The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  “He’s very handsome,” Rosie adds. “And single.” She twirls her finger around in the tin of mixed nuts, picking out the cashews. “He’s been linked to Princess Theodora of Greece and Denmark, but I think they split up last spring.” Rosie likes to follow the royals.

  “How old is he?”

  “Midthirties, I’d guess.”

  “Oh, that’s young.” I’d pictured the heir to a breakfast food fortune as being ancient, craggy and snowy-haired. “And he has a private island? How do you know that’s where the orientation is?” I don’t remember reading this in any of the materials. I realize, talking to Rosie, that I don’t know a lot about this trip. It all happened so quickly that it seems I missed some pertinent details.

  “I googled the Humanitas Foundation’s address,” Rosie says, popping a cashew into her mouth. “It’s on Sunbeam Key, which is the Lindquist family’s private island.”

  Private island definitely does not sound like summer camp. I suddenly wonder if I’ve brought the right kind of clothes for this trip. On a three-hour visit to REI, the famous Seattle-based outdoor equipment store, I religiously followed the packing list and only purchased practical, versatile travel gear with the help of an enthusiastic salesperson who knew everything about performance fabrics and the SPF of sun shirts.

  Munching a handful of salted almonds, I pull out my phone and quickly google Sunbeam Key. One look at the enormous, ornate mansion facing the ocean, and I realize with a sinking feeling that this is not the kind of place where you wear a shirt with built-in sun protection. When I saw the clothes Rosie had laid out to pack, I thought she was being overly stylish, bringing fashionable but not practical choices. I may have been wrong. Well, it’s too late now.

  We speed down the highway under the fierce sun, the landscape out the window brown and barren.

  “Thank goodness for air-conditioning,” Rosie says, stretching and relaxing against the opposite seat. Florida at the end of April is a world away from the moist chill of a Seattle spring. To pass the time, we ravage the snack bar and have another glass of champagne from the mini fridge.

  A little more than an hour after we leave the airport, we pull into a private marina. The limo driver escorts us to a gleaming wooden Chris-Craft motorboat where a man in dark aviators waits at the helm. We clamber into the boat, and a moment later we are off, skimming the calm blue water, turning our faces to the sunlight, warm and bright. Two dolphins arc from the water, and I think for a moment that I could stay like this forever, with the wind tousling my hair and the sunshine undoubtedly freckling my nose.

  Twenty minutes later we approach Sunbeam Key, a picture-perfect island with a dock jutting from a white sand beach ringed by palm trees. Our driver moors the boat and helps us onto the dock, setting our luggage at our feet.

  “Mia and Rosie, hi there!” Bryant calls as he and Stella hurry toward the dock. Bryant reaches us first and pumps our hands enthusiastically. “Ladies, you all right? How was the trip?” His Boston accent is even stronger in person, his r’s melting into ahs.

  Stella touches my arm briefly. Her skin is cold, even in the Florida heat. “Welcome to Sunbeam Key,” she intones.

  Behind her a cameraman with a video camera is filming our arrival. Am I supposed to look at the camera or pretend it isn’t there? Stella notices my discomfort.

  “Just ignore it,” she advises. “You’ll get used to it. We use the footage for publicity purposes, to help promote the work of the foundation.”

  I nod uncertainly, trying to act normal and pretending I don’t see the blank eye of the camera following our every move from just a few feet away.

  Two strapping young men in tight white T-shirts appear and grab my backpack and Rosie’s suitcase, following us as Bryant and Stella lead the way up a white crushed-shell path that winds through palm trees to a cluster of beach bungalows painted in candy-bright colors.

  “These are the guest cottages. You’re here in Lingonberry.” Bryant stops in front of a bright red cottage with white shutters sitting picturesquely between two stands of palms. The white T-shirted men are already placing our luggage inside the front door. “Now, you two rest up, have a nap or take a swim. Dinner is at six, predinner drinks at five thirty by the pool. We’ll have a presentation later tonight. Just follow the path around to the beach in front of the big house. Can’t miss it.”

  “Casual chic attire is acceptable,” Stella adds.

  I open my mouth to ask what exactly casual chic attire is, but they are already heading back down the path to the beach, the cameraman loping behind them.

  From the front steps of our cottage, I can see the dock through the palm trees. Another boat has just pulled up. Most likely those are some of our fellow participants. My heart skips a beat in anticipation. Suddenly it all seems so real.

  Inside the guest cottage we unpack and get settled in. The space is perfectly appointed for both comfort and style. French toiletries in the tiled bathroom and Italian sodas in the mini fridge.

  “I think I’ll take a quick nap.” Rosie yawns. “It was such an early flight. I can’t keep my eyes open.” She kicks off her shoes, pulls a satin eye mask from her purse, and falls onto one of the twin beds, red hair splayed across the white duvet cover like a flame. She is almost instantly asleep.

  I’m too excited to sleep, so I uncap a lemon soda and take the slim orientation packet I found on our beds out on the front porch. Installing myself in the rope hammock hung between two porch railings, I glance through the packet, which only contains a welcome letter from Lars Lindquist and a weekly schedule.

  The view from my hammock is enchanting—other guest cottages in mint green, canary yellow, and cotton candy pink nestle beneath the stands of palm trees. And beyond the cottages, glimpses of ocean and the soothing shush of the surf. There is no breeze, and the temperature is climbing, but in the shade of the front porch, the air is still comfortable.

  I set the welcome packet aside and take a deep breath, trying to center myself, to be present and comprehend that I am actually here. I pull out my phone and, without thinking, start to text Ethan, then stop. I picture the look on his face as he was breaking up with me—regret mingled with relief. Ethan has made his choice to end our relationship. I have made mine to come here. It still hurts so much to think of him that sometimes I can’t breathe, the pain sharp and piercing as a cracked rib. But I am determined not to wallow in grief. I will keep moving forward.

  I text Nana Alice instead. Just arrived. Traveled in style in a limo with champagne. Gorgeous view! I snap a photo from my porch and hit Send. When I hugged her goodbye last night after our Bake Off session ended, she felt so frail in my arms.

  For a moment my heart clenches with grief and worry, but I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to picture the worry and sadness sliding from my shoulders. Nana Alice insisted I come. I am here for her, too, not just for me. I take another slow, deep breath, feeling for the first time in weeks a flicker of contentment. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside, born of sheer relief. My new life starts now.

  My phone dings. Gracious, such glamor. Enjoy the sunshine! XOXO, Nana

  I spy movement through the trees, and a moment later a small group of people appear, walking up the path from the beach. Stella is marching ahead, trailed by the muscular luggage handlers. Bryant brings up the rear, talking and gesturing to a tall, lanky man with glossy dark hair pulled back in a man bun. I wrinkle my nose. Man buns are not my fashion trend of choice. Too pretend samurai. Guys with man buns seem like they’re trying too hard to look cool. The ever-present cameraman is filming them as they walk. They stop at a canary-yellow cottage two doors away.

  Man Bun glances up when he reaches his porch, and we lock eyes. He’s striking—smooth, tanned skin and almond eyes that hint at East Asian heritage. He’s wearing a baby-blue T-shirt featuring a green Godzilla holding a surfboard and making a “hang loose” gesture. His mouth quirks up into a small smile, and he gives me a nod. I can’t help bu
t smile back. He ducks his head to enter the cottage and doesn’t turn around again. I wonder what team he’s on.

  Although I don’t feel tired, the afternoon heat and sun are potent, and I must eventually drift off. I wake to Rosie shaking me, pointing to the time on her phone.

  “Mia, up and at ’em, sugar. We slept too long. We’re late.”

  We dash inside to get ready. It’s time to meet our team.

  Chapter 11

  “Ooh, I hope we don’t miss anything important,” Rosie frets as we hurry along the crushed-shell path Bryant pointed out to us, which leads away from the cottages, farther along the island.

  “I think it’s just cocktails by the pool right now,” I puff, struggling to keep up with Rosie’s long legs. She looks gorgeous in a bright yellow sundress in a travel-friendly fabric. It floats around her, light as air. With her red hair falling around her shoulders, she looks like a sunset, vibrant and alive.

  After assessing my new wardrobe I donned the only possible option, a knee-length ink-blue travel dress with capped sleeves, a pair of black flip-flops, and a small clutch I’m borrowing from Rosie. (Side note: Who brings a gold clutch on a humanitarian service trip around the world? That was most definitely not on the packing list.)

  The best word to describe my travel wardrobe is serviceable. It’s not going to win any style awards, but it feels practical, efficient. A fitting wardrobe for Saint Mia. My hair is going crazy in the heat, curling every which way. After my hasty postnap shower, I briefly considered containing it, pulling it back in a low messy bun, but then didn’t bother. I like letting it go free.

  We trot along the path, which winds through dense green foliage for a few minutes before suddenly opening up to a vast expanse of white sandy beach.

  “Oh my goodness!” Rosie exclaims.

  On our right is the endless aqua rolling expanse of the ocean, and on our left, across the wide swath of sand, stands an imposing white mansion with tall french doors open to a long veranda spilling over with pots of tropical blooms. An infinity pool glitters in the sunshine on a spacious patio situated between the front of the house and the beach.

  Small groups of people holding drinks cluster around the pool. On one side of the pool, a calypso band is playing a jaunty tune, the musicians on their steel drums and maracas, guitars and trombones bobbing enthusiastically as they play. The music floats across the beach, and I feel my toes tapping before I even realize it. A pig is roasting on a spit over a fire pit dug in the sand, and the tantalizing smell of roasted pork wafts past us on the warm breeze as we approach the patio. Across the pool I spy Stella talking to a tall, whip-thin woman with blonde dreadlocks who is wearing black leather pants with metal studs down the legs. Bryant hovers by a tiki hut bar, handing out cocktails.

  Rosie elbows me. “Just think, our teammates are here somewhere,” she whispers excitedly.

  She, unlike me, is primed and ready to find love. If she happens to find it in a gorgeous, exotic locale while helping those less fortunate, so much the better. We hover at the lip of the patio for a moment, unsure of what exactly to do.

  “Ladies!” Bryant waves us over to the tiki hut. “Come get a drink.”

  The bar is manned by a huge Pacific Islander bartender with sleeves of tribal-looking tattoos. Rosie asks him for a cosmopolitan; the color complements her hair perfectly. I order a sidecar. If Rosie can match her hair, so can I. I’m not a girly drink fan. I much prefer the sour kick of cognac, Cointreau, and lemon juice.

  “Thanks.” I accept the sidecar and take a sip. Nana Alice was the person who introduced me to the sidecar. She ordered one for me on my twenty-first birthday, and we toasted my new adulthood on a windy rooftop patio overlooking Elliot Bay. I tamp down a stab of guilt at leaving her, focusing instead on my surroundings. She’ll eat up all the details. I set my glass on the bar and fish my phone from the clutch, snapping a few photos to send to her later.

  Bryant pops up in front of me and waggles a finger at the phone. “Naughty, naughty, Mia. Someone didn’t read their nondisclosure clause. No outside photographs for any of the time you’re with the Humanitas Foundation. Our photographers and videographers handle all media for the trip.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I murmur, taken aback. Obviously I didn’t read the confidentiality agreement carefully enough. It appears that I might have missed some important details. I hastily delete the photos, embarrassed.

  “Mr. Lindquist likes to keep an eye on all publicity and media images related to the Humanitas Foundation,” Bryant explains. “Everything from here on out has to go through the proper channels—that goes for videos, photos, tweets, everything.”

  I nod, cheeks flaming, and take a gulp of my sidecar. Five minutes into orientation and I’m already in trouble. Nice, Mia. Good first impression.

  “Don’t worry.” Bryant claps me on the back in a brotherly fashion. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Thanks.” I slip my phone into my pocket.

  Rosie has wandered toward the pool and is animatedly talking to a sandy-blond man sporting a full lumberjack beard.

  “Sorry, Mia, gotta go.” Bryant sees some new arrivals near the patio entrance and hurries to greet them, leaving me alone. I sip my sidecar in what I hope looks like a coolly confident manner.

  “Hey, how was your nap?”

  I turn. It’s our man-bun neighbor standing at my elbow, holding a can of Heady Topper IPA. “I came over to your cottage to say hi earlier, but I didn’t want to wake you.” He smiles, and I notice his eyes crinkle at the corners.

  “Um, thanks,” I mumble, disconcerted to think of this attractive stranger watching me sleep. I hope I wasn’t drooling. Maybe I looked like Sleeping Beauty, all softly flushed cheeks and crescents of eyelashes. One can hope, right?

  “I’m Kai.” He reaches out and shakes my hand. Of course his name is Kai. How could he not have a cool hipster name? I bet he surfs. I suddenly wonder what my hair looks like right now and wish I’d put a little more effort into being party ready. A touch of lipstick wouldn’t have gone amiss.

  “Mia.” I try for a firm, convivial grip to project self-assurance in the face of the possible drooling/insane clown hair scenario.

  Up close he is taller than I thought, towering almost a foot above me, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. His skin is tanned, cheekbones sharp, and his eyes are black. He’s gorgeous in a laid-back, exotic way. He makes me think of sandy beaches, tropical breezes, and brightly colored cocktails spiked generously with rum. I take an instinctive step back, trying to put a little distance between us. He makes me nervous.

  “So, Mia, what brings you here?” he asks, his throat at my eye level, a crescent of tanned skin above the neck of his T-shirt. He’s changed; it’s no longer Godzilla but an Indigo Girls concert tee, a choice that catches me off guard. They’re one of my favorite bands but not usually popular with men of my generation. I want to know the story behind that shirt.

  I take a sip of my sidecar and say with a touch of irony, “A broken heart and an epiphany.”

  “Wow.” He regards me thoughtfully. “Cool . . . the epiphany, not the broken heart. Sorry.” He takes a sip of his beer.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

  “Trying to win a bet.” He gives me a wry sideways glance. “I dropped out of law school at the University of Virginia after my first semester. My mom and stepdad are . . . not happy, to put it mildly. So we struck a deal. I take a year to get my not-for-profit up and running, and if I can’t, I go back and finish law school.”

  Law school. Impressive. So he’s smart. Probably really smart.

  “How is this trip going to help you win your bet?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Well, since at the end of the trip Lars Lindquist is choosing one of the participants and fully funding their project for two years, I figured it was worth a shot to join and see if I win.” He smiles with a touch of self-deprecation.

  I look down at my flip-flops, focusin
g on something mundane to regain my equilibrium. He’s just a guy, the first guy I’ve really talked to since Ethan broke my heart. A gorgeous, smart, sexy guy, granted, but still, just a guy. I’m single. I’m still shattered. I don’t have any idea how to feel.

  “So what will you do if you get the funding?” I hazard a glance back up at him. I can feel the sidecar going to my head, my cheeks growing warm under his intent dark gaze.

  “Sustainable urban farming,” he says. “Right now I’m working at Whole Foods and converting an old Lay’s Potato Chip truck into a portable greenhouse, but I have a plan. I want to show kids where their food comes from and how they can grow it in a small urban space. I want to increase not just their nutrition but their connection to the earth and their ability to take care of it.” He takes another sip of beer, and I watch his throat move, the fluid motion of his wrist as he lifts the can to his lips. He’s wearing a hemp bracelet. Since when have I found granola crunchy men attractive? I’ve always leaned more toward the preppy L.L.Bean types.

  I think of Ethan. He and Kai could not be more different. It occurs to me for the first time that all of Ethan’s dreams for the future were at their core self-centered—the house we’d own, a favorite vacation spot in Maui, what model of vintage Porsche he’d buy. Never once did I hear him say what Kai has just said, that he wants to do something that makes the world a better place.

  If this were a romantic movie, and I were the female lead, I would gaze up at Kai and say softly, “Me too.” But this is real life, so instead I panic, gulp my sidecar, and mumble about having to find the restroom, then make a beeline for the first person I recognize.

  Stella is stalking back and forth near a large potted fern by the wide veranda stairs, cell phone to her ear, berating someone about a mix-up with the appetizers. “Mr. Lindquist wanted Key West Pink Shrimp, sustainably caught, not that toxic Chinese farmed shrimp. He is your company’s most lucrative customer, and if we don’t see Key West Pink Shrimp on the table tomorrow at lunch, you can kiss your catering career goodbye.”