The Return(27)

“Honey will taste different depending on where the hive is located, because the nectar the bees collect will be different. That’s why some honey is sweeter than others, some have a slightly fruitier flavor, others more flowery. It’s kind of like wine.”

“I’m not sure I’ve noticed a big difference in flavors until now.”

“Most commercial honey is clover honey. Bees love clover, which is why there’s a clover patch on the property, too. But honey is also one of the most manipulated and lied-about foods on the planet. A lot of commercial honey is actually honey mixed with flavored corn syrup. You have to be careful where you buy.”

She nodded, but there was something trancelike about her demeanor, as if the combination of the sun, the soothing droning of the bees, and the elixir of honey had relaxed the defenses she usually erected around herself. Her lips were parted and moist, her aquamarine eyes drowsy and translucent. When her gaze drifted from the hive to meet mine, I felt an almost hypnotic pull.

I took a step toward her, the sound of my own breath loud in my ears. She seemed to know how I was feeling and was flattered by it. But just as quickly, she caught herself and picked up the hood and gloves, severing the thread of the moment.

I forced myself to speak. “Would you like to see how the honey is extracted? It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

“Sure.”

Without another word, we started in the direction of the honey shed. When we got there, she handed me the hood and gloves, then proceeded to take off the bee suit. I did the same and put everything back in place. I moved the manual extractor away from the wall. She came over to inspect the extractor but was careful to keep a safe distance.

“To harvest the honey, you take frames from the hive, shake off the bees, and load them in the wheelbarrow to bring them here,” I began, slowly but surely regaining my equilibrium. “Then, one at a time, you load the frames into the extractor, between these slots. You turn the crank, and it spins the frame. Centrifugal force will push the honey and beeswax from the combs.” I turned the crank, demonstrating how it worked. “Once the honey is spun out of the frame, you place one of those nylon bags into a plastic bucket, set it beneath the nozzle on the extractor, open the nozzle, and let the honey drain into the bucket. The nylon bag captures the wax but lets the honey pass through. After that, the honey goes into a jar and it’s ready to go.”

Wordlessly, Natalie took in the rest of the shed, wandering idly from one station to the next, finally stopping in front of the plastic garbage can. Lifting the lid, she saw the wood chips and shavings; by her expression, I knew she’d figured out that the contents were for use in the smoker. She examined the back wall, inspecting all the equipment, and waved at the rows of neatly labeled jars of honey.

“It’s so organized in here.”

“Always,” I agreed.

“My dad has a work shed like this,” she commented, turning to face me again. “Where everything has a purpose, everything has a place.”

“Yeah?”

“He buys old transistor radios and phonographs from the 1920s and 1930s and then repairs them in a shed behind our house. I used to love spending time there as a little girl when he was working. He had a high-backed stool and he’d wear these glasses that magnified everything. I can still remember how big his eyes were. Even now, whenever I visit them in La Grange, the shed is usually where the two of us talk about life.”

“That’s an unusual hobby.”

“I think he finds it peaceful.” She sounded wistful. “And he’s proud of it, too. There’s a whole section in the store with refurbished electronics on display.”

“Does he sell any?”

“Hardly.” She laughed. “Not everyone shares his fascination with antique electronics. Sometimes he talks about opening a small museum, maybe one that’s attached to the store, but he’s been talking about it for years, so who knows?”

“What does your mom do while your dad is tinkering?”

“She bakes,” she answered. “Which is why I know how to make a great piecrust. And she sells what she bakes at the store, unless we eat it first.”

“Your parents sound like good people.”

“They are,” she said. “They worry about me.”

I stayed quiet, expecting her to go on, but she didn’t. I finally offered a gentle prod. “Because you’re a deputy?”

“Partly,” she conceded. Then, as though realizing the conversation had veered in an unintended direction, she shrugged. “Parents always worry. That’s the nature of parenthood. But that reminds me I should get going. They’ll be waiting for me.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

We left the shed, walking down the pathway toward the drive. She drove an older model, silver Honda, a sensible car she probably intended to keep as long as it still ran. I opened the driver’s side door for her; inside, I saw her handbag on the passenger seat, and a small crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror.

“I enjoyed the day so much,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I did too,” I admitted. “And you’re welcome.”

The sun was at her back, making her face difficult to read, but when she placed her hand lightly on my forearm, I sensed that she, like me, didn’t want the day to end just yet.