Chapter 3
Dmitri
Throngs of people crowd Maple Street, lines forming at the white tents bracketing both sides of the street, which is blocked off for the event. Based on the sea of bodies, Rio wasn’t wrong about needing to experience the Honey Bee Jubilee.
Mother Nature is doing her best to make the festival a success.
The sun’s rays chased away the chill that hung on to the air until morning turned to noon, and I unbutton the sports coat I threw on before I ventured out.
While Philly has cool mornings in April, somehow the chill seems more noticeable in Vermont.
Maybe it’s the lack of concrete. Or maybe it’s because I’m not busy running from one appointment to another, not having time to simply be.
Whatever it is, I’ve been enjoying the slower pace of the last year, and even though I’ve spent more time in the studio in New Island for the last few days, there’s something about Maplewood that makes me want to take my time and stay for a while.
Over the buzzing crowd, I hear the sounds of the Flight of the Bumblebee playing from speakers somewhere in the distance.
Memories of the first time I played Rimsky-Korsakov’s piece as a soloist at the Curtis Institute twenty years earlier flutter through my brain.
But I don’t have a chance to mourn the loss of the passion I had for life and for music then, because I find myself jumping out of the path of a bumblebee running as fast as its chubby little legs can move, leaving nothing but belly laughter and a power-walking adult in its wake.
“Excuse us.” The bumblebee’s adult waves at me. A wet stain mars the shoulder of his Bee-cause I said so shirt and his honeypot headband sits askew on his head.
I nod with a chuckle and continue down the middle of the street, shuffling to the left and to the right as I maneuver around the other pedestrians.
When Rain gave me Rio’s information, I did a little research on the area.
A travel blog I stumbled across said Maplewood was a “quaint town that takes its festivals seriously.”
They weren’t kidding.
The hook that has kept my shoulders permanently at my ears since the implosion of my life nearly a year ago loosens its hold. With every step I take away from Philadelphia and the memories that taint it, I feel more like myself. The me before losing my passion. The me before Sebastian.
Adults, teens, and children dressed in yellow and black bee-themed attire flock the tents lining the festival route as if it were the most natural thing to do on a Saturday afternoon in April.
Spying the tent in front of The Striped Maple that Jo, who works at the inn, mentioned this morning, I scoot behind the last person in line.
Apparently, the pub has a number of maple- inspired brews that people from all over the country flock to purchase.
As I peer around the line to survey the large chalkboard with the listing of beverages, wondering why they don’t have an on-line shop if there is such a demand for the product, the sixty-something woman in front of me spins around.
The skirt of her honeycomb print dress brushes the knees of my trousers with a swish.
Her grin sparkles as bright as the crystal-studded bees decorating her earlobes and neck.
“Well, hello. Are you here for our Honey Bee Jubilee?”
Her friendliness jars me, but I have enough experience performing not to let it show.
I give her what Sebastian called my “professional smile,” and my left eye twitches at the thought of my asshole ex.
Even after all this time, he still takes up far too much residence in my psyche.
Holding out my hand, I introduce myself.
“Dmitri Fairchild. I’m staying at the Red Clover Inn, and Mr. Casal suggested I might enjoy today’s festival. ”
“Trevor’s inn is lovely. He’s done such a good job with it. I just wish he’d find someone to settle down with.” The hold on my hand tightens and when she eyes me up and down, I feel I’m being assessed like one would inspect prized livestock. “I don’t see a ring.”
I jerk my hand from her grip, and the nerve under my left eye jumps like it’s doing calisthenics. An image of the handsome, albeit quiet, stranger from last night flashes in my mind. I shake my head at my absurdity. “I’m not looking for a partner.”
“For the love of maple, Lydia. Can’t you keep your nose out of everyone’s business for two minutes?
” Shorter than Lydia, the slender woman next to her looks up at me, shaking her head.
Between her silver pixie cut and her diminutive size, she looks like an actual pixie.
And it’s clear from the softness of her smile, she finds Lydia adorable.
Lydia waves her hand toward the woman like she’s heard the complaint before and has no intention of doing anything other than she pleases. “Bad breakup?”
“Here we go,” the pixie mutters under her breath, straightening the strap on her pale yellow overalls. Embroidered bees pollinating flowers don the front pocket and I wonder if she bought them or embroidered them herself.
Lydia tips her head, inspecting me. The curl of her platinum blonde hair and the tilt of her pillbox hat covered with honeybees gives her a sense of being more charming than nosy.
Even if the woman next to her thinks differently.
I can’t help but chuckle, which seems to give Lydia all the encouragement she needs. Not that I think she needs any.
“You’re in luck.” She inches forward but keeps me locked in her gaze. “Conall is working. He’s like the Van Gogh of dating advice.”
“Didn’t Van Gogh kill himself and die penniless?” The pixie brushes a hand down her overalls, and I notice the bees on them are not bees at all, but cats dressed in bee costumes.
Lydia chuckles and points her finger at her line partner as if she just caught her digging up her flowers. “Don’t be a smart-ass, Celia.” She draws the shorter woman in and plants a smacking kiss on her cheek. “You know what I mean.”
I have no idea what she means, but I keep my mouth closed because I get the feeling even if she explained I’d be just as clueless as I am now.
“You’ll love Maplewood. I’ve lived here all my life and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.” She slips her arm through mine as if we’ve known each other for the last fifteen years instead of the last five minutes. “Now, what are you going to get?”
“I don’t know a lot about maple beer.” I read through the offerings listed on the blackboard again.
On the other side of Lydia, Celia says, “Order the sampling flight. You’ll get their blond ale, pale ale, an IPA, porter, and stout.”
“It’s what Celia and I always order. This way we get a little taste of everything.” Lydia scoots up to the table.
The attractive man with his tousled, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair leans over the cash register and gives Lydia, then Celia, hugs. “What can I get my two favorite women?”
“Conall, this is Dmitri Fairchild. He’s staying at the inn and is recovering from a terrible breakup.” Lydia nudges me forward and I stumble.
Conall’s eyes dance with amusement and a little mischief. “You’ve come to the right place to mend a broken heart, darlin’.”
“It’s far from broken.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud, but the truth of them rings as clear as the blue sky above us. For the first time since the incident , my insides don’t burn with the embarrassment and deceit I’ve felt since that awful night.
Conall’s pretty mouth stretches across his face, making his cheeks full, and he winks at me. “You’ll be alright.” His gaze roams my form and the twitch under my eye picks up its pace. “But if you ever need someone to help you forget your ex for a few hours, I’d be happy to help.”
“Um… Thank you?” The man is gorgeous, there is no doubt, but the last thing I’m interested in is getting involved with someone right now—even if it’s just a quick fuck. I have an album to finish and a life to figure out.
Lydia’s cackle and Celia’s accompanying snort jerk me into how to tactfully remove myself from the situation.
“Conall, do you ever stop with the flirting?” Lydia asks.
He winks at Lydia. “When I’m dead, Lydia. When I’m dead.”
This causes another bout of laughter. We order our flights and I follow Lydia and Celia to a group of picnic tables set up in an open space.
The women entertain me with gossip and stories of Maplewood, the Honey Bee Jubilee, and how they met in a grief support group after both of their husbands died over two decades ago and fell in love.
With every look, every touch, every shared story, my chest tightens until it feels like it might collapse in on me.
After years of focusing on music and my career, years of fine-tuning my skills, I find myself in the position of reevaluating what I want from life.
At thirty-nine, you’d think I would have figured everything out by now, but seeing Lydia and Celia together strikes something deep inside my core.
I press the heel of my hand to my sternum, but the burn still stings.
Returning my plastic cup to the cardboard holder, I smile at my companions and stand. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure. Thank you for your time and suggestions.” I toss my thumb over my shoulder. “I think I’ll go explore some more.”
“Make sure you stop at the Honey Spot. Ever has the best honey in the entire state of Vermont,” Celia says as she takes the tasting glass of the IPA from Lydia and finishes it.
Lydia’s hat slides forward on her head from the force of her nod.
“It’s true. His parents were in Greece last year at some fancy restaurant and when the chef tried the sample of honey they gave him, he insisted he had never tasted anything so perfect and wanted to order more for not only that restaurant but his other restaurant. ”
“I’ll make sure I try it.” Waving my goodbyes, I dump my empty flight into one of the yellow and black striped trash bins and continue to explore the festival.
I walk to the other side of the street to the park.
Children standing at tables under a large tent work on different projects led by teens with t-shirts the color of sunshine and black writing that read, Bee-unteer on their backs.
There’s a library tent filled with books with bee and honey themes, and as I walk farther, I spy tents for the two diners, Sparky’s and Red’s.
The men taking orders at each tent call out taunts to each other that seem all in good fun since the patrons are laughing, but there also appears to be an underlying rivalry.
I scoot around a group of women, each wearing a different color of wings on their backs, debating the best recipe for honey cakes.
The weather is beautiful, and the joyous energy fills me with a sense of peace I haven’t felt in too long.
Hands in my pockets, I wind my way through the activities available and note a lecture on backyard beekeepers, which is scheduled for a little later.
With every step, my limbs loosen as the enjoyment of being anonymous sinks in.
I breathe in the sweet air. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks or maybe it’s the placebo effect, but I swear honeysuckle and maple perfume every breath I take.
Each medicinal inhalation is more healing than the last, slowing the persistent tic under my eye in a way yoga, meditation, or the low-dose SSRI my doctor prescribed could not do.
When I notice the Honey Spot sign, I veer to the black and yellow striped canopy.
Stepping into the open-sided tent is like entering a quaint shop in one of the small countryside villages I stumbled across while traveling through Europe on my many tours there.
To the right, varying sized jars of thick golden syrup fill shelves made of pine.
To the left, candles and other beeswax products, along with bee-related items, are arranged in an appealing display.
The warm sound of a cello plays over the speakers from the corner of the pop-up shop, making it easy to want to linger.
“Hi there.”
My gaze moves from the items to the voice as warm as the notes of the cello.
My breath hitches, sticking in my throat as I take in the gorgeous man holding a box of what looks like more honey.
Under the white tee with a Honey Spot logo , broad shoulders stretch the cotton just shy of being too tight, and biceps pop from the short sleeves like they have no intention of hiding.
“It’s you.” My throat chooses that moment to release the breath it was holding hostage, and the word comes out more breathy than it should. I clear my throat. “Lydia and Celia said the Honey Spot had the best honey in Vermont.”
With a chuckle, he shakes his head, then sets the box down. “They’re as bad as my parents.”
“You’re Ever?” I can’t hide my surprise. I had imagined someone younger, and definitely not the six feet of toned muscle that left me wanting to invite him to my room last night.
“I am.” In two strides, he is in front of me, holding out his hand in greeting. “Ever King.” Sunlight filters in from the side of the tent, highlighting the silver strands in his light brown hair that were not noticeable in the dim light of the inn last night.
I extend my hand and when his strong grip clasps it, my pulse kicks up.
For a minute, I forget my name. I think I say, Dmitri Fairchild, but I could also have just as easily said Fred Jones.
It’s hard to say. What I do know is that the charge I felt yesterday when our arms brushed together wasn’t a fluke.
I want to know Ever King more than I have wanted to know anyone in a very, very long time.