The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  “It’s just for nine weeks and then I’ll be back,” she reassures me. “I’ll be gone from the end of April to July, so I need to find someone to sublet from me until I get back.”

  I nod numbly. My head is spinning with the speed of these changes. When Rosie first applied, I was a little envious that she might get to travel the world, but I also secretly believed I would be planning my wedding in her absence. The thought of Rosie leaving me in this time of uncertainty makes me feel panicky. I need my best friend by my side.

  “I didn’t think I’d actually get in.” Rosie shakes her head, looking a little stunned too. “I’m a jazz singer, not an international aid expert or a pediatrician. I don’t have hard skills like that.”

  “Maybe they wanted someone with softer skills.” I nibble an edge of my cupcake. When your whole world crumbles, eat sugar. That should be embroidered on a cushion somewhere. “Maybe they needed a jazz singer, cupcake froster, and plus-sized model all rolled into one. Maybe you fit the profile perfectly.”

  Rosie slants me an amused look. “Oh, I’m positive they were looking for just that combination. But this is my chance, Mia. I’m going to do good in the world—and maybe finally meet Mr. Right.” She gives a wistful sigh. “Think about it, a select team of talented young professionals giving back to the world in exotic destinations. If that isn’t a recipe for love, I don’t know what is.” She unwraps her Black Forest cupcake and frowns. “Maybe this time I’ll get lucky and actually meet a good guy.”

  Rosie’s love life has been a tumultuous series of mishaps and regrets. Her heart’s desire is simple—to find a good, honest man, preferably one who’s rich enough to own a yacht or a second home in Saint-Tropez, and to have a career as a jazz singer in New York City.

  “What countries are you going to travel to?” I ask. It sounds so glamorous and important, jetting across the world to help people in need. While I very well may be sitting here single and alone in a blanket cocoon. I unwrap my cupcake and take a big bite.

  Rosie swirls her finger around her cherry buttercream frosting and licks it off. “India, Thailand, and Mexico.” She’s practically fizzing with excitement.

  “That sounds amazing,” I say wistfully. For a second I am caught up in a whirl of exotic images—colorful saris, Buddhist temples, authentic tortillas, and ancient Aztec pyramids.

  “Oh Mia, you could come too!” Rosie exclaims, sitting bolt upright. “I just remembered! Stella, the trip organizer, told us today that a girl from our team dropped out unexpectedly. They have an opening they’re trying to fill last minute.” She gazes at me expectantly.

  I shake my head. “I can’t just drop everything. I have my apprenticeship. And Ethan . . .” I stop, unsure how to finish that sentence.

  Rosie nods and purses her lips, taking a sip of coffee. “I understand. Well, the opportunity is there if you change your mind. It would be so fun. Think about it. India, Thailand, and Mexico.” Her tone is just slightly wheedling.

  “I’ve always dreamed of going to India,” I admit. “To follow in the footsteps of Mother Teresa. And I’d finally get to try real chai.”

  Rosie nods, popping the maraschino cherry from the top of her cupcake into her mouth with a flourish. “At least consider it,” she says. “It could be the chance of a lifetime.”

  * * *

  That night I dream again of bees. Swarms of them, golden and laden with pollen, swaying drunkenly through the brilliant blooming purple rows of lavender in the lazy summer sunshine. I’m standing in one of West Wind Farm’s lavender fields. My arms are full of cut lavender, the sharp scent rising heavy and languid in the air. I dig my bare toes into the sun-warmed earth. Far off beyond the fields Puget Sound glistens gray, and beneath the overwhelming scent of lavender wafts the ever-present hint of a fresh salt breeze. I glance down and take a step back. I’m wearing a white satin wedding dress. A bee lands on the skirt of my dress, then another and another. I try to shake them off with one hand, the other clutching the bunches of lavender, but the bees cling to the rich fabric, climbing slowly and stubbornly up the dress. When I glance up, Ethan is standing at the end of my row, his back to me, staring out across the fields to the Sound, the breeze tousling his blond hair.

  “Ethan, help me!” I call, struggling to shake off the honeybees.

  He turns and looks at me, his eyes sad, then raises his hand in farewell and silently backs away.

  Chapter 5

  “Morning.” I let myself in the back door of the Butter Emporium and greet Colleen and Hector, the two chief bakers. It’s barely 5 a.m., but they’ve already been here for an hour or more, prepping for the day.

  It’s been three long days since the disastrous Ferris wheel ride. Three agonizing days of waiting, the minutes rolling by as slow and viscous as treacle. I have had no word from Ethan. I stow my fleece and satchel in the staff closet and join the others in the kitchen.

  “Today you’re going to do the pain au Nutella by yourself,” Colleen announces, pausing for a moment from mixing up dough for Parmesan bacon scones.

  I nod and go wash my hands, still feeling sleepy. Outside in the darkness a light drizzle is falling through the yellow glow of the streetlights. I’ve been training with Colleen and Hector for six months now. I’ve finished bread, scones, and cookies and have moved on to pastries, a tricky, temperamental class of baked goods.

  “Hop to it, girl.” Colleen jerks her head to a spot across from Hector at the huge stainless steel prep table. “Hector made you a chai latte.”

  I assume my place at my station and take a grateful sip. It’s piping hot and perfect—earthy, creamy, and exotic tasting. For a moment I imagine myself in India with Rosie, sipping chai while watching the sun rise pink and orange over the Taj Mahal . . .

  “Thanks, Hector.”

  He stands across the table from me, shaping boules of sourdough bread. He nods and gives me a wink, placing a boule into a lightly floured proofing basket to rise. “You’re welcome, chica.”

  Making the pain au Nutella is a tedious, exacting process. First I cut six sticks of butter into half-inch pieces and beat them with a little flour in the big industrial mixer, making sure to keep it cool. Then I shape the butter into two even squares and set them to the side. I retrieve the croissant dough that has been waiting in the refrigerator since yesterday and roll out half the dough into a long rectangle, placing one butter square on the dough, then folding the dough over it. I press down the edges, sealing the butter inside, then carefully roll out the dough and butter combination into another long rectangle. With great concentration and precision, I fold the dough into thirds like a letter.

  I cover it with plastic wrap and let it rest for twenty minutes while I repeat the process with the other half of the dough. Each batch of pain au Nutella requires at least three rounds of these precise steps, with twenty-minute rests in between. It is painstaking work, requiring a cool hand and a steady touch.

  “Looking good,” Colleen says, rolling out the scone dough as she keeps an eye on my process. “You’ve got the touch.” She watches me work for a moment, her brow furrowed. I wonder if I’m doing something wrong, so I check my work thoroughly. Everything seems fine.

  The slap of Hector turning the dough and the snick of Colleen making perfectly round scones with a metal biscuit cutter are the only sounds as I tidy my workstation and let my dough rest. It’s still pitch dark outside, just beginning to lighten at the edges of the windows. It feels as though we are all alone in the quiet dark world, cozy in a warm pool of light, the air smelling of butter and parmesan from Colleen’s scones.

  I have loved baking for as long as I can remember. While some girls stayed up late reading Nancy Drew or Sweet Valley High under their covers, I was devouring Baking Illustrated and Rose Levy Beranbaum’s iconic The Cake Bible.

  Still, much as I love this apprenticeship, baking isn’t momentous enough to be my life’s work. It is making something to be consumed; it’s about simple pleasures and momentary
joys. But I find such contentment in the act of baking itself—the tactile reality of mixing the ingredients, the earthiness of kneading and shaping, getting my hands floury, making something delicious out of simple ingredients like flour, sugar, salt, and water. So until I figure out how I am supposed to really change the world, at least I can offer humanity perfectly chewy cookies and a nice flaky scone.

  I hear a text message come through, and while my second batch of dough rests, I check my phone.

  Hey, you free for a picnic tonight at Gas Works Park? I’ll get sushi.

  Ethan. I stare at the text under the bright kitchen lights, trying to discern its tone. I can’t think straight. Gas Works Park is our favorite picnic spot, a quirky little snip of land on the north shore of Lake Union where the Seattle Gas Light Company gasification plant once stood. We have spent countless evenings there watching the sailboats and dreaming of the future. What does it mean that he’s chosen this spot? Has he come to his senses and realized we are meant to be together, or is he breaking up with me for good, closing the loop in a familiar place? My heart is pounding with adrenaline.

  And sushi? Ethan doesn’t like sushi. He claims that any food that has to be strapped to rice with a seaweed seat belt is too adventurous for him. Is he trying to be nice, cater to my tastes as an apology . . . or as a consolation prize? I text what I hope sounds like a casual response.

  Sure. What time?

  A moment later my phone pings. 5 okay?

  Great. I add a smiley face, then set the phone down and wrap my arms around my middle, around my apron, greasy with butter, trying to anchor myself, panicked by the blind hope swelling in my chest. I take one deep breath, then another. The air smells of crisping bacon. Delicious, but I can’t focus.

  I glance at Colleen and Hector rhythmically going about their work. Colleen looks up at me again with a troubled expression. She raises her eyebrows, and I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about it, not until I know Ethan’s decision. I fetch my chilled dough from the refrigerator. For better or worse, by tonight I’ll have my answer. And until then, there are pastries to make.

  A few hours later, my shift over, I’m tidying up my station when Colleen approaches me. “Mia, can I talk to you for a second?”

  She glances beyond me across the table at Hector, and a look passes between them. A moment later he takes off his apron and announces he’s taking a break, something I’ve never seen him do.

  “Listen, Mia.” Colleen scrubs her hands through her salt-and-pepper buzz cut and sighs. She looks tired. “There’s no easy way to say this—we have to stop your apprenticeship.”

  “What? Why?” I stare at her in disbelief. “I thought it was going well. You said I have a natural touch.” My mind races, trying to recall something I’ve done wrong. Were my buttermilk biscuits too dense last weekend? The walnut date bars too dry?

  She holds up a hand. Her blunt nails are caked with dough. “It has nothing to do with you. You’re one of the most promising young bakers I’ve ever seen. You have a natural feel for baking that can’t be taught. And you’re a hard worker, diligent and consistent. This decision comes straight from the new owners. They don’t think we need another baker, and they don’t want us spending time and resources to train you if we can’t keep you on. They’re cutting back hours, staff, everything, trying to make the bakery more profitable. I’m sorry.” She presses her lips into a thin line and looks away.

  The bakery was sold a few months ago to a couple from Southern California who’d previously run a chain of successful salad bars in LA. They promised no big changes, but apparently that doesn’t include keeping my job. Fired. I’ve just been fired from baking. I am stunned, humiliated. “I don’t know what to say,” I stammer.

  “I know, Mia. I’m sorry.” Colleen clasps my shoulder and looks pained. “I’m supposed to tell you that you can go back to your counter job starting next week. But what I’m going to say instead, off the record, is that I think you should turn in your resignation and get out of here.” She stares at me hard, as though trying to channel some inner fortitude into me in the face of this devastating news. “Find somewhere that will let you do what you love, because you’re really good. Don’t let this stop you, okay?” She gives my shoulder a firm squeeze.

  I nod, heart pounding and tears blurring my vision. “Okay.” I stumble to gather my things. I pass Hector lurking in the supply closet on my way out. He gives me a sympathetic nod, his eyes sad.

  I take my satchel and fleece from the hook and let myself out into the watery sunlight, still reeling. How is it possible that in just a few short days my entire future could be crumbling away? By tonight there may be nothing left at all.

  Chapter 6

  “Hey, tiger.” My older brother, Henry, answers the phone on the second ring. He’s the first person I think to call when I leave work. I’m a mess, stunned by the loss of my apprenticeship and in knots over my impending picnic with Ethan. I need a cooler head to talk me down.

  “I think I might be having the worst day of my life,” I blurt out, bicycling at breakneck pace through historic Ballard.

  “Really? What happened?” In the background I can hear one of the twins squawking. “Oliver, don’t hit Auden with the rubber hammer,” Henry admonishes. “No! Dude, what did I tell you? Gentle touches!”

  Henry is a stay-at-home dad in one of the affluent suburbs of Chicago. His wife, Christine, has a high-powered job in marketing for Kraft Foods. Besides the twins, who are eighteen-month-old bundles of boundless energy, they have Madeleine, who is four, and a dwarf hamster named Rainbow Princess.

  “For starters, I just got fired from the bakery.” I quickly describe my morning, then detail Ethan’s entire non-proposal, ending with, “So it’s been three days. He just texted to ask me to meet. I’m absolutely petrified.”

  I turn onto the Ballard Bridge and wait for Henry’s response, pedaling slowly down the narrow bike and pedestrian walkway. Although we don’t see each other often, my brother and I are still close. We talk every week or so, and I trust him to be calm, steady, and brutally honest, all things I need right now.

  “Aw Mia, I’m sorry. That sucks.” I hear genuine regret in Henry’s voice. “I can’t believe Ethan would do that to you. After all this time together, I just didn’t see that coming.” An instant later his tone slides into alarm. “No, don’t eat that, Auden. Where did you get a glue stick? Spit it out, into Daddy’s hand. Here, you want some Cheerios? Just spit it out for Daddy.”

  I wait patiently as Auden howls into the phone. I picture Henry prying a round of gummy glue stick out of Auden’s wide-open mouth. Henry and I look alike, with similar eye shape and coloring, but he has straight brown hair worn long and little round wire-rimmed glasses, channeling a bit of a John Lennon vibe. These days he is usually covered in some pureed vegetable substance and looking both tired and a little harried. The shrieking dies down and Henry comes back on the phone. “Just a second. Keurig’s ready and I’m beat.” His voice trails away.

  Halfway across the bridge I pause because the drawbridge is going up. A sailboat is waiting to enter the harbor. Cars back up on either side as the two lanes of asphalt split apart and lift high into the air. Below me white sailboats bob in salt water the color of cobalt glass. The breeze carries the scent of brine and underneath a hint of gasoline from the boats. Overhead the sky is patchy, clear blue peeking out from behind fluffy clouds, giving the promise of sun later. It looks like a perfect Seattle day, a perfect, disastrous day.

  “Okay, I’m back. The caffeine is hitting my brain,” Henry announces. I can hear him slurping coffee. “I just put the twins down in front of Baby Einstein. Don’t tell Christine. They’re not supposed to have any screen time until they’re two. So if they don’t get into Harvard, I’m holding you responsible.” He chuckles darkly, then sobers. “I still can’t believe it. I thought you and Ethan were a done deal. Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re stuck waiting to see what he decides?”

&
nbsp; “Yes! I feel like my entire life is crumbling around me, and I can’t do anything to stop it. I’m just watching it happen.” I straddle my bike and watch the sailboat slowly glide under the bridge. I pause, then ask quietly, “What do I do if he doesn’t want me?”

  Just saying the words feels like a punch in the gut.

  Henry is quiet for a moment. “Mia, why are you letting Ethan have all the power? This is your life too. You don’t have to passively just wait for him to decide for you.”

  “But I love him,” I protest. “I want him to choose us again.”

  “That may not happen,” Henry says gently.

  I am silent for a moment. I know he’s right, but I will continue to hope until I hear the words from Ethan’s mouth.

  “So what do you think I should do?” I ask miserably.

  The crossing gates slowly lift and cars snake across the bridge once again. I don’t start pedaling, just move my bike over to the edge of the narrow walkway and rest my arms on the bridge railing, looking down at the boats bobbing in the harbor.

  “You remember that Mother Teresa coloring book you had when we were kids?” Henry asks.

  “Sure.” It was my favorite childhood possession, gifted to me by Aunt Frannie on one of her whirlwind visits back to the US. She’d been working in post–civil war Sierra Leone and dropped in to see us for a few days, enough time to fill my head with stories of her wild adventures and help me blow out the candles on my birthday cake.