Chapter 22 Jane
Jane
The sound of Pa’s circular saw convulses across the pasture.
It’s two o’clock, and I’m still out here working, aerating a new patch of red clay soil in order to plant purple hull peas and okra. We’ve never grown these before, but Mr. Oldham at the general store swore they’ll thrive here.
Finished with the last row, I walk over to Pa, who’s slapping freshly cut two-by-fours to the ground, laying out the frame for something.
“Whatcha building?” I ask.
He tugs off his mustard-colored leather gloves before tossing them to the ground. “It’s a surprise. You’ll see soon enough.”
Sweat leaks off him. He looks haggard today. That makes sense, after his late night.
He didn’t drag his ass in until one in the morning. Mom was pissed.
I was still awake, tossing in my bed when I heard them arguing.
“Don’t touch me,” Mom rasped at him.
“What? Sorry I’m late, but we need more accounts. Can’t make it on your oils alone.” There was a bite to his words.
Mom spewed out a bitter laugh.
“I found some good leads,” Pa added.
I twisted in my comforter, pulled my pillow on top of my head to block out their bickering.
I’ve long suspected Pa of fooling around on Mom.
I mean, first of all, he’s crazy handsome; I see the way women look at him.
How they take to him, throw themselves at him without even realizing or seeming to care that other people might notice.
Hell, they might not even be aware of it themselves.
He’s so charming, so good-looking, and it’s not that Mom is ugly or anything.
She’s just fine in that department, but kind of plain. Kind of boring. And definitely uptight.
Pa’s in another class. By himself.
I wouldn’t exactly blame him if he were cheating.
“Have fun last night?” I ask him, teasing.
“I could ask you the same thing.” His face cracks into a grin.
“You got me.”
He swipes a stream of sweat off his forehead. “Hey, listen. You think you could cozy up to that Andersen girl? Make friends?”
Dread sweeps over me. I never turn Pa down for these types of requests, but dammit. Nellie? Really?
“How do you even know about her?”
“Her mom came out here yesterday. They seem like good prospects—”
“She did?” My stomach grinds. “Mom didn’t say anything about it to me.”
“She probably didn’t think anything of it.”
“Yeah, well, they are the richest family in town. But she’s a real piece of work, Pa. A real bitch to me—”
“C’mon, Sunshine. Please? Just try?” His graham cracker–colored eyes are pleading.
“Pa, she’s the one who tried to run me off the road!”
“She is?”
“Yep, we talked about it last night and everything. She’s real screwed up in the head. She’s so weird. Said she didn’t mean to, didn’t even realize she’d done it—”
He claps his hand on my shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “Baby, I’m sorry, but I’m sure it was just an accident. People who don’t know about horses, well…”
I sigh. I mean, he’s not wrong. But still.
“And you can sell ice water to the devil, remember?” He squeezes my shoulder again. Bends down to retrieve his gloves.
I turn away, heading inside.
I’m so fucking sick of being poor.
And of being the one in this role. Sometimes I wish I were more like Julia. Homely, unlikable. She doesn’t get put into these kinds of positions. She wouldn’t allow it anyway.
Even though she’s the family beekeeper, I’ve learned a lot about beekeeping from her through the years.
Enough to know this: She’s kind of like the guard bee.
Not that she is actively protecting us, more that she’s protecting herself.
She’s the one out front, separate from the hive.
Shutting out this part of our lives from her.
Keeping herself at a distance. Silently judging us for what we do.
Me? I’m the scout bee. The one in charge of buzzing around, searching, always on the lookout.
Mom fancies herself the queen bee, of course, keeper of us all, but everything in me feels that her reign is going to end at some point.
Because Pa? Classic drone bee. The one most likely at risk of flying off to mate with other queens. To form a new colony.