“It tastes like the woods,” Caleb says. “Like when we go with Daddy to check fences.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Pine, earth, and a little smoke. How about… Forest Ember?”
“Em-ber,” Eliza repeats, testing it. “Like fire but not scary fire.”
“Like campfire,” Caleb says. “When you’re safe.”
“Perfect,” I say.
The third jar is my experiment. The bees foraged this from a little wild patch near the old cottonwood at the back of the property, where my grandmother used to sit and write.
The flavor’s been puzzling me for days. Floral, but with something bright and old and wild underneath.
“Careful with this one,” I warn. “It’s special.”
“How’s it special?” Eliza asks.
“It’s from new flowers,” I say. “Ones my grandmother loved.”
They taste.
Eliza’s eyes go huge. “It’s like… like magic juice.”
Caleb nods vigorously. “Like when you wake up from a bad dream, and it’s not bad anymore.”
My heart twists.
I take my own tiny taste and let it cling on my tongue, parsing it the way Grandma taught me: first impression, mid notes, finish.
Bright, soft citrus at the front, wildflower in the middle, something deeper at the end. Hope that doesn’t quite trust itself yet.
“New Dawn,” I hear myself say quietly. “Because it tastes like starting over.”
“New Dawn!” Eliza says, delighted. “That’s when the sun scares away the monsters.”
“Yeah,” Caleb says softly. “Like that.”
“New Dawn it is,” I say.
We go through the jars again, the kids arguing good-naturedly about which one is best. It’s impossible not to smile when they’re acting this way, earnest and alive.
My anxiety doesn’t vanish. The fire still burns. The letter from this morning still sits on the coffee table.
But this is life too.
Laughter. Honey. Two kids who think I’m magical because we had beekeeper training together.
A little while later, after I’ve bribed them into washing hands and faces with the promise of a story, there’s a knock at the door.
“Daddy!” Eliza gasps.
They rocket for the entryway. I follow, wiping my own honey stickiness on a dish towel as my heart kicks up.
I open the door to find all three men on my porch.
Jesse, ash-smudged and tired, but still managing a grin for his kids. Wyatt, glasses slightly crooked, shirt wrinkled. Marshall, tall and solid in the strange orange twilight, tipping his hat in greeting.
“Ma’am,” he says.
