If Not for a Bee

by Carol Ross

  “Crikey... That hurts.”

  Janie cringed when she looked down and saw the bloody ends of his fingers. The water was cold—if he was bleeding that much already this really wasn’t going to be good.

  Janie turned toward the surf, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun as she looked for Tag.

  “Is this why they’re called razor clams?” Aidan’s voice was perfectly calm as he studied his injured hand. “Because the shell is literally as sharp as a razor?”

  “I don’t know about that, but this is why it’s nice to have a cousin who is a paramedic.”

  * * *

  AIDAN SAT ON the tailgate of the pickup and watched Tag clean the wound. He examined the cuts.

  “You’re definitely going to need stitches. The tip of this finger is almost sliced clear through.”

  Aidan repeated his earlier observation. “I can see why they’re called razor clams.”

  Tag chuckled and applied some disinfectant. “Maybe—I’ve heard different accounts on that. On the east coast they’re longer and skinnier—more like a straight razor. They also call them jackknife clams back there. Our Pacific razors are a lot more oval-shaped, and bigger—fatter and meatier. Tastier, too, I think. Anyway, a lot people claim the shape is where the name comes from.”

  Aidan shook his head. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

  Tag laughed. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

  “My fingers, they’re going to be—”

  “Don’t worry. Dr. Grady is on today and he’s great. I’ve never seen a doctor who can sew better. It’ll barely even scar.”

  Aidan watched as Tag wrapped his fingers in a length of soft white gauze. The blood seeped through and Tag kept wrapping. Aidan thought about the repercussions of an injured hand, but scars were the least of his concerns.

  Emily examined Tag’s handiwork. “Aidan, what will you do? How are you going to work?”

  “I’ll manage. They’re just lacerations, Em—they’ll heal.” Leave it to Emily to voice his concerns.

  “But your boxes are arriving tomorrow, right?”

  “That’s right,” Bering said as he began transferring clams into a cooler. “Your stuff. Don’t worry, we’ll help.”

  Bering turned to address Janie, who had been hanging back silently. Aidan wondered what she was thinking. “Can I borrow the boys in the morning? To give Aidan a hand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Tag closed his first-aid kit and stood. “Hop in my pickup, Aidan. We need to get you to the hospital.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “JANIE, THE RESPONSE to your ugly-Christmas-sweater column has been unbelievable. Mayor Cummings is talking about having an ugly-Christmas-sweater contest at this year’s Festival of Trees in December. People are asking if you’ll teach a class. We could print a summary in the paper the day after each one, so people who have taken your earlier classes can follow along in the paper. What do you think?”

  Janie handed a plate of scrambled eggs over to Laurel, who had stopped by to discuss the matter since it was Sunday—the only day the paper was closed, although Laurel worked every day.

  “But I don’t get it,” Claire said as she rinsed her plate in the sink. She and the boys had already eaten so she could drive Gareth and Reagan into town for the work party at Aidan’s. “Your sweaters aren’t ugly—they’re beautiful.”

  Laurel tried to explain and Janie let her. She had been over this with her mom too many times to count. “That’s kind of the point, Claire. The silly design versus the quality of the knitting and the beauty of the yarn... That’s the appeal and no one does these better than Janie.”

  Claire shook her head in confusion. “That’s what Janie says, too, Laurel. But I still don’t understand why you have to call them ugly.”

  Janie and Laurel exchanged grins, as her mom continued her argument.

  Janie had held basic knitting classes in the past, always with a great turnout. Students would complete the class with knowledge of basic stitches and a scarf or the start of a throw blanket. A sweater would entail much more detailed teaching, but knitting was her passion and she enjoyed teaching the skill hands-on.

  “I would be happy to do a class.”

  “Awesome.” Laurel beamed. “I’ll get it set up.”

  Claire put on her coat. “We’re leaving now. Bering is bringing the boys home, right?”

  “Yes, thanks, Mom.” Janie explained to Laurel, “Bering, Tag, Gareth and Reagan are helping Aidan Hollings move a bunch of his stuff in today.”

  The boys appeared with their plates and stowed them in the dishwasher. They said their goodbyes and filed out the door. Janie poured herself and Laurel cups of coffee.

  “Which reminds me,” Laurel said. “Emily said Aidan was really resistant to the idea of an interview, so I called his agent. He thinks Aidan will do an interview when he hears what the Insider’s Alaska column is all about...and we settle on terms.”

  “Terms?”

  “That’s actually pretty standard procedure with celebrity types. They’ll let you know right off the top what topics or questions are off-limits—most of the time they’ll even want a list of questions beforehand.”

  Janie scoffed. “Celebrity types? Are you kidding me? Some guest shots on Here’s the Dirt and Flower Power make him a celebrity? I played Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady back in high school—maybe I should get an agent?”

  Laurel chuckled. “And you were excellent. Did you know Here’s the Dirt is the most popular gardening show on cable television? And don’t forget about that film on endangered plant species. He cowrote, produced and directed that, you know? It’s already being considered a pretty important piece of work in the scientific community and it hasn’t even been released yet. The film is going to be shown in IMAX theaters all over the world. And they are having like a real film premiere later this summer. A bunch of movie stars and business people and politicians are attending. I was thinking our articles could coincide with that.”

  Janie took a bite of toast. “Sounds great.”

  “I know, and I want you to do the interview. Emily is right about this and you would be perfect—”

  “Laurel, I’m sorry, but can you give this one to someone else? I don’t want to do it.”

  “Of course you do. Don’t be nervous—you’ll be great. It’s a human interest story—you’re great at those.”

  “I’m not nervous. It’s not that.” This wasn’t actually true—the thought of doing the interview made her stomach knot like the ball of yarn Crosby had gotten ahold of last night. The yarn had been hopelessly shredded and tangled, so she’d had to toss the expensive wad of mohair in the garbage. “I don’t want to interview him—Aidan Hollings.”

  “What? But why?”

  “I... We didn’t really click.”

  Laurel peered at her intently. “You don’t like him?”

  The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Not particularly.”

  “Really? Why not? Everyone seems crazy about him.”

  Everyone hadn’t heard him talking to Emily about everyone.

  Laurel stared at her expectantly, waiting for more information. Janie should have known Laurel would push the subject and she knew better than to try and lie to her friend.

  “He’s... We’re very different.”

  “How?”

  “How?” Janie repeated the word and heard the sharpness in her tone. She inhaled a breath, searching for calm.

  “Yes, in what ways are you so different? What’s he like?”

  “Not what I expected.”

  “I have this impression of him as this nice, easygoing, laid-back kind of guy... Plus, he’s Emily’s brother.”

  The implication being that he must h
ave some redeeming qualities as Emily’s relation. That had been Janie’s assumption, too.

  “Half brother—they have different mothers, you know? They weren’t even raised together.”

  She looked at Laurel and silently willed her not to push the subject. But this was Laurel—Rankins’s very own Lois Lane. Laurel would never pass up the opportunity for a story and Janie felt certain Laurel would never understand how Janie could.

  “I see... But not liking someone doesn’t necessarily disqualify you from interviewing them. Reporters interview people they don’t like all the time.”

  “I know, and it’s not that necessarily,” she lied. “I’d just prefer not to do this one. It’s an important article and I feel like I would need to give it all my attention, but I’ve got so much on my plate right now...” They both knew very well that Janie always had an overflowing plate, so this wasn’t much of a stretch. Janie had never used her crazy, single-mom schedule as an excuse to get out of an assignment, but she shamelessly found herself doing so now. “Reagan has his science project coming up, Gareth is playing club basketball and now with this knitting class...”

  Laurel eyed her carefully. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I am. I understand what an opportunity this would be, Laurel. And I really appreciate you offering it to me.”

  Laurel looked surprised, and slightly suspicious. And Janie really couldn’t blame her, it would seem odd to her, too, if she was in Laurel’s place.

  She added another layer to her excuse. “Tag flew to Anchorage yesterday and he was going to pick up some things Reagan needs for his science project—he had a Barbie doll on the list. The informational meeting is this week to go over the rules for the national program the science club is participating in this year. I can’t wait to see what he has planned.”

  Laurel laughed and Janie was relieved when she allowed the subject to change. “A Barbie, huh? At least it’s not battery acid. I thought Principal Dundee was going to call the cops last year when he saw those bones in the bottom of that bucket.”

  Janie grinned and shook her head. “I know.”

  Last year Reagan’s experiment had tested the corrosive properties of different types of acids. The high point had involved actual moose skeletons, which his Uncle Bering had procured for him. A series of large, high-resolution photos showed how Reagan had managed to melt the bones down until they fit into a five-gallon bucket, the contents of which he’d proudly displayed in his booth—along with another bleached moose skeleton of similar original dimensions that he’d arranged on a table for size comparison. The line to get a glimpse had formed all the way out the door and around the side of the VFW hall.

  “That kid...” Laurel chuckled. “What did he think of Aidan? I know how excited he was to meet a real-life scientist.”

  “Already thick as thieves. Reagan is ecstatic to have him here.” Something made her add, “He was actually pretty nice to Gareth, too.”

  Laurel tapped her fingertips together thoughtfully. “Well, that says something about the guy, right? That he was a hit with your boys?”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Janie said, acquiescing. She thought about how he’d gotten the ball to Gareth so he could score the winning basket. He didn’t have to do that, and yet she’d also heard what she’d heard. And he never did apologize for ruining the cake...

  Laurel sat frozen in her thoughtful-reporter pose, palms together, fingers tilted in Janie’s direction.

  Janie racked her brain for something that might derail Laurel’s train of thought.

  “I’m meeting Shay at the bakery later to sample wedding cake...”

  * * *

  ONE PROBLEM SOLVED, Aidan thought as he directed Bering, Tag, Gareth and Reagan as to where to put the boxes. The plane had arrived at seven as scheduled, and the entire shipment fit in the back of one of Bering’s full-size pickups. By nine thirty they were unloading the boxes and stacking them in Aidan’s rented building. Emily had found the vacant building on the edge of downtown before he’d arrived and Aidan could not be happier with her choice. His sister was truly a wonder of efficiency.

  The brick structure consisted of one large, rectangular-shaped room with worn hardwood floors, and a kitchen area was situated along the far wall complete with a small refrigerator. There was a bathroom on one side of the room adjacent to a walk-in storage area with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Lucky for him, Rankins had no restrictions on what the space could be used for—yet another reason to like this little town, because he intended to both live and work in the space.

  Aidan already had a cot set up in one corner of the room to sleep on. He’d purchased it, along with a sleeping bag, for a surprisingly reasonable price at Bradbury’s, the hardware/sporting-goods store that was also a computer repair shop that Bering had recommended in town. Aidan had mentioned Bering’s name while shopping and he suspected it had helped in determining the final discounted sale amount.

  Somewhere during the building’s history a second sink had been installed along the wall opposite the bathroom. With the addition of a few tables and some lighting, that area would serve as his lab. Emily had already found him a desk for his computer and a comfy secondhand office chair. She and Bering had recently bought new furniture so Bering had hauled over their two gently used recliners for him to use as well.

  Aidan opened a carefully packed crate and found his favorite microscope intact. In another box he discovered that his video camera also looked fine. He plugged in the battery pack with the intention of testing the camera out later, but he realized he was going to need help setting up some of his equipment.

  Bering came through the door again, followed by Gareth and Reagan, each holding boxes that they added to the pile.

  “This is the last of them, Aidan.”

  “I can’t thank you guys enough. How about if I buy everyone breakfast at the Cozy Caribou?”

  That suggestion was met with enthusiastic agreement. Reagan walked over and inspected the microscope. “Wow, awesome microscope. What’s the magnification?”

  As Aidan discussed microscopes with Reagan something occurred to him. “Do you boys think you could spare a few more hours after breakfast? I could use some help getting unpacked.”

  “Yes,” Reagan said excitedly.

  “No, sorry, I can’t,” Gareth answered politely.

  Bering glanced down at the watch on his wrist. “Gareth is playing basketball. I’m supposed to drop him off in an hour. But Reagan can stay if he wants. Emily or I can swing by and pick him up this afternoon. I’ll call Janie and let her know. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  Aidan wasn’t nearly as sure, but he was desperate enough for help that he put that thought aside. Surely the misunderstanding between him and Janie wouldn’t extend to her children.

  * * *

  THAT SAME AFTERNOON Aidan strolled down the main street in Rankins admiring some of the old buildings and the homey feel of the town. The sun had disappeared behind a patch of clouds, which seemed to instantly lower the temperature. The chilly air began creeping into his open jacket and he wondered how long it would take him to acclimate to the cooler weather. He reached for the zipper, felt his stitched-together fingers throb painfully and switched hands, reminding him again of his predicament—and a possible solution.

  Reagan had been a world of help to him, which had prompted him to ask if he’d like to assist him on a regular basis—at least until his hand healed.

  He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, pulled it out and checked the display—his agent, Drummond Baker. He’d already let three of Drum’s calls go to voice mail today. He always enjoyed being able to use the excuse of spotty cell service in remote locales like Rankins to not answer calls. But he also knew Drum would never quit calling until he picked up.

  “Hey, Drum, what’s up?”

  “Aidan!
So glad I reached you finally. How’s the Alaskan netherworld? Never mind—I don’t really care. Because I have great news! You know how I thought you were going to mold and rot in that little town up there? And everyone would forget who you are?”

  “That’s kind of the point, Drum.”

  “Oh, you... Stop with the modesty.”

  Drum couldn’t imagine that anyone could truly not want to be “famous.” Blake had turned out to be the exact opposite of him and Aidan was more than happy to hand the promotion for their film project off to him. Aidan thought their partnership was perfect—Aidan focusing on the research and Blake on the business. But Drum wanted Aidan to take a more active role in publicity. He thought the combination of Aidan and Blake as some kind of lovable “odd couple” was “endearing” and “highly marketable.”

  Drum kept accusing Aidan of false modesty. “Drum, I’m not—”

  “Yes, sabbatical. I know. But before you start with that speech, I’ve arranged for you to speak with a reporter—”

  “No.” Aidan felt a twinge of irritation mix with amusement and alarm.

  “Please, hear me out.”

  “No. Drum, I wouldn’t even agree to an interview for my sister, there’s no way I will—”

  “You didn’t even let me finish.” Drum had this way of pitching his voice that always reminded Aidan of a sulky teenage girl. He thought Drum must be the only grown man who could pull off such an effective pout—and over the phone, no less.

  “Drum, I don’t need you to finish. I know you. ‘Speaking with a reporter’ is an interview no matter how you word it.”

  Drum sighed dramatically. “Can I explain?”

  “You can if you want to waste your time.”

  Drum opted to take that as a yes. Aidan listened to him drone on and thought about his last disastrous experience with the media—with Meredith. He’d been blindsided—personally as well as professionally. He hadn’t done an interview since, nor had he had a date for that matter. But he’d learned a lesson, one that he’d already known but the experience had confirmed. Reporter was a very loose word in this internet age—reporters were not to be trusted, and with his not-quite-seamless people skills he was better off to avoid personal relationships anyway.