawn carriage, love and happiness plastered on their faces. While the mice cheered, the royal couple rode off in the sunset to their happily-ever-after.

  Arianne sighed. Why couldn’t her love life be as sweet as those fairytales?

  ~*~

  Foamy waves crashed against jagged boulders, churning the greenish water. The color reminded Arianne of the jade Depression glass her grandma used to display on shelves in the summer kitchen. She missed the security of those days, the sun’s warmth washing over her through the windows at sunrise, bouncing prisms of light off Grandma’s collections.

  She paused for a moment to enjoy the scenery, and inhaled a deep breath to steady the orchestra of nerves playing a grand concerto in her stomach. The woodwinds carried the melody of anxiety, mingled with brass notes of nausea. Then the string section played the slow, mournful tune of what loomed in her future. It would be beautiful music, really, if it wasn’t her life’s song.

  She climbed the natural granite steps up the hill, moving aside for customers who made their way back to the parking lot. Lord, please give me the strength to get through this.

  Picnic tables dressed in blue and white gingham were scattered along the level plateau. The Atlantic stretched for miles, disappearing on the horizon. The smell of lobster and buttered corn on the cob made her mouth water, and she brushed her fingertips along her mouth to make sure no drool had escaped.

  Huck stood from his seat at a table as she neared. He smiled, revealing straight, white teeth. His dimples carved deep canyons in his tan cheeks. It wasn’t fair. He was better equipped for battle.

  “Arianne.” He nodded, touching the bill of his bal
l cap.

  Her heart tripped. She enjoyed, way too much, the way her name rolled off his tongue, warm and soft like fresh cotton towels from the dryer. He was still every bit the small town celebrity—tall, muscular build, a little scruff, and just enough suave to be dangerous. Not to mention the twang.

  “Huck.”

  “Where’s the kid?”

  “With the sitter.”

  “How’s her knee?”

  “Fine.”

  He scratched his neck. “Oh. Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starvin’.” He patted his gut, which she knew, thanks to Missy’s description, felt as rock hard as the ground they stood on. “Order whatever you want. It’s on me.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” Actually, she was famished, but Travis was taking her into Bar Harbor tonight for dinner, and since fine dining was a rare occasion for her, she wanted to have an appetite.

  “I’ll be back, then.” He swaggered to the order window, lifted the hem of his black shirt, and pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his boot cut jeans. He’d never adapted to the layered, outdoorsy fashion of true Mainers. He epitomized the traditional southern male, charmingly good manners with a side of wild—a dangerous combination for any east coast girl.

  She lowered onto the wood bench, hating herself for being attracted to the goon, and closed her pink cardigan sweater against the cool breeze blowing off the water. The late-May sun blazed warmer than normal for this time of year, but it was still chilly.

  She’d always loved this place, though as a teenager she enjoyed it with her family, as opposed to the popular kids who’d used it as a local hangout. That crowd had made a sport of overlooking her, making her feel invisible. Until the day she found Huck leaning against her locker.

  With his sexy drawl, he’d begged her to help him study for his math and English finals, to which she reluctantly—and delightedly—agreed. She was shocked that the football star even knew she existed. Then one night, after cramming for weeks, he looked up from his book, and all doubts that he saw her vanished. Huck leaned closer and—