Plan Bee

by Hannah Reed

  As to the confrontation with our police chief, Mom was sort of right. The physical fight with Johnny Jay had been captured on film, and she wasn’t about to let me forget it. Ever. Not that the altercation was my fault in any way. Johnny Jay really dislikes me, and he doesn’t try to hide how he’s always gunning for me.

  Believe me, the feeling is mutual. He was a big bully as a boy. Now he’s a big bully adult.

  “There isn’t any crime wave committee,” I informed Carrie Ann. “Mom just made that up so you would tell me exactly what you just told me. Another shot across my bow.”

  “I really believed her,” Carrie Ann said, heading toward our outdoor booth where she would sell honey products and other items from the store for the duration of the festival. “Don’t tell me your mother’s starting to make up stories, too?”

  I grimaced at the reference to the history behind my nickname. Melissa is my real name, but somewhere way back I became Story due to an innate ability to reshape the truth. Those days of tall tales are behind me, and most of my friends, family, and acquaintances have forgotten the “story” behind the nickname. Except one or two. Like Carrie Ann. And my mother.

  Sometimes when I’m the most frustrated, I feel like my mother doesn’t have a single redeeming quality. But Mom has a lot of friends, so I have to imagine that she has a kind and generous side. Just one she hasn’t revealed to me. My younger sister Holly must see it, because she and Mom get along just fine. Though that might be because Holly doesn’t have a spine when it comes to dealing with Mom; she just lets Mom take control of whatever she wants.

  One thing I will say about our mother—she isn’t into gossiping. She doesn’t start rumors, and she doesn’t spread them. And believe me, there’s plenty of muck going around in a town this small and intimate. But on the other hand, she believes most of the gossip she hears, no matter how salacious, especially when it pertains to me.

  Just as I was about to duck inside the store, my grandmother pulled up in her Cadillac Fleetwood, with Holly, looking terrified, in the passenger seat. Even though Grams is a hazard on the road, nobody is going to pry her out of the driver’s seat until she decides to leave this earth, which isn’t likely to happen anytime soon. At her last physical, the doctor said she’d be good until at least a hundred.

  I moved closer to the building in case Grams jumped the curb.

  She didn’t. But I heard the Caddy’s front bumper kiss the parked car in front of it.

  “Back up a few inches,” I called out, and she did. Good thing there wasn’t a car behind her or that one would have been an innocent victim, too.

  Holly slid out looking all sleek, with a new hairstyle that wrapped around her face à la Marilyn Monroe. My sister may dress just like the rest of us—in shorts, sandals, sleeveless summer tops—but she carries an air of wealth around with her that is only achievable with real bucks. That’s because she’s filthy rich, having married Max the Money Machine, and her clothes cost five times as much as mine or anybody else’s in Moraine.

  But a hefty price came with her financial freedom—for me, that is. Holly’s husband is on the road all the time, so Holly compensates by involving herself in my store’s business, of which she is now co-owner after lending me the cold cash I needed to keep it running through some tough times. Holly also developed a serious text-speak problem and is seeing a therapist to correct it, thanks to Mom stepping in and declaring enough was enough—just when I’d finally learned how to text-speak back with a decent range of acronyms.

  “How’d it go?” I asked, since Holly had just had a counseling session. I saw her glance nervously over at the bee table.

  “Great, Ms. Passive Aggressive.” She hurried past, bolting for the store.

  “What?” I sort of shouted in disbelief.

  “You heard me,” she called from the interior.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be working on yourself?” I shouted back.

  “I am. But you’re part of my problem.”

  With that shocking disclosure, she vanished inside. I couldn’t believe it. My own sister, the one I cherished as my best bud and the only person whom I thought understood me inside and out, upside and down, was dissing me?

  What was this? Dump on Story day?

  “Hi, sweetie.” My grandmother stepped onto the curb.

  I bent down to give her a cheek kiss. “Hi, Grams.”

  “You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today. Give me a great big smile.”

  Grams, always camera-ready, snapped a picture of me with her point-and-shoot, then asked, “Where’s Helen?”

  “Mom’s off patrolling the town,” I said, gazing at my grandmother with loving appreciation. Grams is the sweetest woman in the world, which makes me wonder what Mom would be capable of if only she’d lighten up some.

  Grams wears her gray hair in a tight little bun, and likes to weave in whatever flower is blooming in her garden. Daisies are her favorite, but today she sported a silver tiara with sparkling rhinestones and crystals, since she’s this year’s Grand Marshal in the Harmony Festival parade.

  “We’re supposed to be having a meeting about tomorrow’s parade,” Grams said. “Everybody’s at the library waiting on Helen.”

  “Well, here she comes,” I said, seeing Mom spot us, my cue to duck and run for cover inside.

  Two

  I slunk away from my mother and into the back room of The Wild Clover, which doubled as a storage room and my office. Carrie Ann and I both jumped about two feet when I opened the door. I hadn’t expected to find anyone back there, and apparently she hadn’t either, probably assuming I’d be busy outside with festival preparations. My cousin had a dog on her lap and her fingers poised over the keyboard of my computer.

  “Uh, just checking for messages,” she said, quickly closing the browser window before I could see the screen. Then she passed the little mutt over to me on her way out.

  Somehow I’d become a permanent dog-sitter for Norm Cross, one of my old neighbors, who had had a family crisis a while back, and had dumped his dog Dinky on me, claiming he’d return soon. Then he decided not to come back at all, which I suspect had been part of his original secret plan from the very beginning. Plus, he informed me that his new digs didn’t allow dogs. Which was just great.

  Dinky is a Chihuahua mix with hair in all the wrong places and a major-league small-dog complex. She’d been the runt of the litter so, according to Norm, had had to fight harder for her share of food and attention. At least that was his excuse for her bad behavior.

  Dinky licked my face and snuggled closer. She was affectionate; I’d give her that. She regally adjusted herself on my lap when I sat down, as though she was Honey Queen and I was her throne. Well, she could think that way for now, but I was looking for a new home for her and her wayward attitude.

  Did I mention Dinky prefers doing her business indoors rather than outside? Or that if she likes a person, she pees on them? Or that I didn’t have a single pair of panties without chew holes? She’s even turned some of them crotchless, which never fails to amuse my boyfriend, Hunter, whenever she drags a pair out to share with him.

  I spent basically my whole life until now in total fear of dogs, ever since a nasty dog attack when I was a kid. But I did a 180 recently, and I have Hunter and his awesome K-9 partner Ben to thank for my conversion from a trembling mess to an avid admirer. Although Dinky works my nerves hard.

  Hunter Wallace, my main man, is a county cop and head of the K-9 unit. His hours are varied and long, but so are mine. The long absences and brief moments together work for us.

  Hunter and I have a history as long as I’ve had my nickname. We were friends before high school and had a serious relationship during. Then I got wanderlust and moved away to Milwaukee, where I married the wrong man. While I was gone, Hunter had made his own share of mistakes, too, including apparently going through just about every bottle of booze he stumbled across. But by the time I came back and got my divorce, he’d long since t
urned himself around, even sponsoring Carrie Ann to help her the same way his sponsor helped him.

  Hunter doesn’t mind wearing the label of recovering alcoholic, but I have a serious issue when someone labels me. Like a few minutes ago when my sister called me passive aggressive.

  Once I was settled in my office chair, I went online and looked up the definition of passive aggressive just in case the term had evolved into a hip, new, positive meaning. Holly was always ahead of me on the latest fads, fashions, and definitions.

  All I found was the same old bad stuff, some of which I already knew. My sister had not been paying me a compliment. No big surprise, since her tone hadn’t been exactly bursting with friendliness. According to the definition, a person with this condition has a deep-seated resistance to following through with another individual’s expectations. Now who would think that of me?

  But there was more. Symptoms included:

  • stubbornness

  • procrastination

  • intentionally failing at tasks

  Causes might involve:

  • repressed feelings

  • vindictive intent

  None of those things matched my personality. Not one thing. Although ignoring Mom’s no-bee-zone demand might be considered borderline by some people. But I never put off things until the last minute. With a successful store to run, how could I? And intentionally failing at tasks? Like what? I worked hard, and it showed in The Wild Clover.

  And stubborn? Well, okay, maybe a little.

  But wasn’t practically everybody?

  After shutting down the computer screen, last-minute festival details got in the way, and it wasn’t until a little later that I had time to focus on Holly and her annoying, outrageous statement. As if she knew I was thinking about her, the next time I went into the back room to get Dinky and take her for a walk, Holly trotted in and plopped down in a metal chair next to my desk.

  “How can I possibly be your problem?” I blurted out, a trait I’m trying to control, with limited success.

  “I’m in therapy because of your honeybees,” Holly said, starting the Fischer family blame game, which I liked to call “the lame game.” Somehow, some way, it was always somebody else’s fault. I worked hard to suppress that particular gene, but sometimes it raised its ugly head in spite of my efforts.

  Holly is scared silly every time she ventures near the Queen Bee Honey hives. I’ve been helping her (okay helping might not be the right word, since this isn’t mutually agreed on) overcome her completely unwarranted fear by trying to get her more involved. After all, she owns half of everything. “You have to stop making me go near them,” she announced.

  “Let me get this straight. Your therapist said that I should quit asking you to help in the beeyard?”

  Holly nodded. “She thinks the exposure and the anxiety it produces is the reason I text-speak.”

  “You did that text thing long before I started raising bees.” Which was absolutely true. “You didn’t tell her that part, though, did you?”

  Holly squirmed. I pressed on, “And I thought counselors were supposed to help patients get over fears, not run away from them. Did she really say I was passive aggressive?”

  “Not exactly in those words, but she would have if I’d discussed it with her. Since I’ve been in therapy, I’ve been studying personality disorders at the library. You have all the symptoms.” Well, that was a big fat relief. The last thing I needed was my sister and her therapist raking me over hot coals behind my back.

  “So she didn’t say that. You did.”

  “If the shoe fits…”

  We stared at each other. Then Holly giggled and I knew things were back to okay between us.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I get super stressed every time I have a session.”

  “It’s working, though. You didn’t break into text-speak. Not once.”

  “TX,” Holly said, grinning. Then, “JK.”

  “You better be,” I said, easily recognizing thanks and just kidding.

  “Trust me, I’m practically cured,” she said.

  “So, you don’t want to help outside today near the observation hive?”

  “I’d rather have my toenails ripped out.”

  I glanced down at her perfectly pedicured feet. That was a profound declaration, considering the source happened to be a serious primping queen.

  “Okay,” I said. “Stay inside the store and help the twins.”

  That got a big happy smile from her. “Any luck finding a good home for Dinky?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll make sure it really is a good home, right? Not just the first person who comes along?”

  “Of course.” And I meant it.

  “And make sure you have visiting rights so we can still see her.”

  “Sure.” Dinky twisted in my lap and worked her way up to my face, where I barely had time to dodge an openmouthed lick.

  By the time I walked back outside with Dinky on a leash, Main Street’s sidewalks were starting to see some decent action. Stanley and Carrie Ann seemed to be handling things just fine at our booth. If past years were any indication, sales would be brisk. I glanced at our eye-catching displays, created with a little help from my friends and coworkers.

  We were showcasing delicious honey products from my side business, Queen Bee Honey: processed honey along with raw and creamed varieties, plus honey sticks in a number of flavors—not just pure wildflower honey, but also lemon, cherry, sour apple, orange, caramel, and root beer—a new flavor this year. My honey sticks are biodegradable straws filled with nectar of the gods. I like to carry a few with me for those times my energy crashes. When that happens, I open one of them, suck out every last drop of honey, and I’m back on top of my game.

  Lately, too, raw honey has been flying off the shelves since customers have begun to realize all the benefits of unprocessed honey, especially as an antiallergen. Local honey contains sources of pollen, dust, and mold, which sounds disgusting, but a few teaspoons every day boosts immunity against 90 percent of allergies. I’m living proof. It worked for my hay fever.

  I saw Stanley’s grandson Noel next to the observation table, watching the enclosed honeybees and sucking on one of the honey sticks from my store. He spotted me approaching and grinned. “These root beer honey sticks are awesome. I could live on them. I almost bought all of them.”

  I smiled. Kids of all ages love my honey sticks. “I have more in stock.”

  “Did you like the way I rescued you?” he said.

  I must have looked totally blank, which I was. “Come again?”

  “I set off the last explosion to help you out of that bad situation with your mom.”

  “Gosh, thanks so much,” I said, slow to catch on that he’d intentionally distracted my mother so I could escape her clutches. I always did like the kid, whose particular nut hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Noel is the spitting image of his grandfather when it comes to firepower. Stanley loves weapons, and the rumor is he’s got a buried stash of them just in case our federal government decides to outlaw certain makes and models. He’s also been known to carry, but that’s inside information. It’s a miracle our police chief hasn’t busted him yet.

  “Really, thanks,” I said to Noel with heartfelt gratitude.

  “Anytime,” he muttered, and I could tell by his eyes that he was back inside his skull, mixing and matching potions. He slipped a notebook out of his back pocket and began scribbling away as he walked off.

  I looked around. Everything looked to be going as planned. Helen Fischer (aka Mom) might have a brisk, tactless, no-nonsense approach to life, but she sure knew how to organize an event. This one promised to be the best yet.

  My job during the two-day festival, as assigned by my mother, was to make sure nothing “upset the applecart.” I was pretty sure that was meant to be another personal zinger, but I intended to follow through by making sure the cart stayed upright. None of us wanted troubl
e or bad press.

  Besides, how hard could it be? After all, this was Harmony Fest. The whole point of it was fostering goodwill.

  Aurora Tyler’s flower booth was right next to my store. It was crammed with bouquets from her business, Moraine Gardens. Besides the bouquets, some of which were bunches of colorful dried flowers, she had potted native plants like swamp milkweed, catmint, and coneflowers. A few honeybees had discovered them and were working the pollen. A cheery sight.

  Although not everyone agrees with me.

  Moraine’s residents are divided on the benefits of honeybees, even after all the efforts I’ve made to educate the locals. Preconceived ideas die hard. I really hoped our beehive display helped dispel lingering doubts. We need more people on our side, supporting our efforts to save the honeybee’s diminishing population.

  Dinky growled from down below. Following her glare, I spotted Grant Spandle marching my way. In addition to being my archenemy, Lori’s husband, and the town board chairperson, he’s also a land developer. Which should have been a huge conflict of interest regarding a position on the board, but small-town politics are unbelievably lax, mostly from lack of any education in the fine art of legality.

  Lori has played around on Grant at least once, a solid indisputable fact, since I had caught her red-handed cheating with my ex-husband before the sleazebag left town.

  “Your mother is extremely upset,” Grant stopped to tell me. “And I’m sure our liability insurance doesn’t cover bee attacks if we knowingly and irresponsibly put our residents in harm’s way.”

  “Harm’s way? Oh come on. Do you see bees attacking anybody?”

  “Let me rephrase that, then: potential bee attacks—potentially in harm’s way.”

  “No way would that happen,” I said, while Dinky continued to quietly growl. She knew the difference between steak and roadkill, and she sensed exactly where Grant fit into the food pyramid.

  “Only one sting,” Grant said, holding his index finger up in case I didn’t know what one was. “Just one allergic reaction, and we’d have all kinds of trouble. The consequences could be devastating for the town’s finances.”