Page 58 of The Sweetness of Life

It takes us ten minutes to reach the far northwestern corner of the property. The sun is warm, and the wind that whips by us as we head down the hill feels pleasant and welcome. I’m comfortable sitting here next to him, so comfortable a pang of sadness hits me at the thought of leaving in a few days. When we pull through several rows of apple, peach, and pecan trees, I spot the six bee houses and the sadness melts away, forgotten.

“You have an apiary?” I gasp as I take in the large cedar boxes that have hundreds of bees swarming around them.

“We do, and although I’m sure there’s a bit of a mixture of some wildflower nectar in them, they’re primarily filled with lavender honey.”

“Lavender,” I say on an exhalation. “I love honey.” I say it more to myself, but Zach chuckles next to me.

“I know you do. You told me repeatedly the day we went to Asheville.”

He’s smiling and studying my very pleased reaction to this impromptu visit.

“After we opened OBA, Lexi bought a few hives for the orange trees on her property, but I haven’t been down to see them yet.”

“I know that, too.” He shifts in his seat so he’s angled toward me and then props his foot on the miniature dashboard. “She called and talked to my mother after she set up shop.”

My eyebrows shoot straight up. “These bees are your mother’s?”

He nods his head. “She loves these bees. She’s had the hives for as long as I can remember. She harvests the honey herself three times a season and has made quite a little business of it. Tourists who’ve come in for a tasting and had a sample of the honey reach out to her year-round, requesting to purchase a jar.”

“That’s amazing. Where does she jar the honey?” Along with the lavender, I need to take some of this home, too.

“There’s a separate kitchen in the back of the warehouse where we bottle wine. My father built it for her years ago.” A look of pride graces his face. It’s easy to see how much he loves his parents. He’s lucky, such a different childhood than my own.

I picture the barn when we walked through it, but nothing comes to mind. “Oh, I didn’t notice it.”

“I know. I didn’t show it to you,” he teases, pulling on my ponytail.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. My parents are my people. Over the years, I’ve learned the less I talk about them, the more they are mine. If I keep them out of the press, I get to keep them all to myself. It makes our relationship feel like it’s more. It’s mine, and the things that are most important to me, I don’t like to share.” His last few words slow as he looks at me.

I think about who my people are, and although I have Lexi, it’s Meg who fits that role. She’s my family, and I didn’t realize how lonely I was until the moment I met her.

“So, how do you know it’s lavender honey?” I glance back to the bee boxes.

“I just do. Bees will travel up to six miles for nectar, and if you look at the lavender bushes all around the property, they are healthy with honey bees.”

“Ha, yes, I did feel like I was competing with the bees for my clippings this morning.”

His grin stretches, tipping up the sides of his mouth. “Another way to tell is the color. Wildflower honey is typically darker because the nectar is taken from a wide variety of flowers, and the color can change based on what’s blooming that year. Lavender honey is called a ‘single flower’ honey, it’s lighter, and year after year, the color doesn’t really change.”

Zach steps out of the golf cart and goes around to the back before grabbing a duffel bag that’s been sitting there. Unzipping the bag, he pulls out equipment needed to harvest honey, and understanding dawns on me about what he’s going to do. Running his hand through his hair, he pushes it off his face, and then he picks up a white jumpsuit that has an attached hood veil.

“Have you ever been stung?” I’m a little nervous for him. I get that he knows what he’s doing, but still . . . bees hurt.

He steps into it, slides his arms through the sleeves, and zips it up.

“Plenty of times.” He laughs. “The trick is to scrape off the stinger. If you try to grab it, you’ll actually insert more venom into your body, and that is not good. Did you know the venom has a banana-like scent to it? Bees hate bananas, and it’s like their cue for attack. In fact, if you plan to come out here, don’t eat a banana first or you’re asking for trouble.”

My face blanches. “Noted. No bananas.”

Pulling the veil over his head, he smiles at me as he slips on a pair of long gloves.

“Don’t they get angry when you take the honey?” I glance over, and suddenly, I don’t feel like there are hundreds of bees—I feel like there are thousands. My heart rate picks up with concern for him.

“Nah, these bees are nice. I’m going to smoke them first so I can get to the honey, but you still can’t be quick or jerky around them. You have to move slowly and calmly, otherwise you’ll excite them. In general, I’ve never seen them be aggressive. If anything, I think they’re grateful for all the lavender. Unlike other lavender farms, we don’t cut it all down for commercial use. We leave a lot wild just for them. Don’t get me wrong, as I kid I was terrified of them, but I would lay over there under those trees and watch my mom work with them.”

I look toward where he’s pointing and find several apple trees that have had their lower branches cut off.