by Ashley Pullo
“Tess, honey.” Rosalyn knocks quietly on Thessaly’s bedroom door and then slowly opens it. “Are you decent?”
Quickly shoving everything back into the box and returning it to the drawer, she replies, “Come in, Mama.”
Entering the bedroom and gliding toward Thessaly’s bed, Rosalyn peeks inside her suitcase. “You wear so much black, Tess.”
Knowing that her mother is the queen of polite digs, she flatly responds. “I’m still mourning the end of Friends.”
“Your friends passed?” Rosalyn asks.
Arching an eyebrow, she replies, “Friends, Mama – the TV show.”
“Oh, yes. Anyway, I started the trademark application earlier – are you sure you have time for another line?” Rosalyn sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her long legs.
“It will sell itself, trust me.”
“I do trust you.” Sighing and placing her hands in her lap, Rosalyn adds, “Taking on too many responsibilities, or devoting all your time to a career, can make a man feel inadequate.”
“No offense, but your philosophy on the role of modern women is a little dated.”
“Maybe, but you’ll want to get married eventually.” Rosalyn slides her hand over her glossy, blond bob and adds, “I’m simply explaining why a man, particularly Mason, might have a hard time seeing you as marriage material.”
Not wanting to start a fight, Thessaly pats her mother’s shoulder and changes the subject. “Did you schedule your surgery?”
Enjoying the attention, she patters, “Oh, Tess, please. Do not coddle me – I’m a grown woman.”
“When is it? I’d like to be there.”
Standing slowly from the bed and smoothing the crease in her poplin shirt, Rosalyn replies, “September twenty-second. Which will give me plenty of time to recover before the holidays.” Picking up a family photo of the Sinclair crew vacationing at Disney World, Rosalyn chuckles. Her thin shoulders bounce and her lip quivers, causing Thessaly to roar in laughter.
“Mama, what’s so funny?” she asks, taking the photo from her mother and returning it to the side table.
“That was the trip when Kip screamed and kicked his way through It’s a Small World.”
“That’s right! He had to be the only twelve-year old afraid of those wooden dolls.”
Rosalyn places an arm around her daughter and smiles. “We should get dressed for dinner,” she suggests.
Hugging her mother’s small waist, Thessaly smiles devilishly. “Are you up for pulling a prank?”
“Always.”
“I want to believe he loves me more than the idea of loving me. And maybe one day that will finally happen. Even though we broke up, we still have a great relationship on social media.”
Chapter Two
It’s hot and humid and the summer’s only getting started! But we’ve got you covered – concert tickets at Jones Beach in ninety minutes. But now, more of the coolest songs of the summer on ninety-five-five PLJ. T-swift, Nick Jonas, and our friends, Walk the Moon . . . just shut up and dance, New York!
The cab driver lowers his window, punches his arm into the thick air, and shakes his fist. “Tu es mootafoocker!” His Haitian accent pours through his delivery as he repeats the crass sentiment. “Mootafoocker!” Mumbling under his breath, the cabbie changes the radio station to an AM business report while edging closer to the offensive Mercedes that cut him off.
“Hey, Meg – I’m sitting in traffic. Can you gather the gang for a quick meeting?” Thessaly listens to the husky voice on the phone while studying her chipped manicure. “Thanks! I’ll see you in twenty.”
Thessaly ends the call and sends a group text to her brothers.
Tess: Thank you for stashing forty tubes of Vagisil inside my carryon bag. TSA had quite the laugh.
Kip: You deserved it.
Shelby: Hey, Kip wanted to hide a jar of pickles. The nasty kind with the pickled cauliflower and carrots. I saved you.
Tess: I hate you both.
Kip: You crossed the line using THAT song as my ringtone, Tess.
Tess: But it’s a world of laughter . . .
Shelby: and a world of fear apparently.
Kip: Did the TSA flag you? Vagi-terrorist.
Tess: Revenge is near, brothers. It’s a small, small world.
Shelby: Ha ha ha! Sis, where do you keep the pot? It’s going to be a long summer with Lord Kipling in charge.
Tess: Check the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. Trader Joe’s bag.
Shelby: No fucking way. That’s brilliant.
Tess: It’s all yours.
Kip: Tess is a New Yorker now. She’s escalated to snorting lines of coke on the subway.
Shelby: Love ya.
Tess: xoxo
Kip: Pest
Tess: Jerk
Laughing quietly, Thessaly places her phone on her lap and peers between the layers of grime plastered on the backseat window. As the taxi picks up speed across the Brooklyn Bridge, the fading sunlight drips through the rusty cables and casts hues of sepia on the cars below. It’s a timeless photograph waiting to be captured. But like the millions of people before her, and the generations that will undoubtedly follow her, Thessaly Sinclair is merely one story – an immigrant taking the ceremonious passage to the island once known as New Amsterdam.
“Fulton and Water,” she instructs.
Following her orders, the cab swerves into the left lane without signaling, prompting the customary honk salute. One time, a few months back, Thessaly counted the seconds that elapsed over a single pressing of the horn. It’s become a backseat game – the current record being seven seconds.
As the cab idles at the corner of Water Street, Thessaly drops her phone into the large bag on the seat next to her. She removes two twenty-dollar bills from her wallet and waves them through the partition. He doesn’t seem thrilled with the small tip, but she wants to see if he’ll help with her rolling bag in the trunk before offering more cash.
The cab driver doesn’t move, but instead, pops in a cassette of creole music. Thessaly exits the taxi and slaps the trunk. It pops open with a loud creak and a rush of a strong citrus smell. She chucks her suitcase on the sidewalk, slams the trunk, careful not to smash the bags of navel oranges, and then proceeds to the cobbled street of Fulton.
Late afternoon is the least crowded in Lower Manhattan, especially on a Monday, but the Seaport is always packed with people enjoying the casual thrills of an urban playground. The newer restaurants, resurrected after Hurricane Sandy, serve light meals with some of the best happy hours Downtown. One of Thessaly’s favorite places, atop an original boat slip, celebrates the summer with ice cream waffle cones for three-dollars between five and seven.
Needing some caffeine and a dose of sugar, she makes a quick stop in the Seaport’s trendy coffee shop. She rolls her suitcase up to the counter and smiles, recognizing the barista.
“Hey, Tess! Usual?” he asks, grabbing a Sharpie from a coffee can.
“Hi, Noah – extra caramel and skim milk.” Thessaly enjoys all things sweet. In fact, if coffee beans were rolled in sugar and dipped in honey, she’d still add the swirl of caramel. “And extra ice, please.”
Noah scribbles her drink order in shorthand on the side of a plastic cup. “Five-fifty,” he says, starting the espresso drip. “Did you hear about the bees?”
Thessaly rolls her suitcase to the end of the counter to make room for more customers. “I read an online article – a bee swarm is really cool to watch.”
“Really? People down here are freaked!” Noah exclaims, scooping ice into the coffee shop’s signature orange plastic cups.
“A swarm can be terrifying, but honeybees couldn’t care less about humans. And people are scared of things they don’t understand.”
Swirling caramel on top of the skim milk, Noah passes the coffee across the butcher-block counter and announces in his best theatrical voice, “Iced latte with skim milk. Extra caramel. Extra ice. And extra love.”
>
“Thanks, Noah.” She slides a few bucks across the counter with a smile. “For your mint-green Vespa fund.”
Taking the money and shoving it in his apron pocket, Noah laughs. “How’d you know about that?”
“Meg,” she answers, walking backwards out of the coffee house with a sly smile.
Removing an orange dishtowel from below the bar, Noah shakes his head and laughs. He clears a plate and then wipes the counter. “Fare thee well, milady,” he shouts.
It’s no secret that Meg and Noah have a crush on each other. Since Noah began working at Fulton Beanery a few months ago, Meg has taken to three cups of coffee a day. She claims it’s because of the amazing blending technique, but she admitted recently that it’s Noah’s shaggy hair and cute dimples that started her coffee addiction. Thessaly doesn’t exactly see it, but she has yet to find a guy more attractive than Mason.
Approaching her store on Fulton Street, Thessaly pauses by a red bicycle leaning against the front window. With a giddy smile, she flings open the exterior metal door leading to a tiny vestibule lined with a honeycomb-patterned gold wallpaper. On one side, there’s a narrow console table painted glossy magenta that displays random objects in every shade of blue. The shop isn’t a typical artisanal store, and the only thing that hints at a bee farm is the rustic, interior screen door. With peeling yellow paint and a small rip in the lower screen, the old door is one of few items imported from her family’s farm.
Designing the store was a huge factor in the overall business plan. The Hive needed to be trendy and hip, but the basic methods of the business had to remain consistent in an evolving city. Thessaly committed to an upscale warehouse design, similar to the cottage on the farm, grounded in clean lines and luxurious materials. Marble counters, glossy white cabinetry, ebony-stained floors, and industrial lighting were all installed for a timeless, yet edgy appeal. For years to come, restaurants and food markets can purchase products from a reputable vendor directly from her store, and Downtown shoppers can experience an artisanal shop that embodies the vibe of the diverse neighborhood.
Once she had a business plan, securing the space at a decent price was fairly easy. The Seaport needed to rebuild after Sandy, and Thessaly had the expendable funds to make that happen. Diving into her savings and taking a loan from a bank, as well as a loan from the Department of Small Business Services of New York City, The Hive was completed in only eight months. During the week of her grand opening, she moved out of the apartment she shared with Mason in SoHo, and settled into a cozy, yet affordable, studio apartment a few blocks away from The Hive.
“Whose beach cruiser is parked outside?” Thessaly asks, propping the screen door open with her suitcase.
“Oh, that’s Cherry Bomb,” Seth interjects.
Placing her iced latte on the long marble island and attaching her phone to a charger, Thessaly laughs. “Are the handlebar streamers on backorder?”
“Along with the horn,” Meg quips.
“You’re just jealous of my sweet ride,” Seth defends.
Snorting with laughter, Meg scoots up to the island on a black stool and places her phone on the counter. She takes a sip from Thessaly’s coffee and purses her lips. “Gross, Tess.”
Grabbing the latte from Meg, she snaps, “Hey, it was lovingly prepared by your friend Noah.”
“Uh-oh, No-ah.” Seth chants, grabbing the stool next to Meg.
“I can’t take much more of him.” Frustrated, she adds, “He’s like the annoying red-headed stepchild.”
Seth wraps his arm around Meg and squeezes tightly. “You’re so cute when you bitch.”
“Children, behave. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll buy lunch this week. Deal?” Thessaly barters.
Meg claps her hands and agrees. “Sushi!”
“Chipotle!” counters Seth.
“Fine. Where’s Lois?” Thessaly asks.
Checking the texts on her phone, Meg replies, “Um, she sent me a text earlier about having to do something with her daughter. We could get her on speaker if you want.”
“No, no – let’s get started.” Thessaly moves a blue vase filled with sunflowers to the end of the island and then places her laptop in its spot. “Our next shipment is coming on the fourteenth, which gives us a week to test some new ideas. What’s the schedule like this week?”
Meg opens an app on her phone to read off the week’s appointments and meetings. “Tomorrow we’re hosting a booth at New Amsterdam Market. They requested we bring a selection of jams as opposed to honey – not sure what that’s about. Seth will man the booth until three, and then Lois will close it up and bring back any inventory.”
“Jams? Okay, maybe there’s a theme or something.” With an intimidating glare, Thessaly asks, “You gonna push that jam, Seth?”
Seth raises his eyebrows and replies, “I’m a jam pusher. Jam, jam, jam.” His hand taps invisible words as he says, “The Hive is my jam.”
“Nice. Take tons of photos and post them as the day goes on. What else, Meg?”
“Wednesday you have a sit-down with a wedding planner and her bride. She wants shabby chic things for her wedding on Shelter Island slated for Columbus Day Weekend.” Meg sarcastically uses air quotes as she reads her notes.
“Awesome – remind me to wear overalls that day.”
“And a straw hat. Okay, Thursday the shop is being photographed for a foodie blog and magazine – excellent exposure, but they’re also expecting country charm nestled in the Seaport. And then Friday, you have a meeting with that incredibly hot chef from Les Etoiles. I should probably go with you.”
“Oh, please. My meetings with Pete are usually twenty minutes of me gawking like an idiot while he tries to chat about normal things.” Thessaly opens a document on her laptop and continues. “Anything I should know about from the weekend?”
“Not only was it the Fourth, but that bee swarm scared everyone away. Very slow weekend,” Seth drones. “Oh, and the fireworks were just so-so.”
Meg jabs Seth in the side and whispers, “Tell her about that guy.”
“What guy?” Thessaly interrupts.
“A mysterious voice called earlier asking for you specifically. He didn’t want to leave a message.” Seth waggles his eyebrows and grins.
Thessaly shudders. “Sounds like a creeper.”
“Not at all! His voice was sexy,” defends Meg, nudging Seth in the ribs.
Taking the hint, Seth deadpans, “Um, yeah. Totally weird and sexy.”
“Oh? Maybe he’ll call again,” Thessaly replies casually, remembering that Mason’s voice is deep and sexy.
“Flies to honey,” Meg hums.
“For real, Meg? My grandma tells better jokes.” Seth laughs as Meg shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, Tess, what are these new ideas we’ll be testing?”
Slapping the counter in the rhythm of a drumroll, Thessaly chirps, “Finally! On to the exciting new additions.”
Seth matches the pitch of her enthusiasm while asking, “Are we finally getting a Donkey Kong arcade? If we remove a few shelves in that corner it will definitely fit.”
“Keep the dream alive, Seth.” Thessaly slurps her sugary coffee, leaving only the ice, and then leans toward her friends prepared to tell a secret. “Hear me out – so, I walked around downtown Asheville on Saturday afternoon after jumping in the fountains in Pack Square. It was eye-opening to say the least – almost every storefront was a quirky knockoff of the West Village. Ridiculous signs plastered in windows bragging about locally-grown sustainable artisan foods – those tag lines are sadly becoming the gourmet trend of the nineties.” Thessaly glances at the framed black and white photo of her family’s barn hanging on the wall behind the register and takes a deep breath. “Later that night, after too many shots of honey whiskey and two slices of red-velvet wedding cake, I had a Don Draper moment.”
“You had sex with a waitress in an alley?” Seth asks flatly.
Thessaly flicks the air in front of Seth’s face. “No, you d
ork. I sat on the back steps of the barn, swept away by the fresh air . . . intoxicated by the smell of wild honeysuckle . . . clouded by the flashes of the mountain fireworks. And then it hit me – if you don’t like what people are saying,” Thessaly says.
“Change the conversation,” Meg and Seth finish in unison.
“Exactly.” Thessaly’s eyes expand in excitement as she opens a digital sketch on her laptop. “We need to reinvent artisan honey. Look around us, we’re surrounded by six restaurants serving only locally-farmed ingredients, and ten stores claiming to have hand-crafted inventory.” Animated and hyper, she continues. “Artisanal coffee? What do those words even mean if everyone uses them?”
“Usually it just means homemade – which means a shitload of hands touched my food.” Seth growls.
“Right?” Thessaly concurs.
“What about all-natural or raw honey?” Meg suggests. “The Hive is keepin’ it real.”
Thessaly stands from the island and grabs a jar of Sinclair honey from the nearest shelf. “Basic marketing principle, Meg, people want a fantasy, or sex, or a fantasy including sex. They don’t want to visualize a hippie-chick with armpit hair pouring all-natural, raw honey into BPA-free bottles and then driving across the country with a truckload of crates to sell at farmer’s markets.” Positioning the jar in the palm of her hand like the forbidden fruit, Thessaly declares with carnal precision, “We’re not selling raw honey. We’re selling a confection of anarchy.” Her voice lowers to a rasp as she stresses each word. “Primitive. Uncultivated. Luxuriant. Nectarous. Sensual.” Pausing for effect, Thessaly watches as her friends’ faces flicker with excitement. “And starting in a few weeks, The Hive will be Lower Manhattan’s supplier of wild honey.”
Mouth open and eyes sparkling, Meg adds, “We’re like honey dealers!”
