Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Swayze
I’d spent a lot of time at Mind Your Beeswax since Christmas, largely doing product shoots for the images I needed to build the online storefront for Tana.
I’d never seen more than one customer in the building at a time.
Good for me and what I was doing in the moment.
Not so good for Tana’s bottom line. But since I’d finished the photography, and the show had ramped up, I’d had less time to drop in.
Tana and I had largely communicated through texts and phone calls as I put together her Shopify store, gradually rolling out new segments of products from week to week.
It had been a hell of an undertaking to do the way I believed it needed to be done.
But now the full inventory was online, and I wanted to see Tana in person to gauge how well it was working.
I stepped onto the porch of the little purple house and paused, taking in the changes that had transformed the space since my last visit.
The cheerful winter pansies that had dotted the weathered wooden planters in January had been traded out for primrose and violas in shades of butter yellow and soft lavender, their delicate faces turned toward the weak March sunshine.
The Christmas garland that had wrapped the porch railings in fragrant pine was long gone, replaced by fresh eucalyptus and white berry branches woven through with pale green ribbon that fluttered in the breeze.
Even the welcome mat had changed to a new one with a bee motif and “Mind Your Beeswax” in cheerful script.
The door chimed its familiar bell-tone as I pushed inside, and the first thing I noticed was the people.
Three women clustered near the main display table, heads bent together in animated conversation as they examined something in a jar, passing it between them like it held secrets.
Two more browsed the apothecary section toward the back, where Tana kept the more medicinal tinctures and salves in their amber glass bottles.
I blinked, scanning the space again to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.
I’d never seen this many customers at once in all my weeks of coming here.
The whole place had a different vibe—alive in a way it hadn’t been before.
Not just because of the seasonal decor, though the shift from winter whites and silvers to spring pastels was lovely and made the space seem lighter, more inviting.
Everywhere I looked, I saw holes in the displays.
Empty spots on shelves where products had sold.
Gaps in the neat rows of hand-labeled jars and bottles.
The pegboard wall that held sachets and tea blends looked ransacked in the best possible way, with pins marking where inventory had hung just days ago.
I grinned, warmth spreading through my chest.
“Oh my God, smell this one.” One of the trio held out a small tin to her friends, waving it under their noses. “It’s like... a forest after rain? How is that even possible?”
“That’s the Pine & Cedar salve,” I said before I could stop myself.
The words came out automatically, unbidden, from weeks of photographing and cataloging every single product in the store.
“It’s incredible for dry hands. I use it constantly—keeps my skin from cracking even when I’m washing them a dozen times a day. ”
All three women turned to me with the kind of eager, open attention that used to make me uncomfortable, that used to feel like pressure, but now just felt... nice. Natural, even.
“Really?” The woman with the tin studied me with renewed interest, her gaze dropping to my hands as if checking for proof. “Have you tried the honey-lavender one too? I keep going back and forth.”
“That’s my favorite for night,” I admitted, moving closer to their little circle.
“Rub it on your cuticles before bed, and your nails will thank you. I swear mine grow faster now.” I scanned the table, looking for the distinctive cream-colored tin.
“But if you’re looking for something more multipurpose, the beeswax and chamomile is magic.
Face, hands, elbows, anywhere that needs moisture.
I keep one in my bag, one on my nightstand, and one in my car. ”
“Are you like a sales rep or something?” one of the other women asked, her tone curious rather than suspicious.
Heat crept up my neck, spreading across my cheeks. “No, just a fan. Tana makes everything here herself, using local ingredients and her grandmother’s recipes. It’s all actually good—like, actually works, not just Instagram-pretty packaging.”
“Well, I’m sold.” The first woman grabbed two more tins from the display, clutching them to her chest like treasure. “Girls’ trip haul, here we come. My bathroom’s about to look like an apothecary.”
Her friends laughed and started selecting their own armfuls of products, debating the merits of different scents and uses. I stepped back, letting them continue to browse without my interference, and strolled toward the back of the store where a customer waited at the counter.
Tana spotted me and gave a finger wave, even as she kept her focus on her customer.
The woman at the counter leaned heavily on the polished wood, one hand pressed to her lower back. “I’ve tried everything. Heat, ice, ibuprofen. Nothing touches it.”
Tana set down the jar she’d been holding and gave the woman her full attention. “How long has it been bothering you?”
“Three weeks. Ever since we moved all that furniture for my daughter.”
Tana nodded, already reaching for something on the shelf behind her. “My grandmother always said back pain that lingers is pain that’s holding on to more than just the injury. Not saying that’s true for you, but the body remembers stress.”
She pulled down a dark glass bottle and a tin, setting both on the counter between them.
“This is arnica oil infused with comfrey and St. John’s wort.
You’ll want to massage it into the sore spots twice a day—morning and before bed.
But here’s the thing Granny Jean taught me.
” Tana opened the tin, releasing a sharp, herbal scent that carried notes of mint and something earthier.
“After you apply the oil, use this warming salve over top. The heat opens everything up so the arnica can do its work deeper.”
The woman bent to sniff the salve, and her shoulders visibly relaxed. “That’s already making me feel better.”
“Peppermint and cayenne with a beeswax base. Nothing fancy, but it works.” Tana capped the tin and rang up both items. “And drink ginger tea if you can stand it. Inflammation’s usually part of the problem.”
“I can stand anything if it means I can sleep through the night again.”
“Then you’ll sleep.” Tana smiled as she bagged the purchases. “But if it’s not better in a week, you come back, and we’ll try something stronger.”
The woman paid and left with the kind of grateful expression that told me Tana had given her something more valuable than products—she’d given her hope.
I watched Tana reset her workspace, wiping down the counter and returning jars to their proper places. The care she took with every movement, the knowledge she carried about each remedy, the way she listened.
This was what I’d wanted to capture with the website. Not just pretty pictures of products, but the heart of what Tana did here.
Before she moved to deal with her next customer, she pointed back to the kitchen and mimed pouring water over tea. Understanding the message, I slipped behind the curtain. After the past few months, I was more than comfortable in the space, so I filled the familiar kettle and set it to boil.
By the time Tana rang up the last customer, I’d settled at the small table in her kitchen with two steaming cups of tea. The bergamot scent curled between us as she dropped into the chair across from me with a heavy exhale.
I nudged one of the mugs toward her. “I’m guessing business is good?”
Tana laughed—not her usual quiet chuckle but something full and bright that transformed her whole face. “Good? Swayze, I went to the post office twice this week. Twice. Darla asked if I was running a mail-order empire now.”
“Are you?”
“Apparently!” She wrapped both hands around the mug, eyes shining.
“I’ve shipped to Oregon, Maine, California.
Someone in Alaska ordered three of everything in the lip balm line.
Three. And the reviews people are leaving on the site.
..” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I cry reading them sometimes.”
Warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the tea. “That’s amazing, Tana.”
“It’s more than amazing. It’s—” Her voice caught.
She took a sip of tea, composing herself.
“I didn’t think the business would survive the winter.
Granny Jean built this place from nothing, and my mama kept it going, and I thought.
.. I thought I’d be the one who lost it.
That I’d have to close the doors and get some job at the Target in the next county over, and all those recipes, all that knowledge, it would just.. . disappear.”
I reached across the table, squeezing her hand.
“But now I’m hiring people.” She said it like a revelation.
“Betty Holcomb comes in three mornings a week to help me make product batches. And Shae Martin’s handling packaging two afternoons.
They both needed work, Swayze. Betty’s husband’s disability doesn’t stretch far enough, and Shae’s trying to save up to get her own place.
And I can pay them. Not a fortune, but honest wages for honest work. ”
“Tana—”
“You did that.” She gripped my hand tighter. “You built something that’s keeping this store alive and putting money in two other families’ pockets. That’s you.”
I shook my head, pulling back. “It’s your products. Your family’s legacy. I just—”
“You built a bridge.” Tana’s voice was firm.
“Between what we’ve always done and people who would never have known we existed.
You photographed everything so beautifully people can practically smell the lavender through their screens.
You wrote descriptions that make folks understand why Granny’s recipes matter.
You made us findable when we were invisible. ”
The weight of her words settled over me. I’d optimized keywords, built clean navigation, created product bundles that made sense. Technical work. Design work. The kind of thing I’d done a thousand times before for brands that paid me in exposure and free products.
But this was different.
I hadn’t shown my face in a single frame.
Hadn’t turned the camera on myself, hadn’t performed enthusiasm I didn’t feel.
The work spoke for itself—Tana’s work, my skills supporting it.
Not Swayze Parish, influencer with ten million followers.
Swayze Parish, designer who knew how to make good things visible.
And I got to see it. Not just numbers on an analytics dashboard or comments from strangers I’d never meet.
I saw the empty spaces on Tana’s shelves.
Heard the genuine need in that woman’s voice when she talked about her back pain and the relief when Tana handed her hope in a jar.
Watched my friend’s hands shake with joy as she talked about hiring neighbors who needed work.
I’d been present for the impact. Witnessed the difference with my own eyes.
“I really like this,” I said quietly.
Tana tilted her head. “Building websites?”
“Doing work that matters. Seeing what it does.” I traced the rim of my mug. “And not having to be the story to make it work.”
Understanding softened Tana’s expression. She lifted her tea in a small toast. “To being invisible in all the right ways.”
I clinked my mug against hers. “To bridges.”