Editor’s Note: The story below is the second installment in a new serial novel by Laura Boggess, The Honey Field. Future installments of this delightful and intriguing story of love, loss, the earth and the bees, will be available to Tweetspeak Patrons only. Become a Patron to follow along.
“You know, I can take those bees off your hands if you like.”
They were alone in the kitchen, putting up lunch. The others were in the living room, reviewing what they’d learned, laughing loudly, and comparing cell phone pictures. Before she could respond, their quiet conversation was interrupted.
“Omigosh, these tarts are a-mazing!” She recognized the skinny voice that had spoken up on the way down the hill, mouth now full of tart. “You have to give me this recipe!” This person looked twelve years old to her. Could she possibly know her way around a kitchen? The girl closed her eyes, leaned against the kitchen doorframe, and savored. “What is that (chew, chew) little (chew) tang I’m tasting? Ever so subtle, but the perfect touch with the honey and brie.” Peach juice was running down her chin, honey dripped from her fingertips.
She smiled, glancing apologetically at Rhoda. “You might be tasting the little bit of apple cider I used to deglaze the shallots. I’d be glad to give you the recipe. It’s pretty easy to make if you have the right ingredients.”
The girl dimpled. “Thank you so much! I’m hosting a bridal shower next week and this would be perfect on the menu. Here, let me give you my card. If you email it to me, that would be great.”
A bridal shower! When was the last time … The girl handed her a plain ivory card with the state parks and recreation logo at the top. She scanned the simple print.
Anna Ferris
botanist, naturalist
Division of Natural Resources
“Oh! You’re a botanist! You look much too young,” she smiled. “And one of our naturalists too. Corrie was so dedicated to that program. Did you know …”
The words came out before she had a chance to think about them and she regretted them immediately. How could she? Bring up Corrie’s name like a bit of small talk? Anna’s face changed from one of open pleasure to a mask of sympathy.
“I’m older than I look. I’ve had my bachelor’s for three years. Working on my doctorate now. And, yes, I did—know Corrie. I made a point to take every class Corrie taught in the program. I’ve never met anyone who understood the natural world so thoroughly! Such a phenomenal teacher … I will always be grateful for …”
“Yes, yes,” she said, dropping Anna’s card on the table and turning to the sink. “I’ll send you the recipe tonight.” She turned on the hot water and started piling saucers and coffee cups in to soak. Rhoda studied her face from across the room.
Anna hesitated before joining her and helping stack dishes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I just … I am not giving you platitudes. Corrie’s passion for the earth is the reason I continued on with the naturalist program. Sometimes a person comes along and changes the way you see the world. Corrie did that for me.”
Me too, she thought. She let her hands soak in the hot, sudsy water. Suddenly, she was exhausted. She shifted her gaze out the window into the back yard. There was no wind and the sun languished hazily in the western sky. We need some rain, she thought. She sighed heavily.
“Thank you. I’m the one who should apologize. It’s still just … very hard for me.”
“Of course. I understand.”
Anna reached over and squeezed her shoulder awkwardly before leaving the kitchen. Rhoda moved over beside her and joined in, rinsing, and then drying the dishes already washed.
“The bees?” Rhoda asked, wiping the inside of a mug.
She felt her phone vibrate and dried her hands slowly before removing it from her pocket. She stared at the screen blankly for a moment before tapping, “ignore call.”
Rhoda exhaled loudly beside her. “Well?”
“Let me think about it,” was all she could say because of the sudden lump in her throat.
::
That night, she read some more poems and Corrie came to her again.
Corrie never spoke to her in the dreams, just looked at her with those gray eyes, stayed close by—sometimes taking her hand, sometimes touching her face, sometimes walking just ahead, out of reach. Tonight, she rested her head in Corrie’s lap and Corrie combed fingers gently through her hair. The Billy Joel song “Honesty” was playing somewhere in the background. When she woke up, her face was wet with tears.
::
It was this one that sent her into a tailspin of apathy and caused her to take to her bed again:
On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.
Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.
The vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that it was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.
I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
Perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.
—Rabindranath Tagore (Earth Song)
::
On the third day, she made herself get out of bed. She knew she had to eat something. She shuffled to the sink and filled a glass with water. Her head throbbed like the bass drum in a heavy metal band. She moved to the fridge and pulled the heavy door open. There were still two peach tarts wrapped snug on the top shelf. Oh, shoot! She forgot to send that recipe to Anna the skinny-voiced botanist. And the girl has the bridal shower this week. She glanced over her shoulder. Anna’s card was still on the table where she’d left it three days ago. She took one of the tarts and the card over to the computer desk and settled in. The tart was gooey from too much time but still made her mouth happy. What she really needed was some coffee. She looked across the room at the forgotten carafe. It seemed so far away. But there was nothing for it. Maybe some caffeine would help this headache.
She got back up from the chair and went about the business of spooning the beans, grinding them to just the right consistency, measuring out the tap water. It wouldn’t take long to brew. She glanced askance at the computer in the corner of the room. Why was she avoiding this?
She willed her feet to take her back to the tiny makeshift office. Sighed heavily. Sat down. Pulled up the email. Picking up the card, she carefully typed Anna’s email address in the proper space.
Dear Anna,
She stared at the blank document for a minute.
I’m sorry for the delay in getting this recipe to you. I misplaced your card and only just came across it this morning…
It wasn’t a total lie. She had just come across the card this morning. She needn’t say it was because she’d been in bed for three days.
She tapped the delete button several times.
Dear Anna,
I’m sorry for the delay in getting this recipe to you. After the class left I found myself feeling a little down and am only just now finding the energy to follow-up on my promise.
At least that was honest. If not an understatement.
For this recipe, you will need:
extra virgin olive oil
2-3 medium shallots, thinly sliced
apple cider vinegar
kosher salt and black pepper
2 sheets frozen puff pastry, thawed
1 (8 ounce) wheel Brie each, cut into 8-10 slices (leave the rind on)
1/4 cup fresh basil, chopped
3 peaches, sliced
1 egg, beaten
1/3 cup honey
fresh chopped rosemary
She typed out the instructions for the tart from memory. She hesitated at the end, but after considering, decided to include her phone number in case Anna had any questions. It was the polite thing to do. The recipe was easy and straightforward. She didn’t expect there would be any questions. Not at all.
~
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Photo by Sharon Mollerus, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Story by Laura Boggess, author of Mildred’s Garden and Waiting for Neruda’s Memoirs.
- The Honey Field—10: Anna’s Heart - May 24, 2023
- The Honey Field—9: Breaker - May 10, 2023
- The Honey Field—8: Swarming - April 19, 2023
Bethany says
I like that she retyped the email in order to more accurately express herself. Shows us another part of her thinking and personality.
I like the structure too— the sections of different days and their flavors.
Laura says
Thank you, Bethany! Yes, I think honesty and transparency is important to our main character. I’m glad you picked that out. We’ll see where we go from here…
Laurie Klein says
O that tender dream.
And what a delicious place to leave us . . . wanting more story (and tarts)!
Laura says
Sneaking a little foreshadowing in, but can’t squeeze by a master scene-setter like you! Those yummy whatsits keep popping up…