The Great Escape

Chapter Ten

BREE SCREAMED AND SPRANG AWAY from the hive.

“Oh, god… Oh, god… oh, god…” She moaned, hunched her shoulders, shivered. The mass she’d seen in the bottom of the brood box wasn’t an arbitrary collection of debris. Oh, no. It was a mouse. A dead mouse, petrified inside the sticky mass of protective propolis the bees had deposited around it.

She shuddered, jerked off her stiff leather beekeeper’s gloves, and retreated across the yard. According to Toby, Mr. Wentzel had given the bees a strong sugar solution last month, but now the hives needed to get new brood boxes. This was only the third hive she’d opened. What was she going to find inside the rest?

Maybe Star had it right after all. She’d hated working with her mother’s bees. But Bree wasn’t Star, and right from the beginning, the bees had fascinated her. Each summer she’d helped Myra with the hives. She’d loved the vague air of danger, the superiority of having a skill none of her brothers possessed. She liked the order of the colony, the strict rules that governed their society, the idea of a queen. Mainly, though, she’d liked being with Myra, who was quiet and private, so different from Bree’s own frantic, self-absorbed mother.

Bree had been awake most of the night studying Myra’s small collection of beekeeping books, but neither the books nor all her summers helping Myra had prepared her for this much responsibility. She’d even taken a beekeeping class a few years ago, but Scott had refused to let her put a hive in the yard, so she’d never done anything with it. And now here she was, with not a single hive to guard against rodents, parasites, and overcrowding but with fifteen of them.

She scratched her ankle with the toe of her opposite sneaker. Although Myra’s jacket with its attached hat and veil fit, the matching overalls weren’t designed for someone as tall and thin as she was, so she’d pulled on her own khaki slacks. Light clothing kept the bees calmer, since dark colors reminded them of predator animals like raccoons and skunks. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to tuck her slacks into her socks, which accounted for the sting throbbing near her ankle.

She considered the possibility of persuading Toby to dispose of the dead mouse, but he shared his mother’s dislike of bees, and it wasn’t likely. After yesterday’s spying incident, she’d intended to keep a better eye on him, but he was nowhere to be seen. What she did see was a teenage girl with dyed black hair and some messy dreadlocks coming around the side of the house. She wore a black tank top, shorts, and ugly boots. She was shorter than Bree, maybe five four, with small, even features and a generous mouth. If it weren’t for the awful hair and hard makeup, she might be pretty. She also looked vaguely familiar, although Bree was sure they’d never met.

She pushed her veil on top of her hat. The girl’s appearance made her uneasy, not just because of the tattoo and nose ring, but because nobody had bothered her until yesterday. She liked feeling invisible, and she wanted to keep it that way.

“I’m guessing you’re not Toby’s grandmother,” the girl said.

Despite her tough appearance, she didn’t seem threatening. Bree tossed her gloves down next to the smoker she’d been using to calm the bees. Myra used to work the hives with her bare hands, but Bree wasn’t even close to being ready for that. “Toby’s grandmother passed away at the beginning of May.”

“Really? That’s interesting.” She extended her hand, an odd thing for a young girl to do. “I’m Viper.”

Viper? Bree returned the handshake, but it felt odd. In her old social circle, hugs were de rigueur, even with women she barely knew. “Bree West.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bree. Does Toby happen to be around?”

How did this girl know Toby? Once again Bree felt the scope of her incompetence. She didn’t know where Toby was or what he did when he was out of her sight. “Toby!”

No answer.

“He’s probably in the woods,” the woman said with a kindness that made Bree realize she wasn’t a teenager after all. “Are you Toby’s mother?”

Bree’s pale redhead’s complexion had earned her the nickname Corpse from her brothers, and considering Toby’s racial heritage, she thought the woman was being ironic. But she seemed sincere. “No. I’m… his guardian.”

“I see.” Something about her steadfast gaze made Bree feel as if she really did see-maybe more than Bree wanted her to.

“Can I help you?” Bree knew she sounded brusque, but she wanted her to leave so she could get back to the bees. More urgently, she needed a cigarette.

“We’re neighbors,” the woman said. “I’m renting the Remington house.”

The Remington house? Her house. Could this be the woman Toby had been spying on? She pretended ignorance. “Remington house? I… only got here a couple of weeks ago.”

“It’s on the other side of the woods. There’s a path.”

The path she and Star had raced along a thousand times.

The woman glanced toward the hives. “You’re a beekeeper.”

“Toby’s grandmother was the beekeeper. I’m just trying to keep the hives alive.”

“Do you have a lot of experience?”

Bree laughed, a rusty sound that she barely recognized as her own. “Hardly. I worked with bees when I was growing up, but it’s been a long time. Fortunately, these are healthy, established colonies, and the cold spring seems to have kept them from swarming. If I don’t screw up, they should be okay.”

“That’s great.” She seemed honestly impressed. “Would you mind if I borrowed Toby for a while tomorrow? I need help moving furniture. He’s visited me a few times, and I thought he might like some work.”

He hadn’t been visiting. He’d been spying. “I… hope he didn’t cause any trouble.”

“An angel like Toby?”

Her ironically lifted eyebrow took Bree by surprise. Once again, she heard herself laugh. “He’s all yours.”

The woman who called herself Viper turned in the general direction of the woods and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Toby! I need help over at the house tomorrow afternoon. If you want to make some money, come see me.”

There was no answer, but that didn’t seem to bother her. She returned her attention to the hives. “I’ve always been interested in bees, but I don’t know anything about them. Would it be presumptuous to ask if you’d let me watch you work sometime?”

Her vocabulary and manner were so at odds with her appearance that Bree was taken aback. Maybe that was why she found herself giving a brusque nod. “If you’d like.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon.” With a smile, she headed back the way she’d come.

Bree turned toward the hives, then stopped as she was struck with a sudden thought. “How do you feel about mice?” she called out.

“Mice?” The woman stopped. “Not my favorites. Why?”

Bree hesitated, then gestured toward the last hive in the row. “If you’re interested in beekeeping, there’s something unusual you might be interested in seeing. Have you ever heard of propolis?”

“No. What is it?”

“This heavy, sticky substance bees collect to seal crevices in the hive. It has antibacterial qualities-some commercial beekeepers even harvest it.” She tried to sound professorial. “The bees also use it as a kind of hygienic seal around any hive invaders to protect the colony from infection. Go take a look.”

The woman walked toward the hive, a lamb to the mouse slaughter. She stopped in front of the noisome lump and gazed down at it. “Gross.”

But she didn’t move away. She kept staring. Bree snatched up the shovel she’d propped by the step. “If you want to pick it up and throw it into the gully…”

The woman glanced over her shoulder.

Bree did her best to continue her bright, informative chatter. “The propolis has actually mummified the mouse. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“You’re conning me.”

In the path of that steady gaze, Bree’s posturing collapsed. “I-can do it myself. I’ll have to. But… I hate mice, and you seem like the kind of person who’s up for anything.”

The woman’s eyes brightened. “I do?”

Bree nodded.

“Excellent.” She took the shovel, scooped up the mouse detritus, and tossed it into the gully.

It had been forever since another person had done something nice for her-even if she’d been manipulated into doing it-and Bree couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so touched.

CURIOSITY ABOUT TOBY AND HIS grandmother had made Lucy stop at the cottage. Or maybe she’d simply been procrastinating because, if Panda’s SUV was still in the drive, she had to pack up and leave. Still, as tense as she was, she couldn’t be any more uptight than Toby’s guardian.

Bree was a beautiful woman, despite being almost brittlely thin. There was an old-fashioned fragility about her sharply cut features and translucent complexion. Lucy could see her in Victorian dress, that long neck rising out of a high lace collar, auburn hair caught up on her head. Something told her the woman was carrying a boatload of trouble on her thin shoulders. But how did Toby fit into the picture?

It was none of her business, and she shouldn’t have given in to the impulse to invite Toby to the house, but as soon as she’d heard that his grandmother was dead, she couldn’t help herself. Gutsy kids were her weakness. Right along with throwing herself at the first man she’d met after she pulled her runaway act.

She rounded the last curve, held her breath, and turned into the drive.

His car was gone. She’d never have to see him again.

As she leaned the bike against the back of the house, she wondered if jumping into bed with Panda had been her twisted way of justifying running from her wedding. She couldn’t have found a better way to prove to herself how unworthy she was to marry a man like Ted. Both a comforting and a disturbing thought. It would explain why she’d acted so out of character, but it was hardly a positive reflection on her character.

Determined to file away that short, painful chapter of her life forever, she let herself into the house with the key she’d unearthed from a broken wicker basket buried underneath expired pizza coupons, outdated ferry schedules, dead flashlight batteries, and a ten-year-old island phone book. She headed for the kitchen and found Toby sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal.

“Do make yourself at home,” she drawled. The German coffeemaker had been freshly rinsed out, and she doubted Toby had done it. Other than that, she saw no signs that Panda had been here.

Toby gave her his customary hostile glare. “How much are you going to pay me?”

“How much are you worth?”

He munched another spoonful of Cheerios. “A lot.”

“I’ll pay you by the job. Now hand over that house key you’ve been hanging on to.”

He was all bravado. “I don’t need a key to get in here.”

“Right. You used your Spidey powers.” She marched over to him and held out her hand.

He scratched a mosquito bite on his arm, and she could see him trying to decide whether to brazen it out, but he finally dug into his shorts’ pocket. After he’d given her the key, he poked his spoon around in the cereal. “How come you’re not mad about my grandmother?”

“Who says I’m not mad?”

“You don’t look mad.”

“I’m good at hiding my feelings. Serial killers learn to do that.”

“You’re a serial killer?”

“Not yet. But I’m thinking about starting. Like maybe today.”

The beginnings of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He quickly reined it in. “You think you’re funny, but you’re not.”

“Matter of opinion.” She’d told herself she wouldn’t get involved, yet here she was. Typical of those who didn’t know how to deal with their own problems. They poked around in other people’s troubles so they could feel better about themselves. She pocketed the key. “Bree seems nice.”

He made a dismissive sound. “She’s only staying with me till my dad gets home. He’s a tower dog. They’re the guys that put up stuff like cell phone towers. It’s the most dangerous job in the world.”

He was lying-she knew an orphan when she saw one. She poured some water from the tap and drank half of it. As she dumped the rest down the sink, she thought of how much she used to love working with kids like Toby. She’d been good at it, too, and giving up that job had been heart-wrenching. But as a caseworker, she could help only a few kids, and as a lobbyist, she helped thousands, something she always had to keep in mind whenever she was tempted to quit.

“Here’s the thing, Toby. I have a brother and three sisters, so I know when a kid isn’t telling the truth. If that’s the way you want it to be between us, it’s your choice. But it means I can’t really help you if you ever need help.” He opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t need help from anybody. She cut him off. “And… it means I can never ask you for help if I need it. Because there’s no trust. See how that works?”

“Who cares?”

“Apparently not you.” There were no dirty dishes in the sink. Either Panda hadn’t eaten or he’d washed up after himself. She took a banana from a bowl on the counter.

“My dad really was a tower dog,” Toby said in a small voice from behind her. “He died when I was four. He was saving another guy who got stuck, and that’s the truth.”

She peeled the banana, deliberately keeping her back to him. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t even know who my father was.”

“What about your mom?”

“She died when I was fourteen. She wasn’t a great mom.” She concentrated on the banana, still not looking at him. “I got adopted, though, so I was lucky.”

“My mom ran away not too long after I was born.”

“It doesn’t sound like she was a great mom, either.”

“My grandma was great.”

“And you miss her.” She set aside the banana and finally turned to face him, only to watch tears gathering in his big brown eyes. Tears he wouldn’t appreciate her witnessing. “We have a lot of work to do.” She moved briskly toward the sunroom. “Let’s get to it.”

For the next several hours, Toby helped her carry broken furniture, moth-eaten cushions, and desiccated draperies to a spot at the end of the drive where she’d get someone to haul it away. Panda might not have any respect for this house, but she did, and if he didn’t like it, he could sue her.

Toby tried to make up for his lack of muscle with a seriousness of purpose that touched her to the core. She never got to work one on one with kids anymore, not unless they were related to her.

Together she and Toby struggled to carry out an ancient television that no longer worked. He filled trash bags with the decades-old magazines and tattered paperbacks she handed him from the sunroom bookcases, then wiped the shelves as she rearranged what was left. Although they tried, the awful green kitchen table proved too heavy for them to move, and they both ended up with nasty splinters for their efforts.

When she’d had enough for the day, she carried some money out to the screen porch Toby had just finished helping her scrub down. His eyes widened when he saw what she was paying him. He quickly shoved the bills in his pocket. “I can come back anytime,” he said eagerly. “And I’ll clean the house, too. I know it didn’t look too good before, but I’m a lot better now.”

She regarded him sympathetically. “Panda’s going to need a caretaker who’s a grown-up.” As his face fell, she went on, “But I have some other jobs in mind for you.”

“I’m just as good as a grown-up.”

“He won’t see it that way.”

He stomped across the porch and banged the screen door behind him, but she knew he’d be back, and he was.

Over the next few days, they swept up cobwebs and scrubbed floors. She covered the worst of the outdoor cushions with more beach towels and discovered the metal baker’s rack that looked clunky in the front hallway fit perfectly on the porch. Gradually the ceramic pig, chipped canisters, and other detritus that had cluttered up the counters disappeared. She filled a blue pottery bowl with ripe strawberries and a jelly jar with roses she found growing on an old rambler behind the garage. The arrangement was a far cry from the incredible creations that came out of the White House flower shop, but she liked it just as much.

By the fourth day after Panda had left, they were ripping up the ugly carpet in the gloomy den. “You got any more bread?” Toby asked as they finished the job.

“You polished off the last slice.”

“Are you gonna make more?”

“Not today.”

“You should make more.” He studied her newest accessory, a gorgeous dragon tattoo that curled from her collarbone around her neck with its fiery mouth pointing toward her earlobe. “How old are you anyway?”

She started to tell him she was eighteen, then stopped herself. If she wanted him to be truthful, she had to be straightforward. “Thirty-one.”

“That’s old.”

They moved outside, and Toby held the stepladder while she pulled away the vines that had grown over the den’s only window. Once this room wasn’t so gloomy, it would be a good place for her to start writing.

Through the window, she could see the warm, honeyed tones of the hardwood floor. From the moment she’d stepped through the doorway, the house had called out to her. Panda didn’t deserve this place.

BREE UNDRESSED IN THE TINY laundry room at the back of the cottage and dropped her dirty clothes directly into the washing machine, right down to bra and underpants. The smoker she used to calm the bees had left her smelling like she’d spent the day around a campfire. She wrapped a towel around herself and made her way to the bathroom shower. She’d never worked so hard in her life, and every muscle in her body ached.

For the last few days, she’d been outside from dawn until nightfall getting the hives ready for summer. Following the directions in the manuals she’d read, she moved frames, checked for queens, replaced the old brood comb with fresh comb, and added more brood boxes. She’d also cleaned the honey house from top to bottom, wiping the dust from hundreds of jars filled with last summer’s harvest. When that was done, she’d attached Myra’s labels.

Carousel Honey

Charity Island, Michigan

Bree had once dreamed of being an artist, and the illustration of the gaily beribboned carousel on the labels came from a watercolor she’d painted when she was sixteen as a birthday gift to Myra. Myra had liked the watercolor so much she’d asked to use it for her labels.

Bree dried herself off, working gently around the numerous bee stings she’d accumulated, the oldest of which were itching like crazy. But she hadn’t gotten stung once today. It was nice to feel proud of something.

She found Toby sprawled on the living room couch playing with the Nintendo portable game player she’d brought as a gift when she’d arrived. The room had changed little over the years. Peach walls, a blue and navy floral carpet, overstuffed furniture, and a pair of ceramic Siamese cats on each side of the fireplace mantel. She and Star had named them Beavis and Butt-Head.

It was almost eleven. Toby should be in bed, but if she mentioned it, he’d pretend not to hear. She picked up a dirty cereal bowl. “I’m going to open the farm stand tomorrow.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Nobody’ll stop,” he said, without looking up from his game.

“It’s on the main road to the south beach, so there’s plenty of traffic. If we fix it up a little, I think people will notice.” She had no idea whether they would or not. “I’ll need some help, so you’d better get to bed.”

He didn’t move.

She had to be firmer, but she didn’t know how, so she escaped to the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but even though she wasn’t hungry, she made herself open the refrigerator. The shelves held only milk and lunch meat. She shut the door, glanced toward the pantry with its supply of canned goods, cereal, pasta, and beans. Nothing tempted her. Nothing except…

The single jar of honey she’d brought inside sat on the counter. Golden amber in the sunlight, it looked dark as maple syrup in the kitchen’s artificial light. She picked up the bottle and studied the fanciful carousel label. Finally she twisted the lid. It opened with the lightest pop.

She touched the honey with the tip of her index finger. Shut her eyes. Brought her finger to her lips.

All the summers of her childhood came flooding back. She tasted the faintest hint of cherry blossom; a dash of dandelion, clover, and strawberry; a whisper of honeysuckle and touch of sourwood, all the flavors clean and fresh as a June morning. She dipped her finger again and tasted the days of summer growing longer as the bees gravitated toward lavender patches and blackberry brambles, bringing a complexity to the flavor notes. Then August arrived with summer nearing its end. The honey became rich and buttery from thistle, sage, and alfalfa.

Her weariness faded, and for a moment she felt as if all life’s secrets clung to the tip of her finger.

THE NEXT MORNING, SHE COULDN’T get Toby out of bed, so she set to work alone. Her arms ached as she piled the old wheelbarrow with the brushes, rollers, rags, and paint cans she’d found in the storage shed. She maneuvered it awkwardly down the drive. The farm stand sat gray and weathered in the shade of a hundred-year-old oak. A sloping roof and rudimentary floor supported its three walls, and a pair of splintered shelves ran beneath a long wooden counter. With the exception of a small storage shed attached to the back, the whole thing could have fit inside her old kitchen pantry.

A blue Honda minivan whizzed by, followed by another just like it, both bearing families heading for the still-chilly waters of the south beach, the island’s best swimming locale. She made two more trips back to the house for tools, the temporary poster-board sign she’d painted, and a dozen jars of last summer’s honey. This year’s crop wouldn’t be ready for harvest until August. She hoped she’d be long gone by then, although she couldn’t imagine where. She stomped to wake Toby up and discovered a deserted bedroom.

Her spirits lifted when the first car stopped just as she was sticking her poster board sign in the ground. “It’s about time you opened up,” the woman said. “We finished our last jar of Myra’s honey a couple of weeks ago, and my arthritis is starting to flare up again.”

They bought two jars. Bree was giddy from her success, but her euphoria gradually faded when no one else stopped.

She filled the time sweeping away cobwebs and old bird nests and nailing loose boards back into place. Finally she was ready to open the first of two cans of exterior paint she’d found in the shed, a buttery yellow shade she suspected Myra had chosen for just this purpose. She’d never actually painted anything herself, but she’d watched painters work, and how hard could it be?

Harder than it looked, she discovered after several hours. She had a crick in her neck, a splinter in her hand, and a nasty gash in her leg. As she swiped her forehead with her arm, smearing herself with even more paint, she heard a car slow. She turned to see a late-model red Cadillac come to a stop. Her excitement at finally having a customer faded when she saw who it was.

“You putting any paint on the wood or is it all ending up on you?”

Mike’s obnoxious hardy-har-har laugh felt like fingernails on a chalkboard, and she snapped at him as he came toward her. “I’m doing fine.”

Instead of leaving, he inspected what she’d done. “Looks like you’re going to need more paint. The wood’s really soaking it up.”

Something she’d already noticed, but she didn’t have money to waste on more paint, and she hadn’t figured out what to do about it. He nudged one of the almost empty paint cans with the toe of an expensive cordovan loafer, then stepped away to examine the sagging shelf. “Why isn’t Toby helping you?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She dropped the paint roller into the tray, splattering even more yellow paint on her only decent pair of sandals.

“I just might. Where is he?”

If her resentment hadn’t gotten the best of her, she wouldn’t have answered. “Next door with his new best friend.”

“He should be helping you.” He chose a bottle of honey from the carton on the ground, tossed in a bill, and returned to his car with it.

As he drove off, she realized she was shaking. Just the sight of him flooded her with painful memories. Nothing in her life had ever really gone completely right since the night he’d spied on her with David.

Even though she left the rear of the farm stand untouched, she still ran out of paint. As she worked her brush around the bottom of the can, the Cadillac reappeared with a sullen Toby sitting next to Mike in the front seat. Mike rolled down the car’s window as Toby got out. “He forgot he was supposed to help you today.”

Toby’s angry door slam indicated he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Mike got out and walked around to the trunk. “Come on, boy. Grab these for me.”

Even though Toby was only twelve, she didn’t like hearing him addressed that way. David had gotten fired from one of the charter boats when he’d confronted a customer who’d called him “boy.” But Toby obeyed Mike without protest. Was Toby afraid of him? She eyed the two cans of fresh paint Toby pulled from the car trunk. “What’s this?”

“You were running out.” Mike pulled a paint bucket, some brushes, and another paint roller from the trunk. “I got you some more. No big deal.”

Her muscles clenched. “I don’t want you buying me paint. I don’t want you buying me anything.”

He shrugged and turned to Toby. “Let’s get that opened up.”

“No,” she said. “The paint’s going back, along with everything else.”

Toby shot her a disgusted glare, grabbed the screwdriver she’d left in the dirt, and shoved it under the lip of the can.

“Toby, I mean it. Don’t open that-”

The lid popped.

She’d never been able to make anybody do what she wanted. She couldn’t make Toby obey her or force Mike to leave her alone, and she hadn’t been able to turn Scott into a faithful husband.

Mike poured some paint into the roller pan. “Toby, grab that brush and start putting a second coat on the trim.”

Toby didn’t offer a single protest. He wouldn’t do the simplest thing for her, but when it came to taking orders from a racist ass, he turned into a model of cooperation.

“I’d help you myself,” Mike said, “but…” He made an expansive gesture toward his immaculate gray summer slacks. “Oh, heck.” He grabbed the roller, loaded it up with the buttery paint, and started to work.

She hated what was happening, but she didn’t know how to stop it. Mike Moody, nosing in where he wasn’t wanted, just like always.

“It’s a nice color,” he said.

She liked it, too, but she wasn’t exchanging polite chitchat with him. “Don’t work next to me,” she said. “Your cologne reeks.”

She’d finally managed to ruffle his phony geniality. “What are you talking about? Do you know how much this stuff costs?”

“You can’t buy good taste, Mike. Just like you can’t buy manners.”

Toby threw down his paintbrush, his face contorting with anger. “Why can’t you be nice to him?”

Mike didn’t miss a beat. “I sure would like something to drink. How about it, Bree? You got some lemonade or something in the house? A cool drink would simmer everybody down.”

Only Toby and Bree were simmering. Mike’s phony affability remained unruffled. And then he stopped painting. Not because she wanted him to stop but because he’d spotted an approaching pickup truck. A truck he apparently recognized, since he hurried to the road to flag it down.

A big salesman’s grin stretched his face as the truck stopped. “Jason, my man,” he said to the long-haired kid behind the wheel. “Have you met Bree Remington?”

She was Bree West. She hadn’t been Bree Remington in ten years.

The kid gave her a nod. Mike rested his hand on the roof of the truck. “Bree’s selling Myra’s honey now. I bet your mom would appreciate it if you brought her a couple of jars. Everybody knows Myra’s honey’s good for migraines.”

“Sure thing, Mike.”

And that was the way the rest of her afternoon went, with Mike alternating between rolling paint and flagging down customers. She stayed as far away from him as she could. Experience had taught her that whatever good deeds Mike Moody performed came with all kinds of strings attached.

By the time the day was over, the farm stand glowed under two coats of buttery yellow paint, and she’d sold eighteen jars of honey, but as Mike headed back to his car, she couldn’t find a “thank you” anywhere inside her.

LUCY FOUND HERSELF WATCHING FOR Toby as she pulled up some weeds along the porch. She hadn’t seen him in three days, not since Big Mike had taken him away. She decided to drop in at the cottage and check on him. Although she’d been out on her bike every day, she hadn’t ridden into town in nearly a week, and she needed some groceries. When she returned, she’d get to work. Really, this time. Instead of just thinking about writing, she’d sit down and actually do it.

Instead of following the back road, she took the highway, and as she rounded the bend, she saw the farm stand, no longer a dingy gray but a soft yellow. Jars of golden honey sat on the counter, and Bree was painting a fanciful carousel horse on one side of a teepee-shaped wooden sign hinged at the top. As Lucy got closer, she read the royal blue script:

Carousel Honey

Best on the island

Our honey makes your world go round

Toby sat on the counter, watching Bree, his legs dangling, a sour expression on his face. As Lucy got off her bike, Bree put down her brush. She had a splash of bright pink paint on one cheek, a dab of lime green on the other. Her sleeveless top revealed an angry red bump on her pale, freckled arm.

Toby hopped off the counter and raced over to her. “Hey, Viper. You got work for me to do?”

“Not today.” She studied the sign. “You’re a real artist, Bree. It looks great.”

“Thanks, but I’m just a dabbler.” She began maneuvering the heavy sign toward the road, being careful not to smudge the fresh paint.

Lucy hurried to help her. “You must have been working hard. Everything looks great.”

“I can be there early tomorrow,” Toby said.

Bree adjusted the sign. “You have to watch the stand in the morning while I check the hives.”

“I don’t want to watch the stand!” Toby cried.

Lucy took the pressure off Bree. “I have some other things to do tomorrow anyway.”

Bree stepped back from the sign. It was painted the same on the other side but had a slightly different message:

Carousel Honey

Memories of summer all year long

“We’ve only had ten customers all day,” Toby protested.

“It’s not even noon.” Bree gazed down the highway. “Ten customers is more than we had this time yesterday. The sign is going to help.”

She didn’t sound convinced, and Toby wasn’t buying it. “You need to get a real job,” he said.

Lucy waited for Bree to tell Toby to knock it off, but Bree acted as if she hadn’t heard, and Lucy had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him herself. Instead, she said, “I’m definitely buying some on my way back from town.”

That embarrassed Bree. “You don’t have to.”

“Are you kidding? I love honey.”

“It’d be really good on your bread,” Toby said. And then, accusingly to Bree, “Viper makes bread all by herself. It’s really good, too. The best you ever tasted.”

“You bake your own bread?” Bree said.

“Sometimes. I’ll bring you a loaf.”

“That’d be- Thanks.” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit up. Toby regarded her with disgust. She gave Lucy an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to start again. It just happened.”

Lucy wasn’t entitled to pass judgment on what people did when they were stressed. A dark green sedan whizzed by. “See,” Toby said. “Your sign is stupid. Nobody’s going to buy anything.”

Lucy couldn’t stand it. “Stop giving Bree such a hard time.”

Lucy had sided with the enemy. With a scowl, Toby stalked up the drive toward the house.

Bree took a deep drag on her cigarette. It looked odd seeing someone who resembled a Victorian painting puffing away. Bree gazed at Toby’s retreating figure. “I don’t know anything about kids. As I’m sure you can see, we’re sort of a mess right now.”

“He’s scared,” Lucy said.

“I can’t imagine what was in Myra’s head making me his guardian.”

“I’m sure she thought a lot of you.”

“We were close when I was a kid, but after Star ran off-she was Toby’s mother-we only talked on the phone every few months. Star and I… We were best friends.” She flushed, as if she were embarrassed to have revealed this small bit about herself.

An ancient Crown Victoria slowed and pulled over next to Bree’s new sign. Lucy left her to tend to her customer and biked on into town.

By the time she’d bought her groceries and two small pots of herbs for the baker’s rack on the porch, her pack was too heavy to add more, so she stopped on her way back and told Bree she’d come over the next day to pick up her honey.

“Really. You don’t have to.” Bree smiled, the first Lucy had seen. “The sign’s working. Three more cars have stopped. I’ve sold six jars. And your honey is on the house.”

Lucy wanted to argue, but she understood this was Bree’s way of thanking her for helping with Toby. Another customer slowed. Lucy waved at Bree and took off.

By the time she’d reached Goose Cove Lane, she’d made a mental note to bake bread first thing tomorrow so she could take some with her. She turned into the drive and laid on the brakes. A car was parked by the house.

A dark gray SUV with Illinois plates.