By the time she was back on her bike, she’d resolved to put herself on a regular schedule. She’d take advantage of the cooler mornings to go out on the lake or to explore the island. In the afternoons, she’d start writing the chapters she’d promised her father.
As she neared the turnoff to Goose Cove Lane, she glimpsed the same robin’s-egg blue house she’d spotted yesterday. The island’s undulating shoreline made distances deceptive, but this must be where Toby and his grandmother lived—not all that far from the Remington home as the crow flew.
A mailbox leaned at a precarious angle on one side of the driveway with an abandoned farm stand on the other. Although the house was several miles from town, it had a decent location for selling summer produce, since the highway led to the south beach, the largest on the island and the place where she’d gone last night near sunset. A faded sign dangling crookedly from a broken chain read CAROUSEL HONEY FOR SALE.
Impulsively, she turned into the driveway.
Chapter Ten
BREE SCREAMED AND SPRANG AWAY from the hive.
“Oh, god … Oh, god … oh, god …” She moaned, hunched her shoulders, shivered. The mass she’d seen in the bottom of the brood box wasn’t an arbitrary collection of debris. Oh, no. It was a mouse. A dead mouse, petrified inside the sticky mass of protective propolis the bees had deposited around it.
She shuddered, jerked off her stiff leather beekeeper’s gloves, and retreated across the yard. According to Toby, Mr. Wentzel had given the bees a strong sugar solution last month, but now the hives needed to get new brood boxes. This was only the third hive she’d opened. What was she going to find inside the rest?
Maybe Star had it right after all. She’d hated working with her mother’s bees. But Bree wasn’t Star, and right from the beginning, the bees had fascinated her. Each summer she’d helped Myra with the hives. She’d loved the vague air of danger, the superiority of having a skill none of her brothers possessed. She liked the order of the colony, the strict rules that governed their society, the idea of a queen. Mainly, though, she’d liked being with Myra, who was quiet and private, so different from Bree’s own frantic, self-absorbed mother.
Bree had been awake most of the night studying Myra’s small collection of beekeeping books, but neither the books nor all her summers helping Myra had prepared her for this much responsibility. She’d even taken a beekeeping class a few years ago, but Scott had refused to let her put a hive in the yard, so she’d never done anything with it. And now here she was, with not a single hive to guard against rodents, parasites, and overcrowding but with fifteen of them.
She scratched her ankle with the toe of her opposite sneaker. Although Myra’s jacket with its attached hat and veil fit, the matching overalls weren’t designed for someone as tall and thin as she was, so she’d pulled on her own khaki slacks. Light clothing kept the bees calmer, since dark colors reminded them of predator animals like raccoons and skunks. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to tuck her slacks into her socks, which accounted for the sting throbbing near her ankle.
She considered the possibility of persuading Toby to dispose of the dead mouse, but he shared his mother’s dislike of bees, and it wasn’t likely. After yesterday’s spying incident, she’d intended to keep a better eye on him, but he was nowhere to be seen. What she did see was a teenage girl with dyed black hair and some messy dreadlocks coming around the side of the house. She wore a black tank top, shorts, and ugly boots. She was shorter than Bree, maybe five four, with small, even features and a generous mouth. If it weren’t for the awful hair and hard makeup, she might be pretty. She also looked vaguely familiar, although Bree was sure they’d never met.
She pushed her veil on top of her hat. The girl’s appearance made her uneasy, not just because of the tattoo and nose ring, but because nobody had bothered her until yesterday. She liked feeling invisible, and she wanted to keep it that way.
“I’m guessing you’re not Toby’s grandmother,” the girl said.
Despite her tough appearance, she didn’t seem threatening. Bree tossed her gloves down next to the smoker she’d been using to calm the bees. Myra used to work the hives with her bare hands, but Bree wasn’t even close to being ready for that. “Toby’s grandmother passed away at the beginning of May.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” She extended her hand, an odd thing for a young girl to do. “I’m Viper.”
Viper? Bree returned the handshake, but it felt odd. In her old social circle, hugs were de rigueur, even with women she barely knew. “Bree West.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Bree. Does Toby happen to be around?”
How did this girl know Toby? Once again Bree felt the scope of her incompetence. She didn’t know where Toby was or what he did when he was out of her sight. “Toby!”
No answer.
“He’s probably in the woods,” the woman said with a kindness that made Bree realize she wasn’t a teenager after all. “Are you Toby’s mother?”
Bree’s pale redhead’s complexion had earned her the nickname Corpse from her brothers, and considering Toby’s racial heritage, she thought the woman was being ironic. But she seemed sincere. “No. I’m … his guardian.”
“I see.” Something about her steadfast gaze made Bree feel as if she really did see—maybe more than Bree wanted her to.
“Can I help you?” Bree knew she sounded brusque, but she wanted her to leave so she could get back to the bees. More urgently, she needed a cigarette.
“We’re neighbors,” the woman said. “I’m renting the Remington house.”
The Remington house? Her house. Could this be the woman Toby had been spying on? She pretended ignorance. “Remington house? I … only got here a couple of weeks ago.”
“It’s on the other side of the woods. There’s a path.”
The path she and Star had raced along a thousand times.
The woman glanced toward the hives. “You’re a beekeeper.”
“Toby’s grandmother was the beekeeper. I’m just trying to keep the hives alive.”
“Do you have a lot of experience?”
Bree laughed, a rusty sound that she barely recognized as her own. “Hardly. I worked with bees when I was growing up, but it’s been a long time. Fortunately, these are healthy, established colonies, and the cold spring seems to have kept them from swarming. If I don’t screw up, they should be okay.”
“That’s great.” She seemed honestly impressed. “Would you mind if I borrowed Toby for a while tomorrow? I need help moving furniture. He’s visited me a few times, and I thought he might like some work.”
He hadn’t been visiting. He’d been spying. “I … hope he didn’t cause any trouble.”
“An angel like Toby?”
Her ironically lifted eyebrow took Bree by surprise. Once again, she heard herself laugh. “He’s all yours.”
The woman who called herself Viper turned in the general direction of the woods and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Toby! I need help over at the house tomorrow afternoon. If you want to make some money, come see me.”
There was no answer, but that didn’t seem to bother her. She returned her attention to the hives. “I’ve always been interested in bees, but I don’t know anything about them. Would it be presumptuous to ask if you’d let me watch you work sometime?”
Her vocabulary and manner were so at odds with her appearance that Bree was taken aback. Maybe that was why she found herself giving a brusque nod. “If you’d like.”
“Great. I’ll see you soon.” With a smile, she headed back the way she’d come.
Bree turned toward the hives, then stopped as she was struck with a sudden thought. “How do you feel about mice?” she called out.
“Mice?” The woman stopped. “Not my favorites. Why?”
Bree hesitated, then gestured toward the last hive in the row. “If you’re interested in beekeeping, there’s something unusual you might be interested in seeing. Have you ever heard of propolis
?”
“No. What is it?”
“This heavy, sticky substance bees collect to seal crevices in the hive. It has antibacterial qualities—some commercial beekeepers even harvest it.” She tried to sound professorial. “The bees also use it as a kind of hygienic seal around any hive invaders to protect the colony from infection. Go take a look.”
The woman walked toward the hive, a lamb to the mouse slaughter. She stopped in front of the noisome lump and gazed down at it. “Gross.”
But she didn’t move away. She kept staring. Bree snatched up the shovel she’d propped by the step. “If you want to pick it up and throw it into the gully …”
The woman glanced over her shoulder.
Bree did her best to continue her bright, informative chatter. “The propolis has actually mummified the mouse. Isn’t that fascinating?”
“You’re conning me.”
In the path of that steady gaze, Bree’s posturing collapsed. “I—can do it myself. I’ll have to. But … I hate mice, and you seem like the kind of person who’s up for anything.”
The woman’s eyes brightened. “I do?”
Bree nodded.
“Excellent.” She took the shovel, scooped up the mouse detritus, and tossed it into the gully.
It had been forever since another person had done something nice for her—even if she’d been manipulated into doing it—and Bree couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so touched.
CURIOSITY ABOUT TOBY AND HIS grandmother had made Lucy stop at the cottage. Or maybe she’d simply been procrastinating because, if Panda’s SUV was still in the drive, she had to pack up and leave. Still, as tense as she was, she couldn’t be any more uptight than Toby’s guardian.
Bree was a beautiful woman, despite being almost brittlely thin. There was an old-fashioned fragility about her sharply cut features and translucent complexion. Lucy could see her in Victorian dress, that long neck rising out of a high lace collar, auburn hair caught up on her head. Something told her the woman was carrying a boatload of trouble on her thin shoulders. But how did Toby fit into the picture?
It was none of her business, and she shouldn’t have given in to the impulse to invite Toby to the house, but as soon as she’d heard that his grandmother was dead, she couldn’t help herself. Gutsy kids were her weakness. Right along with throwing herself at the first man she’d met after she pulled her runaway act.
She rounded the last curve, held her breath, and turned into the drive.
His car was gone. She’d never have to see him again.
As she leaned the bike against the back of the house, she wondered if jumping into bed with Panda had been her twisted way of justifying running from her wedding. She couldn’t have found a better way to prove to herself how unworthy she was to marry a man like Ted. Both a comforting and a disturbing thought. It would explain why she’d acted so out of character, but it was hardly a positive reflection on her character.
Determined to file away that short, painful chapter of her life forever, she let herself into the house with the key she’d unearthed from a broken wicker basket buried underneath expired pizza coupons, outdated ferry schedules, dead flashlight batteries, and a ten-year-old island phone book. She headed for the kitchen and found Toby sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal.
“Do make yourself at home,” she drawled. The German coffeemaker had been freshly rinsed out, and she doubted Toby had done it. Other than that, she saw no signs that Panda had been here.
Toby gave her his customary hostile glare. “How much are you going to pay me?”
“How much are you worth?”
He munched another spoonful of Cheerios. “A lot.”
“I’ll pay you by the job. Now hand over that house key you’ve been hanging on to.”
He was all bravado. “I don’t need a key to get in here.”
“Right. You used your Spidey powers.” She marched over to him and held out her hand.
He scratched a mosquito bite on his arm, and she could see him trying to decide whether to brazen it out, but he finally dug into his shorts’ pocket. After he’d given her the key, he poked his spoon around in the cereal. “How come you’re not mad about my grandmother?”
“Who says I’m not mad?”
“You don’t look mad.”
“I’m good at hiding my feelings. Serial killers learn to do that.”
“You’re a serial killer?”
“Not yet. But I’m thinking about starting. Like maybe today.”
The beginnings of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He quickly reined it in. “You think you’re funny, but you’re not.”
“Matter of opinion.” She’d told herself she wouldn’t get involved, yet here she was. Typical of those who didn’t know how to deal with their own problems. They poked around in other people’s troubles so they could feel better about themselves. She pocketed the key. “Bree seems nice.”
He made a dismissive sound. “She’s only staying with me till my dad gets home. He’s a tower dog. They’re the guys that put up stuff like cell phone towers. It’s the most dangerous job in the world.”
He was lying—she knew an orphan when she saw one. She poured some water from the tap and drank half of it. As she dumped the rest down the sink, she thought of how much she used to love working with kids like Toby. She’d been good at it, too, and giving up that job had been heart-wrenching. But as a caseworker, she could help only a few kids, and as a lobbyist, she helped thousands, something she always had to keep in mind whenever she was tempted to quit.
“Here’s the thing, Toby. I have a brother and three sisters, so I know when a kid isn’t telling the truth. If that’s the way you want it to be between us, it’s your choice. But it means I can’t really help you if you ever need help.” He opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t need help from anybody. She cut him off. “And … it means I can never ask you for help if I need it. Because there’s no trust. See how that works?”
“Who cares?”
“Apparently not you.” There were no dirty dishes in the sink. Either Panda hadn’t eaten or he’d washed up after himself. She took a banana from a bowl on the counter.
“My dad really was a tower dog,” Toby said in a small voice from behind her. “He died when I was four. He was saving another guy who got stuck, and that’s the truth.”
She peeled the banana, deliberately keeping her back to him. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t even know who my father was.”
“What about your mom?”
“She died when I was fourteen. She wasn’t a great mom.” She concentrated on the banana, still not looking at him. “I got adopted, though, so I was lucky.”
“My mom ran away not too long after I was born.”
“It doesn’t sound like she was a great mom, either.”
“My grandma was great.”
“And you miss her.” She set aside the banana and finally turned to face him, only to watch tears gathering in his big brown eyes. Tears he wouldn’t appreciate her witnessing. “We have a lot of work to do.” She moved briskly toward the sunroom. “Let’s get to it.”
For the next several hours, Toby helped her carry broken furniture, moth-eaten cushions, and desiccated draperies to a spot at the end of the drive where she’d get someone to haul it away. Panda might not have any respect for this house, but she did, and if he didn’t like it, he could sue her.
Toby tried to make up for his lack of muscle with a seriousness of purpose that touched her to the core. She never got to work one on one with kids anymore, not unless they were related to her.
Together she and Toby struggled to carry out an ancient television that no longer worked. He filled trash bags with the decades-old magazines and tattered paperbacks she handed him from the sunroom bookcases, then wiped the shelves as she rearranged what was left. Although they tried, the awful green kitchen table proved too heavy for them to move, and they both ended up with nasty splinters for their efforts.
When she’d had enough for the day, she carried some money out to the screen porch Toby had just finished helping her scrub down. His eyes widened when he saw what she was paying him. He quickly shoved the bills in his pocket. “I can come back anytime,” he said eagerly. “And I’ll clean the house, too. I know it didn’t look too good before, but I’m a lot better now.”
She regarded him sympathetically. “Panda’s going to need a caretaker who’s a grown-up.” As his face fell, she went on, “But I have some other jobs in mind for you.”
“I’m just as good as a grown-up.”
“He won’t see it that way.”
He stomped across the porch and banged the screen door behind him, but she knew he’d be back, and he was.
Over the next few days, they swept up cobwebs and scrubbed floors. She covered the worst of the outdoor cushions with more beach towels and discovered the metal baker’s rack that looked clunky in the front hallway fit perfectly on the porch. Gradually the ceramic pig, chipped canisters, and other detritus that had cluttered up the counters disappeared. She filled a blue pottery bowl with ripe strawberries and a jelly jar with roses she found growing on an old rambler behind the garage. The arrangement was a far cry from the incredible creations that came out of the White House flower shop, but she liked it just as much.
By the fourth day after Panda had left, they were ripping up the ugly carpet in the gloomy den. “You got any more bread?” Toby asked as they finished the job.
“You polished off the last slice.”
“Are you gonna make more?”
“Not today.”
“You should make more.” He studied her newest accessory, a gorgeous dragon tattoo that curled from her collarbone around her neck with its fiery mouth pointing toward her earlobe. “How old are you anyway?”
She started to tell him she was eighteen, then stopped herself. If she wanted him to be truthful, she had to be straightforward. “Thirty-one.”
“That’s old.”
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