And of being the one in this role. Sometimes I wish I were more like Julia. Homely, unlikable. She doesn’t get put into these kinds of positions. She wouldn’t allow it anyway.
Even though she’s the family beekeeper, I’ve learned a lot about beekeeping from her through the years. Enough to know this: She’s kind of like the guard bee. Not that she is activelyprotecting us, more that she’s protecting herself. She’s the one out front, separate from the hive. Shutting out this part of our lives from her. Keeping herself at a distance. Silently judging us for what we do.
Me? I’m the scout bee. The one in charge of buzzing around, searching, always on the lookout.
Mom fancies herself the queen bee, of course, keeper of us all, but everything in me feels that her reign is going to end at some point.
Because Pa? Classic drone bee. The one most likely at risk of flying off to mate with other queens. To form a new colony.
23
Jackson
Against the early-evening sun, the lake is a shimmering cape of a thousand shiny pennies.
Jackson has to squint when he gazes out over the water. It’s so humid, so torrid out; he wishes they were gathered inside, but, same as last year, the annual summer fish fry at the Boat House is being held out on the massive dock.
The ancient wooden posts groan against the deck as waves lick the surface of the lake.
He didn’t want to come tonight. He’d much rather have gone to Sullivan’s, hoping to catch sight of Ethan again. But since he missed all of Charleigh’s calls yesterday, she’s been extra clingy; he knew there was no getting out of this thing.
Sigh.
The Andersens even picked him up in Alexander’s Jeep Wagoneer. He rode in the back seat with Nellie, feeling like her sibling, a child being driven to a dance by his parents.
When he slid into the sumptuous leather seat, Nellie appraised him.
“Nice shirt,” she said, then twisted her frame toward the window, chewing a fingernail, as if she were too cool to say another word.
Normally, he would think she was being a smart-ass with her comment, as was her way, but he could tell she was sincere this time, real respect registering, if not in her tone, at least in her cornflower-blue eyes. Heiswearing the latest Tommy Hilfiger, a button-down rugby.
Charleigh passed him an icy wine cooler, peach flavored, which went down like candy.
Studying Nellie’s profile, Jackson felt a pang of pity wash over him. She looked fine, hair done in a single French braid down her back, tight and rigid bangs hair-sprayed to the heavens, flawless makeup. Dare he say she looked attractive? But so fidgety. The nail biting, the sighing, the angst radiating off her like a fragrance. As he watched her, it hit him: They’re both outcasts.
Now he sits next to her at the wrought iron table, steam rising off their baskets of catfish, skins fried to a golden brown.
Alexander and Charleigh gave Jackson and Nellie the best seats—the ones facing the lake. And while Jackson likes to think this was altruistic, he knows it’s only because Charleigh must have her eyes glued to the front, to the action.
He drags a hush puppy through the cup of tangy tartar sauce. It’s so hot, it scorches his tongue, but then melts in his mouth. Alexander follows suit but grabs two, devouring both at the same time.
The man is six-two, and his appetite is insatiable. In more ways than one, according to Charleigh. Jackson’s always liked Alexander. He’s easy to look at, yes, but,sonot Jackson’s type. He’s too clean-cut. Like Charleigh, he’s almost too perfect, gleaming in his crisp white button-down, blond hair trimmed in a preppy style. Frat boy.
He’s chill, though, not stuck-up at all, despite his bottomless wealth, and, ever since Jackson first met him, Alexander has been welcoming. When the Andersens travel, Alexander will suggest that they invite Jackson. Just last year, he accompanied them to Paris, visiting the most famous antique showrooms with Charleigh, selecting pieces to be shipped back home.
He suspects that Alexander appreciates Jackson basically being Charleigh’s chaperone because a) he’s male and can ward off other men while—because he’s gay—not being a threat to their marriage and b) because Jackson soaks up so much of Charleigh’s high-maintenance energy.
Jackson shudders to think what Charleigh will be like once Nellie flies the coop. She’ll be completely bonkers; he imagines he reallywillfeel like one of their children then.
The waitress appears with a tray of margaritas on the rocks for the adults and a glass of iced tea for Nellie. Charleigh licks the salt-crusted rim of hers, before slinging half of it down in one gulp. She, as ever, is gleaming tonight, in a low-cut white halter top with red shorts, her bronzed skin and toned shoulders on full display. She lifts her glass again, grins at Jackson.
Then he watches her face contort, her eyes narrow. “Fuckme,” she spits.
Jackson and Nellie both turn their gazes away from the lake, toward the restaurant.
The Chambers—Chip, Monica, and Blair—are spilling out of the dining room onto the deck, looking like some polished Barbie family. At their side are the Swifts. Ethan, and someone Jackson assumes to be the wife, and one of the daughters.
“Mom!” Nellie’s voice sounds discordant, like a piano key out of tune. “What the fuck is she doing here?”
