Sage slid her bare hands into the wriggling mass of honeybees. The vibration hummed up her arms, and the hundred or so spindly legs tickled her skin. She cupped a handful of little black and yellow bodies, oblivious to the thunderous buzz, buzz, buzz filling her ears.
With slow, practiced movements, she shook them into the brood box, but her mind wasn’t on the relocation of the rogue swarm. Her tumultuous thoughts careened between boarding the Marvelous Mira bright and early tomorrow morning with the man who broke her heart and the upsetting scene that unfolded in Abby’s dining room mere hours ago.
She couldn’t shake the shell-shocked look on her friend’s face when the uninvited guest interrupted their afternoon tea with the ugliest of accusations.
His father is your late husband. Donnie.
As casual as could be, the woman had drawn a damning connection between her son and Abby’s late husband. They’d all heard her, clear as a rooster’s crow. And yet, no one wanted to believe the allegation. No one wanted to acknowledge what Sage knew all too well—affairs happened. Every second of every day, someone betrayed someone else in the worst possible way. And often, that someone was the last person you’d expect.
“Try again. You missed the queen,” Grandma Shirley instructed, snapping Sage from her thoughts.
Sure enough, the honeybees had returned to the small sapling where the other worker bees—and their queen—remained huddled together in a pulsating throng.
“Sorry, Gran. I can’t seem to focus.”
Gran’s features softened, and she sat back on her heels, her long bohemian dress splayed around her like a tree skirt. “Abby?”
Sage nodded, the searing sting of compassion pricking her eyes.
For a moment, they knelt in silence, framed by fragrant lavender shrubs, hollyhocks, and foxglove. How many tears had been shed in this very garden? How many heart-rending sobs had been muffled by the border of towering redwoods and sugar pines? How many hurting women had bared their souls to the steadfast honeybees?
“Do you think it’s true?” Sage whispered. Her question needed no further explanation. As a member of the Belles, Gran had been present for the shocking ordeal. And like Sage, she’d sat quietly while everyone vehemently refuted the woman’s claim. And when Abby explained that the woman and her son would be staying in Blessings Bay—at the inn—until they received the results of a paternity test, they’d remained silent while everyone else offered assurances.
Assurances they couldn’t possibly give with any real certainty.
Sage had merely hugged Abby with all her strength and promised to be there for her, no matter what. What else could she do?
“It’s possible,” Gran admitted gravely. “But if it is, she’ll get through it. Abby is strong. And she has us. And there’s always room for her here, if she needs it.” Gran swept her hand in a broad circle, encompassing the expansive garden, honey-yellow farmhouse, and luxury yurts dotting the verdant forty-acre property overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
Over thirty years ago, Gran opened the Honeybee Retreat as a place for wounded women to heal their broken hearts while immersing themselves in the tranquility of nature. At first, she provided rustic accommodations and minimal amenities. But when Sage’s mother took over the operational side of the business—moving them into the farmhouse with Gran right before Sage’s sixth birthday—Gran had expanded. She now offered daily yoga, botanical tours, gardening, beekeeping, beachcombing, and homesteading activities. She even held a weekly Bible study, for those who wanted to attend.
Sage loved growing up among the flowers and honeybees. And she enjoyed meeting all the women who stayed at the retreat. Plus, the life lessons—particularly the ones pertaining to men—had been invaluable.
“I hope for Abby’s sake, it’s all a lie. Or a misunderstanding.” Sage watched the cluster of bees wrapped around the thin tree trunk, moving as one entity. Almost all of them female. Oh, the wisdom of bees.
“Me, too, sweetheart.” Gran reached into the center of the swarm as if picking a ripened peach. The peaceful pollinators encased her hand like a gilded glove, settling into the brood box without protest. On her first try, Gran had relocated the queen, and the other bees followed.
Sage smiled as Gran gently hummed “Come Together” by the Beatles, serenading their return. Newcomers to the Honeybee Retreat always marveled at Gran’s boldness when it came to the bees. She didn’t believe in protective suits, gloves, or even in using smoke to sedate her flying insect friends.
For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be just like Gran. Fearless. Independent. Unflappable. Her grandmother hadn’t wilted or wallowed in grief when her husband left. She’d taken her bruised heart and made something beautiful. Something important. Something that made a difference in people’s lives.
And what had Sage accomplished in her twenty-nine years of life? Not much. She still lived at home and bounced between part-time jobs, selling the occasional piece of jewelry she’d made from sea glass, aching for something more meaningful. And until recently, she’d been too afraid to fight for the one thing she wanted most.
Both Gran and her mother supported her dream to open a bookstore. Even her bizarre plan to do so on a sailboat. But when it came to Mackensie’s odd proposition—and her decision to live on board said sailboat with Flynn—they each had their reservations.
“Did you forget something?” Her mother floated into the garden with all the grace of a forest nymph. At sixty-nine, Dawn Harper could pass for a much younger woman thanks to regular yoga, Pilates, and what she called “therapeutic gardening,” an activity Sage learned really referred to aggressive weeding as a form of stress management.
Her mother’s midlength flaxen curls grazed her bare shoulders, and the early evening sunlight gave her tanned skin a golden glow. Not for the first time, Sage marveled at how her father could leave someone so stunning and youthful. Particularly for such a tired cliché like his twentysomething secretary.
“What did I forget?” Sage stood and brushed the dirt from her knees.
“I saw all your bags for tomorrow morning stacked by the front door and thought you might want to bring this along.” Her mother held out a worn book missing its binding. “You know, to remind you why you’re doing all this.”
A flood of emotion filled Sage’s chest as she read the faded title page. The Curious Quest of Quinley Culpepper.
“You must have read that book a hundred times,” Gran said, peering over her shoulder.
“More like a thousand.” Dawn laughed. “There were many nights I had to pry it out of her hands after she’d fallen asleep.”
Sage smiled even as burgeoning tears marred her vision. The adventurous tale about a plucky preteen traveling the world in search of her missing father had been a lifeline during the years after her dad left. It had solidified her love of books and the belief that stories could help heal a broken heart. “Thank you.”
“You’re sure you want to do this, honeybee?” Her mother brushed a wayward curl away from her face, like she’d done so many times when Sage was a child. “You know Gran and I can help you get a boat some other way.”
“I know.” Sage pretended to agree, although she knew they couldn’t afford it. Every cent went back into the retreat. “I think this is something I need to do on my own. And I’ll be fine. Honestly. What happened with Flynn was a long time ago.”
Her muscles immediately tensed at the image of Flynn standing near the back of the auction house, aloof and formidable. He looked so different, so unlike himself. The Flynn she knew didn’t wear austere suits and leather loafers. He wore linen shirts and deck shoes. His hair wasn’t impeccably cut and combed. It was casual and windblown. But his eyes—his eyes had changed the most. Where was the sparkle? The hint of laughter? They’d grown cold. And despite what happened between them, sadness spread over her, sinking into her bones.
Why had Flynn come back to Blessings Bay? And what did he want with Mackensie’s sailboat? The Cahills owned dozens of boats, all in better condition than the Marvelous Mira.
The Cahills—aka Blessings Bay royalty. They’d never liked her, despite how desperately she’d yearned for their approval. What did they think about their precious son spending three days alone with his socially unsuitable high school sweetheart?
She had a feeling they wouldn’t be thrilled with the prospect.
For once, they all had something in common.