By the afternoon she was feeling almost human again, almost able to hold her head up with only the power of her neck, almost able to enter polite society. She even felt a little bit lonely. She was surprised to find her feet carrying her down the meadow path, making her way to the bees. She recalled, as she strode down the hill, a conversation she’d had with Corrie not long after they received the diagnosis.
“You will have to tell the bees,” Corrie had said, gravely. “After I’m gone.”
“What?” She’d almost giggled, thinking it a joke—Corrie’s way of making the heavy light.
“Yep. It’s a tradition. The bees must be told when there is a death in the family. Some people say the news must be sung. Some will drape black cloth over the hives. You don’t need to do all that. But you will have to tell them. Otherwise, they’ll wonder.”
She had told Corrie to hush. Said she didn’t want to think of such things. Tell the bees, indeed. Most days, she had to tell herself. Be reminded. It was too easy to drift along, pretend.
She shook her head to shake off the thoughts. Turned her mind to the bees.
If she decided to keep the bees, she would have to deal with harvesting the honey very soon. Rhoda was clear on that. She wasn’t sure she was up to it if she was honest with herself. All the honey, all the sweet … all that would remind her heart of Corrie. And though she didn’t want to forget, she knew she couldn’t keep living in the land of dreams and poetry.
When she arrived at the clearing, there wasn’t much to see. She didn’t want to suit up, so she sat in the grass at a distance, watched a few foragers come and go. The goldenrod was nectaring, she could tell by the way the plush, yellow heads of the flowers bent under the weight. The bees were getting their fill, she could hear the steady hum of hundreds of wings settle over the meadow. She leaned back into the thick grass and closed her eyes, let herself fall into the hum and the sky and the scent of green.
::
When she got back to the house there were three missed calls on her phone. She knew who one would be, stared at the name in anger and frustration. They called every day now. Except Sundays. And just one time a day. No message, not even a cursory one. She couldn’t explain the red-hot anger that appeared behind her eyes every time she saw the name. Didn’t even want to try. She didn’t even hesitate before deleting that call with one swipe of her finger. She didn’t recognize the other number, assumed a telemarketer. But it was unusual for the junk callers to call twice. And they’d left messages, apparently. She lifted the phone to her ear.
“Ah, uh, yeah, this is Anna, from the beekeeping class? I wanted to thank you for the recipe and …”
Was she crying? There was definitely a catch in the young woman’s voice.
“… and, I hate to ask, but do you … do you think you could come to my place and show me how to put these tarts together? I’ve been trying a test batch all morning and I can’t even get this puff pastry to work for me, and I …” She let out a sort of gulp and sob at the same time. “I hate to ask, but the shower is tomorrow, and I wanted it to be so special and I just keep messing everything up. I’m so sorry. I’m such a mess. Will you please call me back? Thank you.”
The second call was designed to make up for the desperation of the first one, she presumed.
“Hi, there, this is Anna again. I just wanted to apologize for my earlier call. I feel so silly. Please, please, disregard it, ok? And don’t feel like you have to call me back. I’ll just eliminate the tarts from my menu. It will be fine. Thank you so much for trying to help. I appreciate it more than you can know.”
No tears in the second call but she could hear the disappointment in Anna’s voice. The tarts were going to be the star of her menu. And now it would just be cucumber sandwiches and mints. The poor child.
She sighed and hit “call back” before she could change her mind.
::
“Rhoda told me you used to run a catering bidness?” Anna was talking with her mouth full again. Had she never been told? She was beginning to see that Anna never did only one thing at a time. Like chew. “That is so cool. Tell about it! I want to hear it all!”
She smiled and checked herself, surprised to realize she was having fun. She brushed egg white on the edges of the tarts and considered her words. Anna’s eyes followed her every move, but all she had done in the kitchen so far was nibble away on the sliced brie.
“I did! I ran The Indigo Kitchen for twenty years. It was … a dream come true. Also, stressful.”
“The Indigo Kitchen! Yes, I remember. The blue food truck, right? I used to see that thing all over town. What kind of food did you make? When did you stop doing it? And why?”
She laughed, “Woah, woah, woah! One question at a time. My introvert brain doesn’t work that fast.”
“What kind of food?”
“Whatever my client wanted.”
Anna looked skeptical.
“So, what, just, anything?”
“Well, yeah. I had my specialties, of course. But I’ve been to culinary school, so I can do about anything.”
“What were your specialties?”
She slid the tarts in the preheated oven and wiped her hands on her apron. “Hmmm. Well, things like these peach tarts. What I would call, ‘fresh, high country’ food. Think … hmmm … like Ina Garten. I specialized in using food that was in season and locally sourced.”
“Fresh high country. Never heard that term before.”
“That’s because I just made it up.”
They both laughed and Anna reached for a left-over peach. She tossed it up and down in one hand, focusing her eyes on the up and down motion.
“Do you mind if I ask? Why did you give it up?”
She shrugged, untied the apron, slipped it over her head. “Corrie got sick. I didn’t have time to be a nurse and a chef.”
“That must have been hard.”
“Not really. I’d do the same thing again. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, considering.”
“What about now? Don’t you miss it?”
She leaned her backside against the counter and cocked her head, considering. “Sometimes I do. But five years is a long time to be away from something. I’m not the same person I was. Taking care of someone you love who is dying has a way of changing you. I don’t know if I have it in me anymore.”
Anna took a bite out of the peach she had been playing with. “Well, if dese tdarts are any indication,” she swallowed, sucked in a rill of peach juice trailing her chin, “Then I’d say you do.”
“Maybe,” she smiled at Anna. “Maybe. It did feel good to be in the kitchen again. To make something for other people’s pleasure.”
Anna leaned in. “Yes! And I can’t thank you enough. I’m always a disaster in the kitchen. But, that day at your house … you made these tarts look so simple. I always think things will be easier than they are. Sooo … I don’t know why I freaked out the way I did. I just wanted this to be so special. I only have one sister. I’m so happy for her. I just wanted it to be …”
“It’s perfectly fine! I’m glad to help. I should be thanking you. There aren’t many things I enjoy right now …”
Anna held her with her eyes. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be to find your way forward. I remember how Corrie would sometimes tell stories about the two of you in class. It was so evident—so real—the love there …”
She felt her eyes smarting. A wave of gratitude lapped up around the shores of her heart. She reached out for Anna’s hand, returned the younger woman’s burning stare. “Thank you.”
::
Photo by Renee Grayson, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Story by Laura Boggess, author of Mildred’s Garden and Waiting for Neruda’s Memoirs.
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Bethany R. says
The “fresh, high-country food” sounds scrumptious. You’re making me hungry again.
Laurie Klein says
The Indigo Kitchen. (Oh, I want to be there: now)
“I always think things will be easier than they are.” (Anna’s plaintive candor resonates at such a deep level.)
Laura, I’m drawn into this setting involving delectable food as well as relationship and self discovery seemingly on the verge of ripening . . . mmmMMM