Page 16 of The Beekeeper

I chuckled. “It’s gritty because it’s fresh,” I explained. Most adults didn’t even know that the syrupy honey from stores, no matter what natural or organic labels were slapped on the bottle, was still processed to be smooth. “When honey is raw and unprocessed from the hive, it tastes like this.”

Paisley wrinkled her nose. “Can I have another taste?”

I smiled and swiped another dab onto a plain cracker, glancing at the clock over my stove as I handed it to her. I didn’t care that Blaze was gone for so long, I just hoped everything was okay. Unfortunately, checking in with him would send the completely wrong message. It was bad enough I had to text him and let him know I’d taken Paisley back to my house when he hadn’t returned in an hour like he said he would.

“Are you sure you like it?”

Her head bobbed forcefully. “Yes.”

“Good. Because I could really use your help.” I went to the junk drawer in the kitchen for a pen and paper, and then set them in front of Paisley.

Her excitement evaporated like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. It was the same look, the same tone—the same fear as when I’d asked her if she wanted to pet the bee.

“Me?”

“I need a name for the flavor and a design for the label.”

“You don’t have a name?” Paisley stared, looking about as boggled as I felt.

“Not yet,” I answered, trying not to think about how the name I’d picked—Cinna-bee—was taken. “That’s why I need your help. You came up with such great names for the bees, I know you’ll have the perfect idea.”

She’d named the queen Bee-yonce. Of course. And then there was Bee-thoven. Justin Bee-ber. Sleeping Bee-ty. She’d rattled off at least two dozen as I pointed out different parts of the anatomy of a honeybee hive.

Paisley hummed and then asked, “Can I think about it while I draw?”

“Of course,” I said, noticing she still hesitated to pick up the pen. “Actually, while you work on that, I’m going to unload the jars from the truck, okay?”

She nodded, and as I headed for the door, I caught her hunch over the table and finally pick up the pen.

Good. Maybe her idea was what would get me out of my funk. I’d been waiting to bottle and sell the flavor because Nox wanted to make me beehive-shaped, glass-blown jars. While I’d waited, my local competitor, Adam Eastwood, had not only released the same flavor three weeks ago but with the name I’d been thinking. I’d been devastated…and glad my brother hadn’t finished the jars yet because now, I didn’t know what I was going to do with them.

It wasn’t that we couldn’t have the same flavors. Dozens of apiaries in the state all ran off of the same list of popular flavors—blueberry, lavender, maple—the same way every ice cream shop had chocolate and vanilla and strawberry. The problem was when I started using my aunt’s famous Stonebar Farms blueberries, my blueberry honey had not only launched my apiary from hobby to small business, but it had completely outsold Adam’s, and he couldn’t stand it: that I was brand new to the market and doing better.

I didn’t even know—didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late. Until he’d started seeding hate into the honey community. He claimed I’d stolen his idea for blueberry honey—like there weren’t at least four other local beekeepers who sold the same flavor. And that I’d copied his logo by having a bee in mine, too. Imagine that, using a bee in a logo for a honey business. And even how photos of my bees or hives on my Instagram were similar to his. I’d never even met him, and he’d made me his enemy and set out to ruin my business in its infancy.

Fans of his apiary started attacking me. My website. My social media. They picked apart everything I’d done and claimed it was all a copy of Adam. Local stores stopped stocking my product. I was no longer invited to sell at the Stonebar Farmers’ Market. I’d even started getting hate emails. Me. A beekeeper.

Honeybees were vital to our world—to our food supply and our survival. Why couldn’t we support everyone who was trying to help and do their part?

Now, it didn’t matter what I did; it was all assumed to be a copy of his product or marketing or business. If I made a holiday flavor. If I shared a video of my hives. If I shared pictures of my bees. Of my process. Anything that everyone else in our industry would do, if Adam had done it, I must’ve stolen the idea from him.

So, when he’d launched Honey Trap Farms’ Cinna-bee honey all over social media, I’d felt blindsided. And hopeless. I had pounds of cinnamon honey ready to be packaged, but where was I going to go with them now?

The Stonebar Farms stores; that was the only safe place. And the Lamplight Inn. Lou would take some for her breakfast spread and for the gift baskets she made for guests.

It was okay, I kept telling myself. They would all sell, and it would be fine. I just…I hated having to rely on my family’s businesses to support mine.

It sounded terrible because I was also so completely grateful to them for all their support. To my dad, for letting me claim a small part of his land for my apiary and live in the old farmhouse. To my Aunt Ailene, for letting me buy any fruit from the Stonebar Farms basically at cost and stocking my product in her stores. To my brother, Max, for giving me thousands of wildflower seeds to plant for my bees. And now, even Nox.

I pulled open the top flap and pulled one of the small glass jars from the box. Crystal clear and shaped like a little hive.

It was perfect—they were perfect. And still, the only urge I had was to cry.

I was the youngest. Between my brothers and then my four cousins, I was the baby. Little Harper. Always floating between my family’s other businesses, helping, working, never sure what I wanted to do. And now that I did know what I wanted—what was my calling—I was still going to have to rely on them to do it.

I let out a deep exhale and tucked the jar back in its corner of the box, folding it closed and stacking it on top of another.

Good thing I’d decided to pick these up last night rather than this afternoon. When Blaze said he was coming back with Paisley, I figured it would be better if my afternoon was clear.