The Burbs and the Bees

by Cathryn Fox

  She looks at me over the top of her glasses, and I just shake my head.

  “Oh, honey, really?” she teases.

  I grumble under my breath. I can never get anything by her. “I’ll get the pot going,” I say and walk up the three stairs leading to the wide deck I helped Dad build when I was eight. I drop the crate onto the kitchen counter and head to my cottage at the far end of the property. Actually, it’s an old carriage house, built by my great-great grandfather over one hundred years ago. Mom and the guys stay in the farmhouse, but I wanted privacy, so I moved back here with… Shit, I can’t even bring myself to say her name. I walk a little faster and damn near jump from my boots when our stealthy rooster comes running from the bushes.

  “What the hell are you doing? You scared me half to death.”

  He runs around me a few times, then takes off to see Tyler. You’d think we were gone for days. I laugh. Who needs a watchdog when you have a possessive rooster who keeps tight reins on the family?

  I push through my door, and the cool air conditioning of the simple, one-room cottage with a loft overhead washes over me. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm. I used to think a cooling system in an old, converted carriage house was a crazy idea, but… Juanita insisted on it. She insisted on a lot of things—including the adoption of a goddamn offensive parrot named Capone—before she up and left without so much as a backward glance.

  From his cage in the corner, Capone flaps his wings, and his head bobs as I turn on the tap for a drink of water.

  “Fuck me,” Capone blurts out.

  I turn and glare at him. I have no idea why Juanita thought a rescue parrot would be a fun pet, or why I ended up with him in the split.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “Fuck me,” Capone says again.

  “Do you always have to be so offensive?”

  “Jay’s an asshole.”

  I shake my head. I’m going to kill Tyler for messing with my bird and teaching him this kind of shit. Then again, after living in a bawdy pool hall until it closed down, he came with his own raunchy vocabulary.

  “You’re the asshole,” I say, even though I’m not helping the situation. Jesus, I really need to stop arguing with my parrot.

  “Jay’s an asshole,” he says, his head bobbing like he’s the biggest and baddest bird on the farm as he struts around his cage. He’s not.

  I open the gigantic cage that takes up half my place, and he hops onto my arm. With his red, yellow, and blue feathers, he’s a beautiful bird. Sometimes I think about getting him a friend. Sometimes I question my sanity. “Want to come up to the house for a bit? It’s Beck’s birthday.”

  “Beck is boss.” Head bop. “Tyler is tight.”

  “Fuck me,” I say and shake my head.

  “Fuck me,” Capone repeats.

  “None of that language in front of Mom.”

  “Mom’s a peach,” he says, but he’s referring to Juanita, not my mother Barbara. It was one of the first things she taught him, and every goddamn time he says it, it reminds me how Juanita tore my heart out when she up and left without a backward glance. I shut my mouth and resist the urge to counter that if his mom, my ex-fiancée, were a peach, she wouldn’t have chosen the city over us. No need to hurt his feelings. Not to mention, arguing with a parrot is futile, and I hate that I know that from firsthand experience.

  “Mom’s a peach,” I echo and head up to the loft with him on my arm and set him on my dresser as I tug on a pair of clean boxers, jeans, and a T-shirt.

  “No comments,” I say. One time I got naked, and he spouted some pretty derogatory remarks. My “giblets,” as Capone so lovingly likes to refer to my balls, do not hang low, thank you very much.

  “Beck is boss.”

  “Come on.” He hops back onto my arm, and I make my way back to the farmhouse. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway next door carries in the quiet country air. I chalk it up to tourists wanting to buy local produce from Mr. Matthew’s Market, not knowing it’s still closed.

  I settle Capone into the cage in mom’s farmhouse, spend a few minutes steaming the lobster, and then go looking for my mother.

  “Lobster ready?” she asks, a strange smile on her face.

  I nod and step out back to ring the big old dinner bell my grandfather hung years ago. The piece is nostalgic, and it brings a smile to my mother’s face every time she uses it. My brothers come running. I chuckle. Food and sex. They’re both driven by it.

  “Something funny?” I ask Mom as she continues to smirk.

  Her piercing green eyes narrow in on me as we both move back inside. “Looks like the new neighbor is here, sooner rather than later.”

  “Oh, you met him.”

  She reaches into the drawer and pulls out utensils. “Heard a car and sauntered over.”

  “I heard it, too. Thought it was tourists wanting to check out the petting zoo and market.”

  She laughs and gives a slow shake of her head. “It’s such a small world, son.”

  “You mean you know Reid?”

  Beck and Tyler come running in for food. “Know who?” they ask in unison, and for some ridiculous reason, it reminds me of how Alyson and I spoke the same words at the same time.

  Lesson or blessing.

  I’m going with the former, although I have no idea what lesson I’ve learned. I nudge my brothers and gesture for them to set the table.

  “New neighbor just arrived,” Mom announces as Beck takes the utensils from her hand, and Tyler grabs the plates and spreads them out.

  “Does that mean I won’t have to take care of their animals tomorrow?” Ty asks.

  I ignore my brother and zero in on my mother, noting that she’s yet to answer my question. “Do you know the new owner?”

  She tucks a silvery-blonde strand of hair behind her ear. “You mean Reid?”

  “Yeah, Reid,” I say. Why the hell is she being so cagey? Unease worms its way through my blood. “You don’t like him, do you?”

  Instead of answering—again—she says, “After dinner, I want you to bring a pie over, Jay.”

  “Why?” I ask, my gut sensing something isn’t right.

  She puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. “It’s the neighborly thing to do,” she says, and my stomach instantly sinks as realization hits.

  My mother uses pie to mend bad relations and ease tension between farmers. Heck, her pastry even prevented a land dispute war before I was born—or so I was told. The fact that Mom is sending me with a fresh-out-of-the-oven apple pie isn’t a good sign. Not a good sign at all. In fact, it’s a sign that tension is brewing, and shit could very well hit the fan.

  Chapter Three

  Alyson

  “Yeah, I’m here. Flight was good, and I made it without any problems,” I fib. No sense in telling Mom my day had gone from bad to worse. Delayed flight, lost luggage, upset child beside me who nearly ripped half my hair out before losing the contents of his lunch all over the armrest. But the winner of the day was the dip in the Atlantic where I almost died. Okay, I didn’t almost die, but still, it was a craptastic day for the most part.

  Until you got naked with the hottest guy on the planet.

  Well, we didn’t really get naked. I mean, we did, and we didn’t—not in the way I’ve been fantasizing about during my drive to the burbs, aka Farmington, Nova Scotia—and I am not going to spend one more second thinking about that. Two, maybe, but not one.

  Good God.

  Seriously, though. I’ll never set eyes on him again, and Mom doesn’t need to know of my bad fortune or that I’ll be wearing the same underwear until the airline finds my suitcase. I make a mental note to hang my salty clothes out to dry so I’ll have something to wear tomorrow.

  I can’t even imagine what’s available in this small town or what hours they even keep. I’m sure my
wool blanket is more fashionable than what I’d find locally. I almost snort. What would my friends say if they could see me now? Honestly, though, why should I care? None of them came to see me off. My closest friend Lucy sent a text, but it’s not the same, and it’s not the first time I’ve questioned our friendship or why she and the others really hang out with me.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Mom asks. “Your voice is a bit shaky.”

  Oh, probably because I’m in over my head for real this time, sinking like a stone tossed into the Atlantic with no Mr. Hottie, aka Jay, to fish me out.

  “Mom, I’m fine.” If I tell her otherwise, she’ll insist I come home, maybe even send one of her drivers to pick me up. I am not going back to New York. At least not a second before my thirty days are up. Nothing will stop me from sticking it out. Nothing short of the Ebola virus, and I’d fight that to the death first.

  A knock sounds at my door for the second time today. I am so not in the mood for another visitor—although the lady next door was nice. But I’m in my underwear, draped in an itchy blanket.

  “Someone’s at the door. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I say as I slowly pace the old farmhouse, going from the tidy kitchen to the front door. I peer out the dirty window to see an elderly gentleman this time. His skin is tanned and weathered from the outdoors. A neighboring farmer, I assume. Everyone seems anxious to meet the new owner.

  Mom’s voice pulls me back. “If you need anything—”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too, dear.”

  I end the call and twist the knob. “Can I help you?” I ask, as the man frowns and takes in my attire.

  “Afternoon, Miss. I heard the new owners moved in and thought I’d stop by and introduce myself.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Alyson.” I hold my hand out, and he stares at it for a second.

  “Is your father home?”

  “My father is in New York.” I plaster on a smile. “I’m the new owner.”

  His brows jump, almost all the way to his hairline, and I get it. I’m not at all what they expected. Even the lady next door seemed surprised.

  “Jack was my great uncle,” I explain. Wait, if he was Mom’s great-uncle, that makes him my great-great, right? I might have to Google that later.

  “I’m Charlie Miller. Didn’t know Jack had any family.”

  “I didn’t know I had an uncle until recently,” I tell him.

  “Are you a farmer?”

  “Not—”

  Before I can get the words out, he says, “I’m guessing you’ll be looking to sell the place.”

  “Not right away,” I mutter, more to myself.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ah, I have to stay here for a bit. I’ve got some things that need taking care of. I’ll be here at least to the end of summer. Guaranteed.”

  “Well then, when you’re ready, you let me know. One of the locals has been looking to buy this place forever.” He jerks his head to the left. “I’m just down yonder. Give a shout if you need anything. Your uncle was a good man, and we’re here to help.”

  Down yonder?

  Must be a country turn of phrase. “Okay, I’m sure I’ll have a few questions,” I say. Even though I don’t know what they are yet, and I’m praying there is some sort of instruction book around.

  “I’ll let you get settled then.” His gaze flicks to my blanket again.

  “Thanks,” I say, not wanting to go into why I’m wearing a prickly blanket. I need to get out of it, now. It’s like one thousand bees are stinging my flesh.

  He turns, and his boots sink into the wet ground as he saunters back to his big black pickup truck. His door slams, and I quietly close mine and lean against it.

  I shoot off a text to Lucy to let her know I arrived as I breathe in the stale smells of old cigar still clinging to the furniture. The floor creaks beneath my steps as I search the rooms and familiarize myself with the old place and try to figure out why this was all left to me. The extent of my knowledge is that Jack was Mom’s great-uncle, but she hadn’t seen him since she was a child when Jack had a falling-out with the family. We moved to the States when I was young, and Mom had never even brought him up until his lawyer called.

  Upstairs, the smoky scent grows stronger as I stand outside Jack’s room, which, by the looks of things, has not been touched since he passed away. It’s a bit strange, maybe even invasive of me, but I step inside.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I find myself something to wear,” I say.

  I wait for a second, although I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, and when I’m not struck by a bolt of lightning, or the lights don’t flicker ominously—yes, I watch Paranormal Findings—I slowly open the closet door. His clothes are neatly hung, a mixture of plaid and plain dress shirts, heavy material for the winter and light for the summer. Since beggars can’t be choosers, I grab a laundered plaid shirt and run the stiff fabric between my fingers.

  I drop my itchy blanket, and the rigid shirt wisps over my shoulders as I tug it on. It reaches my knees, and I’m grateful that it covers the essentials. I catch my reflection in the old mirror, the glass a dirty shade of brown around the edges from years of cigar smoke.

  Now that I’m somewhat decently dressed, I catalog the room. If I put this place up for sale, am I responsible for clearing out his things? I wouldn’t know the first thing to do. A measure of panic wells up inside me, and before I let it take control, I give myself a good hard lecture.

  Okay, one thing at a time, girl.

  And right now, that one thing is check out the petting farm. I sure as heck hope someone has been taking care of the animals. The lawyer informed me the neighbors had stepped in, and I pray he was right, because if the poor things have been starving, I’ll seriously lose it.

  I spot a Blue Jays ball cap, and I tug it on to hide my mess of salty hair. I leave Jack’s room and head outside. The late-day sun shines down on me, and my stomach rumbles, a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since the plane. Do they have restaurants around here? I drove through a small town on my way, but my sole focus was finding the farm. Perhaps I’ll head back after checking out the place.

  The humid evening air warms my skin as I walk toward a big red barn and read the signs tacked to the side, listing all the goods sold in the orchard’s barn-turned-market. A broom rests against a rickety rail leading up a ramp to the main doors, but no way could that railing have passed any kind of inspection. I test it with my hand, and it wobbles. Tomorrow I’ll be looking for nails and a hammer.

  You got this, girl.

  And that’s not the first whopper of a lie I’ve told myself today.

  Outside near one of the many barns, I find toys for the young visitors, numerous ducks bathing in muddy water, and chickens pecking the ground. Wow. I sure am a long way from home.

  If I tapped my heels, would I wake up in New York?

  I try to tiptoe around the puddles, but as we all know, luck is not on my side today. My shoes sink into the mud.

  “Lovely,” I say, and the mud makes a sucking sound with each step. But nothing else could surprise me today. A squealing noise from the barn catches my attention. Okay, wait, maybe I spoke too soon. “Please don’t be a pig. Please don’t be a pig.”

  My fear of small, squirmy pigs is irrational. It’s not like I’ve ever come across one, but when I was little and read Charlotte’s Web, the pig was nice and all but… I don’t know; it just freaked me out. Like I said, irrational fear. I negotiate the wet ground and peer into the dark barn. Something brushes up against my leg, and I falter backward just as a wiggly little piglet runs past.

  “What the…”

  My words die on my tongue when I turn and come face to face with a huge rooster. My God, what kind of steroids have they been feeding him? He’s half my size, twice a
s mean looking, and I’m sure he must be the local cockfighting champion. The little pig sidles up to him, and I swear to God he’s gone all smug-like. Oh, I get it. The rooster is your buddy, the muscle on the farm, and I’m a goddamn intruder.

  As the two team up, I become painfully aware that they’re going to take me down in their town. Fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and I bolt. Mr. Rooster lets loose a god-awful squawking sound and comes running at me. I’m still in heels thanks to my misplaced suitcase. Otherwise, it’s quite possible I’d tug on my flats and run the entire way back to New York.

  But I can’t do that.

  I rush around the red barn, remembering the broom I spotted earlier, and grab it. I hold it up, waiting for Mad Max to come at me, when the sound of a man’s voice behind me stops me cold.

  “What are you doing?”

  Broom still raised, I spin, and the guy takes one step back and holds out his right hand. “Whoa, easy.”

  My heart races, then stops, only to race again. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  The guy stares at me, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to place me, but before I can tell him who I am, the rooster rounds the corner.

  “Cluck, stop!” he bellows, and the rooster cools his jets. He squawks or barks or whatever it is that roosters do and offers me his backside as he trots off, like he’s the damn cock of the walk.

  I take a deep, gulping breath and point with the broom handle. “What the hell was that?”

  “That was Cluck Norris. He’s harmless for the most part, but you’re a stranger, and he thinks he’s a watchdog. He’s not supposed to be on your land. He knows that.”

  “He knows that?” I spin around. Did I drop into an alternate universe, one where roosters communicate with humans? I shake my head. “Wait, did you just call him Cluck Norris?”

  “Yeah, he’s…” His voice falls off as I tug my hat off to scratch my itchy head. Those whiskey eyes of his go wide. “Alyson? Is that you?”

  “The one and only,” I say.