The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  “Can you walk?” Kai asks tightly. He grabs my arm and pulls me with him. I glance back, but the surface of the water is deceptively still. I can’t see whatever’s out there. Kai pulls me toward shore, our progress excruciatingly slow.

  “I can touch.” I put my feet down, trying to match his pace. My heart is racing with fear and adrenaline.

  “Walk fast. Don’t swim,” he instructs tightly. “Humans look like wounded sea creatures when they swim.”

  I obey, walking as fast as I can through water that’s now at armpit level. Every step feels like slow motion. Kai stops and slips behind me, his hand on my shoulder. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s doing.

  “Are you putting yourself between me and the shark?” I pant, every muscle straining to go as fast as possible as we slog through the water.

  “Yes,” he answers shortly.

  He’s using his own body to defend me. That’s downright heroic. But I’m not about to let a man lose his leg or his life protecting me. I’m not a damsel in distress.

  I duck under Kai’s arm so I’m beside him, not in front, then grab his hand. “We’re a team,” I say. “We go down together.”

  He glances at me for an instant, and I see a flicker of admiration in his gaze. We push through the water side by side.

  Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, we gain ground. Every second I’m braced for an attack, expecting to feel razor sharp teeth latch onto me under the water. Kai’s fingers grip mine so tightly I lose circulation. Now the water is to my waist, now my thighs. Our teammates on the shore are going crazy, cheering and screaming encouragement.

  When we are in knee-deep water, Kai drops my hand. “Run!” he commands. We run, splashing and high-stepping, desperate to reach land. I don’t stop until all I feel on my toes is warm dry sand, and then I stumble and fall, breathless and shaking. Our entire team surrounds us, their faces suffused with relief. My legs are trembling so hard Rosie has to help me stand. She wraps me in a towel and then gives me a long, tight hug, ignoring the wet patch I leave on her crisp blouse. Jake is filming the scene, circling us, catching all the dramatic footage.

  “There, see it?” Milo points out at the water. I can just make out an ominous dark shape darting through the water between us and our sunken paddle boat. Kai whistles low. “That’s a bull shark. At least six feet long. They’re notoriously aggressive.”

  “He was chasing some fish, and then he doubled back and headed for you.” Milo shakes his head. “We didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  Sodden and weak-limbed, I watch the blurry shadow of the shark in disbelief. Rosie grabs a bottle of water and presses it into my hand.

  “Did Kai put himself between you and the shark?” she asks, keeping her voice low so the others can’t hear.

  I nod. “He tried, but I told him we were a team.”

  “Oh my stars,” Her eyes follow Kai as he and Milo stand a few yards away watching the shark. “That’s so . . . heroic.”

  I take a swallow of water. “Yeah it is.” He doesn’t know me, didn’t need to put himself in harm’s way for me. But he did. The thought warms me. Rosie bustles off to get a bottle of water and a towel for Kai.

  “You okay?” Kai comes over to me and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side, solid and reassuring.

  I lean into him a little, resting my head against his shoulder. The relief is starting to seep through my body, leaving me jelly-legged and light-headed, and a little euphoric. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for sticking with me.” My voice is hoarse from salt water and fear.

  “Thanks for being brave,” Kai says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jake filming our interaction and drop my eyes to the sand, feeling awkward that such a personal moment will be on camera for Lars Lindquist and the entire world to see. Rosie returns with Kai’s towel and a bottle of water, effusive and concerned. He thanks her, and then Milo calls him back over to watch the shark hunt for prey.

  I sit down in the sand and drink some more water, feeling steadier. What an unexpected morning. I watch Kai for a moment, replaying the events of the past half hour. His actions were admirable, but I have come on this trip with one goal, to find my place and make a difference in the world. Kai is a teammate. Maybe he can be a good friend. Nothing more. I need to keep that crystal clear in my mind. There is no room for gorgeous, heroic Hawaiian surfers in my alternate life. Not even one who is willing to risk life and limb to save me. I don’t need to be saved. I can stand on my own two feet.

  Chapter 16

  “Sa-wah-dee-kha.” Facing Abel under the big white tent, I intone the traditional Thai greeting, then give him the wai, placing my palms together like praying hands and making a slight bow of respect. It is our third cultural learning session, and all the teams are practicing a few polite phrases for each country on our itinerary. I stumble over the foreign words of the Thai language, the sounds too acrobatic for my English tongue.

  “Sa-wah-dee-khrap,” Abel replies in his soft, lilting accent, returning the bow solemnly.

  “Khob khun ka,” I say. Thank you.

  “Khob khun krup,” Abel replies, each of us using the appropriate phrase for addressing the opposite gender.

  I like being paired with Abel. He’s the most reserved member of our team, saying little but observing everything with a look of concentration on his narrow, clever face. He has a calm steadiness about him, a sense that he is always listening.

  As all the teams practice the phrases under the watchful eye of our instructor, Jake circles Abel and me, filming.

  “Pood Thai mai . . .” Seeing the camera lens breaks my concentration, and I forget the phrase for “I don’t speak Thai.”

  “Just do your thing, and Jake will blend into the background. You won’t even know he’s there,” Bryant assures me in a whisper, coming over to where we are standing. He’s been observing our lesson.

  “Does he have to film everything?” I whisper back, still feeling annoyed about Jake recording the entire shark incident and its aftermath.

  “We use a lot of it for publicity,” Bryant explains. “We have a website and an Instagram account so everyone can track with the trip, almost in real time. And Lars likes to keep a close eye on the teams, to have a real sense of what’s going on day by day. This is the first trip for the foundation, so we’re really interested to observe what works and what doesn’t, to see how it all plays out in real life.” He waves a hand at Jake as though erasing him. “Act like he isn’t there.”

  I try, but I still feel awkward with a camera lens pointed in my direction.

  “Good effort with the Thai phrases.” Our instructor, an Asian studies professor from Columbia University, claps her hands briskly and calls all the teams back together again. “Now please take a seat, and let’s discuss the political climate of Thailand, particularly the issues surrounding the new king.”

  We return to our seats as the instructor begins her lecture onstage at the front of the tent. So far the lectures are interesting and informative, but we still have no idea what exactly we will be doing to help in the various countries. Stella assures us that we will be “practically assisting on-the-ground organizations in each location.” Which sounds good but still seems quite vague.

  Outside of the planned sessions, the members of Team Caritas gravitate toward each other, sitting together at meals and in the evenings. Somehow the shark incident has brought us closer together. We are still mostly strangers, vastly different in personality and outlook, but we have each other’s backs. Thinking of what lies ahead in just a few short days, I find that reassuring. At least we will be going into the unknown together.

  * * *

  Our final night on Sunbeam Key, Lars throws an epic bon voyage party. Each team will depart in the morning for one of the locations. Teams Veritas and Fortis will start in Thailand, Team Fidelis in Mexico, and we on Team Caritas are heading for India.

  By eight the par
ty is in full swing—Brazilian barbecue with dozens and dozens of skewers of meat roasting on a huge grill by the pool, colored lanterns strung from the palm trees, fruity cocktails. The air is soft and warm, the colored lights around the pool reflecting on the water’s surface, blurry and beautiful watercolors of themselves. As the sun sets, a half dozen of the white T-shirted muscular men wheel a baby grand piano from inside the house and assemble a trap set on the veranda. A man in a fedora and suspenders takes a seat at the piano and begins to play some light jazz. He’s accompanied by guitar, drums, and stand-up bass. Several people start to dance on the patio, and others clump together in little groups, cocktail glasses in hand.

  Just as the band starts into “Girl from Ipanema,” Lars joins the party, looking impeccable in a white linen suit. I haven’t seen him since the night we spoke on the veranda. He mingles with the guests.

  I wander over to the tiki hut bar where Rangi, the tattooed Samoan bartender, is leaning against the counter watching the festivities.

  “Hey, pretty lady, can I get you something?” he asks.

  “Um, something tropical?” I ask. “Maybe virgin since I’ve got a long day of travel tomorrow.”

  He nods and whips out a coconut, the top already sheared off. He pops a straw into it and hands it to me. “Can’t get more tropical than this.”

  I take a sip. The liquid inside is sweet and slightly nutty flavored. Delicious. “This is quite a party,” I say.

  Rangi shrugs. “Pretty standard for around here.”

  “Really? How often do you have these sorts of things?” I’m surprised. I imagined we were getting some sort of special treatment.

  “At least twice a month. Sometimes more,” Rangi says. “They’re different each time. Last August when it was hot enough to melt your face, Boss Man hosted a vodka and ice palace–themed party. Had tons of ice flown in from Alaska and an ice sculpture contest. It was crazy.”

  “Wow, really?” I sip my coconut water. The band has moved on to an upbeat version of “In the Mood.” “Why did he have it here? Why didn’t he just go to Alaska?”

  Rangi gives me a sideways glance. “What do you mean? Boss Man doesn’t leave the island. Everything has to come to him.”

  “What?” I stare at him in bemusement. “I thought Lars had a million followers on Instagram. I thought he dated a princess.”

  “That’s right.” Rangi nods, crossing his arms and leaning against the bar. “But it all happens here. Everything Boss Man wants to see and do he brings right here ’cause he can’t leave. In the two years I’ve worked here, he’s imported a Chinese circus troupe, a traveling ballet company from St. Petersburg, and a gourmet sushi chef competition. Once a month he has a weekend-long party with famous Hollywood celebrities. Justin Timberlake and his family stayed here for two weeks last year.”

  While all this is impressive, I’m stuck on one phrase. “Why can’t he leave?”

  “Don’t know.” Rangi shrugs. “Rumor is something bad happened to him a couple of years ago, and now he only feels safe on the island.”

  I scan the crowd until I find Lars’ tall, lean figure. He’s holding a martini glass in one hand and chatting with beautiful Korean twin sisters from Team Veritas. He can’t leave the island? With consternation I think back to my first conversation with him, the air of elegant sadness that envelopes him. What did he call this place, a golden cage?

  “Thanks for the drink.” I raise my coconut in a little salute and wander toward the pool, still puzzling over this unexpected news about our host.

  There’s a flurry of activity by the piano on the veranda, and then the opening chords to “Fly Me to the Moon” fill the night air. Someone starts to sing, and instantly I recognize the voice. Rosie is leaning against the piano, serenading the patio in her fabulous, sultry croon. I pause to listen. I’ve heard her sing many times before, but her voice still stops me in my tracks. One glance around and I see that it is having the same effect on others. Most of the party guests have stopped what they are doing and are listening, heads turned toward her, cocktail glasses motionless in their hands. Clad in a lovely turquoise sundress, her hair loose around her shoulders, she looks alluring, enchanting. I feel a swell of pride as I watch her.

  “She is truly captivating.”

  I whirl to find Lars Lindquist standing at my elbow, infusing the air between us with the light scent of bergamot, like Earl Grey tea. I sniff appreciatively, trying not to be obvious.

  “Is she classically trained?” he asks. “Julliard perhaps?” He takes a sip of his martini, dirty with two olives, his eyes never leaving Rosie.

  I laugh. “No, she’s just naturally that good.” I don’t elaborate. People always assume things about Rosie—that she comes from Southern money, that she’s highly trained at a fancy conservatory, that she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. To look at her, no one would guess her humble roots.

  “Marvelous.” Lars shakes his head. He’s entranced by her, and for good reason. She’s sparkling and talented, not to mention strikingly beautiful. With her jade-green eyes and statuesque, bombshell figure, she looks like she belongs on a pin-up calendar from World War II.

  Rosie has finished her song and descends the steps, laughing and flirting with a dentist from the Fidelis Team.

  “Would you tell her how remarkable I find her voice?” Lars requests.

  “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” I wave and call to her across the pool. “Rosie!”

  She sees us and gracefully excuses herself from the conversation with the dentist. She seems to float over to us, her smile radiant.

  “Rosie, have you met our host, Lars Lindquist?”

  “I have not yet had that pleasure,” Rosie says sweetly, her accent seeming to grow thicker with every word, slow and golden as honey. She holds out her hand, and he takes it and presses it between his palms, almost reverently. Rosie meets his eyes and smiles demurely. I watch Lars melt. There’s no other word for it. If he were an ice cube, there would be nothing left but a puddle in his expensive leather boat shoes.

  “Thank you for gracing us with a remarkable performance,” he says, his voice mellow and smooth with just a hint of a Scandinavian accent. “Your voice is truly a gift.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet of you to say,” Rosie purrs. “But you must be used to far better. I heard a rumor that Diana Krall sang at your holiday party last year.”

  “Jamie Cullum came for Christmas,” he corrects her with a slight smile. “Diana joined us for a Valentine’s Day fête.”

  Rosie laughs delightedly.

  I feel like I’ve stepped into a vintage romantic movie, where everyone is perfectly coiffured and delivers their lines with just the right amount of practiced zest and sparkle. I am not up to their caliber, that much is clear.

  I clear my throat and hold aloft my now empty coconut shell. “I’m just going to get a refill. Either of you want anything?” They don’t hear me. They’re already discussing a Venetian carnival event Lars threw last year and how opera star Renée Fleming, a personal friend of his, whipped off her ornate mask and sang a surprise ballad just before the midnight supper.

  I wander off to the bar, a little blinded by the sparks those two are making together. I wonder if Rosie knows Lars never leaves the island. I glance back at them. Rosie is laughing, her head thrown back, the slim line of her throat white and graceful as a swan. Lars is looking pleased and a little sheepish. He is everything Rosie is looking for in a man. Kind, handsome, ridiculously wealthy. And he seems like a genuinely good human being, a far cry from the louts Rosie has fallen for in the past. I can see the attraction between them. I should be celebrating it, but instead it gives me pause.

  Rosie’s chief ambition, besides to find the love of a thoroughly good man, is to pursue her dream of a career singing jazz in New York. And Lars cannot leave the island, for reasons that are a mystery. Therefore Lars is not a good match at all. Just another man with baggage who looks good on the surface but is hiding
some flaw beneath.

  I hesitate, watching them together, wondering if I should tell her what I know. Right now it’s just a harmless flirtation. And besides, tomorrow we jet off to Mumbai, and Lars . . . Well, apparently Lars will be staying right here on the island.

  Chapter 17

  How r u today? What did doctor say?

  Later that night, after the party has wound down, I slouch in the hammock on the deck of our Lingonberry cottage and text Nana Alice. She had her big oncology appointment today. I’ve been wondering about the results all evening but wanted to be somewhere quiet and private before asking her questions. I don’t bother trying to call. It’s bingo night at Sunny Days, and she never misses a chance to play.

  I hear back from her a minute later. I’m good. Dr says great treatment options available. We’re optimistic. More later. I’m one number away from winning a Twix bar!

  I imagine her punching the letters of the text on her phone one at a time with her gnarled index finger, and my heart squeezes. I desperately hope she’s doing as well as she claims.

  For a moment I waver, tempted to get on a plane to Seattle instead of Mumbai tomorrow. But Nana Alice would never forgive me, or herself, if I gave up this adventure because of her. I will go to India, I decide. If she takes a turn for the worse, I can always leave the trip early and fly home. I glance at my watch. Ten till eight in Seattle and almost eleven here. Rosie isn’t back yet. Earlier, as the party wound down, I passed Lars and Rosie climbing the veranda steps to the house with a bottle of champagne.

  “Lars wants to show me his telescope,” Rosie told me, her voice light and balmy as the evening air. “Don’t wait up.”

  The sky this evening is clear, like blue velvet, a backdrop for a luminous swath of stars. They’ll have an incredible view.

  I text Henry next. Off to India tomorrow. Bravely charging into my alternate life. It’s too late to actually call him in Chicago. The twins wake at five, and Henry has adopted an early bedtime for the entire family with a fervor that borders on the religious.