My new pup and I spend most of our days driving around Seattle collecting honey and checking the health of pollinator hives, which have been leased by large estates and businesses. I’m still learning to recognize the signs of a healthy hive and the signs of one that’s been abandoned by its queen. But I’m getting better at it every day.
And being able to say I’m saving the bees is the only thing that keeps me going these days. Well, that and late-night cuddle sessions with my senior citizen puppy.
As Gary and I exit my apartment, I freeze as we run into my creepy, middle-aged neighbor. When he sees me, his long, horsey face lights up with a beaming grin. I coil Gary’s leash tightly around my hand and pull him flush against my leg as I wait for my neighbor to pass.
“Good morning,” he says, his icy-blue eyes looking slightly manic.
I flash him a nervous smile, but I say nothing as I watch him pass. All the while, I mentally repeat the advice my dad gave Elle and me many years ago: Ignoring a greeting from a man who gives you bad vibes is a survival mechanism. A good man will understand that.
As my neighbor realizes I’m not in the mood for talking, he sneers at Gary and heads for the stairs. As I wait by my front door for him to disappear, I wonder how friendly he’d be if I didn’t have Gary at my side.
As I reach the stairwell, I realize my entire body is tense from this brief interaction. Living alone isn’t as easy as it was living with roommates in the dorms. But having Gary helps. I’m sure I’ll get used to my creepy neighbor eventually.
We arrive home from a long day of work, and Gary carefully hops out of my Nissan onto the sidewalk. I barely clip his leash on before my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text message from my boss.
Anita: I know you have the rest of the night off, but can cover for Chelsea at the farmers’ market stall? She had something come up today and I’m in Olympia.
Me: I have Gary with me. I don’t know if I can find someone to watch him on such short notice.
Anita: You’ll be fine. He’s a good boy.
Me: I thought that was a code violation.
Anita: I won’t call the health department if you don’t. Besides, the honey jars are sealed. I don’t know why that stupid code applies to us. If anyone gives you shit, just call me.
Me: Okay. I can be there in about 20 min.
Anita: You’re a lifesaver. You can take a paid day off tomorrow.
Me. Thank you!
I grin as I help Gary into the backseat and set off toward Bellevue. But my smile is gone by the time I pull into the parking lot of the Bellevue Presbyterian Church.
I want to kick myself as I realize I should have gone to the farm first to pick up a company truck. Chelsea has an SUV big enough to carry the cases of merchandise and the canopy, but they’re too large to fit in my tiny electric car.
I find a parking spot in the corner of the church lot. As I make my way through the market, I smile at the people who appear pleased to see Gary’s friendly face.
Chelsea is sitting in a folding chair behind the table at the Wallingford Honey Company stall. The golden honey jars stacked in front of her glimmer in the late-afternoon sunlight, beckoning people to the booth. But her inability to turn her attention away from her phone sends the potential customers in the opposite direction.
The Bellevue Farmers’ Market is open from three to seven p.m. every Thursday, to cater to the farmers’ market demographic, most of whom work at the nearby tech companies and do their dinner shopping after leaving the office.
It’s five p.m. now. I don’t know why Chelsea couldn’t stick around two more hours. But there’d better be a good reason.
I normally get off work around six p.m. By the time I tear down the booth and haul the inventory back to the farm, it will be past nine. At least I’ll be rewarded with a day off tomorrow.
“Hey,” I say as Gary and I make our way behind the table.
A look of utter relief washes over Chelsea’s round face. “Oh, I didn’t see you.”
I blink at her discourteous greeting. “You can head out. I’ve got this.”
She wastes no time vacating the folding chair. “Just make sure you stay until seven. It’s very important you stay until seven.”
I flash her a tight smile. “Got it.”
She stares at Gary for a moment, then shakes her head as if she’s decided not to say what she’s thinking. And I don’t bother asking her to speak her mind.
I’ve had minimal contact with Chelsea—our account executive at Wallingford—since I started working for Anita, but she’s always struck me as too distracted. When she’s not on calls with clients, she’s always typing on her phone. I don’t know what commitments she’s dealing with, but her frenetic energy can be overwhelming.
She grabs her purse, which is hanging from the back of the chair, and—surprising me—she kneels down to scratch Gary’s head and nuzzle her nose against his. “You’re such a good boy, Gary.”
I grin broadly, as I always do when someone takes the time to show my boy some love. “He really is.”
Chelsea looks me in the eye as she stands. “Seven, okay?”
I chuckle at this, feeling more relaxed now. “Not a minute sooner.”
She smiles as she sets off toward her Ford Explorer, which I saw parked a few spaces away from the spot I snagged. As I take a seat on the folding chair, an older woman arrives at the stall. I answer her questions about our raw honey, and she purchases three jars to give away as gifts.
The rest of the afternoon and early evening go well. But I still haven’t sold enough honey. The leftover merch won’t fit in my car, and neither will the canopy. As the clock on my phone ticks down the last few minutes until seven p.m., my anxiety ticks upward with anticipation.
I don’t know if I’m nervous because I expect I’ll have to call Dahlia to help me take the canopy to the farm, or if I’m anticipating something unknown. The way Chelsea repeatedly emphasized the need to stay until seven felt strangely ominous.
At 7:02 p.m., I pull the empty wooden crates out from beneath the table to put away the leftover inventory. Gary watches me patiently from where he’s lying on the warm asphalt. I’ll have to remember to bring his doggy bed the next time Anita asks me to work the farmers’ market.
“Is it too late to buy some honey?”
Something about the man’s voice makes my stomach tense. When I turn around to see who spoke, my heart leaps into my throat. I shake my head as I try to think of a response to his question, but my mind is drawing a huge blank.
The smile on Max’s face slowly fades away as he realizes I’m dumbstruck. “Is this a bad time?”
“A bad time?”
I repeat this sentence as if he’s spoken a foreign language. His words echo in my mind. A bad time… bad time… time.
It’s just past seven p.m. Is this why Chelsea insisted I stay until closing?
He looks confused. “Do you want me to leave?”