“And now?”
“I’m managing,” I said. “Or, at least, I like to think I am. My doctor thinks so, too. We still talk every Monday.”
“So you’re cured?”
“It’s not something that can really be cured. It’s more about managing the condition. Which isn’t always easy. Stress tends to make things worse.”
“Isn’t stress part of life?”
“No question,” I admitted. “That’s what makes it impossible to cure.”
She was silent for a moment before glancing at me with a wry smile. “Grand Theft Auto, huh? For whatever reason, I can’t picture you sitting on a couch playing video games all day.”
“I got really good at it. Which wasn’t easy, since I’m missing fingers, by the way.”
“Do you still play?”
“No. That was one of the changes I made. Long story short, my therapy is all about changing negative behaviors into positive ones.”
“My brother loves that game. Maybe I should get him to stop.”
“You have a brother?”
“And a sister. Sam is five years older than me, Kristen is three years older. And before you ask, they both live in the Raleigh area. They’re married with kids.”
“How did you end up here, then?”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as though debating how best to answer before finally offering a shrug. “Oh, you know. I met a boy in college. He was from here, and I made the move after I graduated. And here I am.”
“I take it that it didn’t work out.”
She closed her eyes before opening them again. “Not the way I wanted.”
The words came out quietly, but it was hard to read the emotion behind them. Regret? Resentment? Sadness? Figuring it wasn’t the time or place to ask, I let the subject drop. Instead, I shifted gears. “What was it like growing up in a small town? I mean, I thought New Bern was small, but 2,500 is tiny.”
“It was wonderful,” she replied. “My mom and dad knew just about everyone in town, and we left our doors unlocked. I knew everyone in all my classes, and I’d spend my summers riding my bike and swimming in the pool and catching butterflies. The older I get, the more I marvel at the simplicity of it.”
“Do you think your parents will live there forever?”
She shook her head. “No. A few years ago, they bought a place in Atlantic Beach. They already spend as much time there as they can, and I’m pretty sure that’s where they’ll end up when they finally retire. We actually had Thanksgiving there last year, and it’s just a matter of time now.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“How did you end up working for the sheriff’s department?”
“You asked me that before.”
“I’m still curious,” I said. “Because you didn’t really answer.”
“There’s not much to say about it. It just kind of happened.”
“How so?”
“In college, I majored in sociology, and after I graduated, I realized that unless I wanted to get my master’s or a PhD, there weren’t a lot of jobs in my field. And when I moved here, it became clear that unless you own a business or have a job at Cherry Point or work for the government or the hospital, you’re limited to service jobs. I thought about going back to school to become a nurse, but at the time, it seemed like too much effort. Then, I heard the sheriff’s department was hiring and on a whim, I applied. I was as surprised as anyone that I was accepted into the training program. I mean, to that point in my life, I’d never even held a gun. And that’s what I thought it would be like—bad guys, dangerous situations, shoot-outs—it’s all about the gun, right? That’s what they show on television, anyway, and that’s all I knew. But once I got in, I quickly figured out that it was more about people skills. It’s about defusing situations and calming emotions whenever possible. And, of course, paperwork. Lots of paperwork.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s like any job, I guess. There are parts about it I like, and other parts that I don’t. You occasionally experience things that you wish you hadn’t. Gut-wrenching things you can’t forget.”
“Have you ever shot someone?”
“No. And I’ve only had to draw my gun once. Like I said, it’s not what you see on television. But you know what?”
“Do tell.”
“Even though I’d never held a gun, I ended up being a pretty good shot. Top in my class, in fact. And since then, I’ve taken up skeet shooting and sporting clays, and I’m pretty good at those, too.”
“Sporting clays?”
“It’s like skeet—there are various stands and you use a shotgun—but the clays come from differing angles, with differing speeds and trajectories. It’s supposed to more accurately reflect the way birds and small game move in the wild.”
“I’ve never been hunting.”
“Neither have I. And I don’t want to. But if I ever did, I’d probably be pretty good.”
I couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for her. “It’s actually not that hard to imagine you with a shotgun. Since the first time I saw you, you were armed, I mean.”
“I find it…relaxing. When I’m at the range, I’m able to tune everything else out.”
“I hear massages are good for that. Personally, I prefer yoga.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You do yoga?”
“My psychiatrist’s recommendation. It’s helpful. I can now put on my shoes without having to sit down. It makes me popular at parties.”
“I’ll bet.” She laughed. “Where do you do yoga around here?”
“Nowhere yet. I haven’t looked for a place.”
“Will you?”
“Maybe. I won’t be here that long.”
“Will you ever come back?”
“I don’t know. I guess it depends on whether I sell the house. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be back at the end of summer for a week to finish harvesting the honey.”
“You know how to do that?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s actually not that hard. It’s sticky and messy, but not hard.”
She shuddered. “Bees scare me. I mean, not the friendly bumblebees, but the ones that buzz around your face like they’re trying to attack you.”
“Guard bees,” I said. “Some people call them bouncer bees. They’re not my favorite, either, but they’re important for the hive. They help protect it from predators and keep bees from other colonies out of the hive.”
“Are guard bees different than regular bees?”
“Not really. As a bee goes through its life cycle, it will serve in various jobs at various times: It’ll be an undertaker bee, or a bee that cleans the hive, or takes care of the queen, or feeds the larvae, or forages for nectar and pollen. And toward the end of its life, it may become a guard bee.”
“Undertaker bees?” she echoed.
“They remove the dead bees from the hive.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “My grandfather considered beehives to be the world’s most perfect community. Of course, the colonies are almost entirely female, so maybe that has something to do with it. In fact, I’d bet that almost every bee you’ve ever come across has been female.”
“Why?”
“Male bees are called drones, and they only have two functions: They eat, and fertilize the queen, so there’s not too many of them.” I grinned. “It’s kind of the perfect job, if you ask me. Eating and sex? I think I would have been a pretty good drone.”
She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she thought it was sort of funny. Score one for Benson.
“So…what does a beehive look like?” she asked. “I mean, the kind that beekeepers maintain, not natural ones?”
“I could describe it, but it would probably be better to actually see one. And I’d be happy to show you my grandfather’s, if you’d like to come by sometime.”
She seemed to study me. “When are you thinking?” she asked.
“Any time tomo
rrow is fine. Early afternoon? Say one o’clock?”
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure,” I said.
“All right,” she said with a sigh, before bending to retrieve her basket. “Thanks for the visit.”
“You too. But before you leave, would you like to join me for lunch? I’m getting kind of hungry.”
She tilted her head and I almost thought she’d say yes. Then: “Thank you, but I really can’t. I have some errands I have to run.”
“No worries.” I shrugged. “I just thought I’d offer.”
She just smiled and started walking, my eyes following her graceful figure.
“Natalie!” I called out.
She turned. “Yes?”
“If I was a betting man, what kind of odds would you give me that you’ll actually show up tomorrow?”
She pursed her lips. “Fifty-fifty?”
“Is there anything I can do to increase those odds?”
“You know,” she drawled, taking another step backward, “I really don’t think there is. Bye, now.”
I watched her recede into the distance, hoping she would turn to look back at me, but she didn’t. I remained at the rail, replaying our conversation, and contrasting it with the way Natalie had reacted when Julie appeared at the farmers’ market. I understood Natalie’s aversion to being the focus of small-town gossip, and yet the more I considered it, the more I wondered whether that was all of it. Natalie, I suddenly realized, had purposely limited her conversation with Julie not only because of what Julie might say to others, but also because there was something Natalie didn’t want me to know about herself.
Now, we all have secrets. Despite what I’d told her about my past, I was still a stranger, so there was no reason to expect her to share whatever hers were. But as I continued to reflect on the situation, I couldn’t shake the notion that Natalie was less concerned about what her secrets might reveal than about the guilt her secrets seemed to wield over her.
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 thoug
htful 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.”
The Return Page 7