Chapter 6
Teddy
If I had a single talent in life, it was compartmentalising.
Teddy the Horticulturist, Teddy the Loyal Niece, Teddy the Dog’s Best Friend; I could rotate them on a dime, keep the anxieties quarantined, and pretend one didn’t exist while the other ran the show.
So, after the train wreck of Chloe’s re-introduction into my life, in the three days I had until she came back on Thursday, I intended to let Teddy the Relentless Farmhand take over.
Which was handy, because April on the farm was a crisis of work. There were hives to inspect, seedlings and saplings to plant, compost to spread, more seeds to start, and half the orchard to prune. If I looked at the to-do list for too long, I was pretty sure I’d have an aneurysm.
The nice thing about bees was that they simply didn’t care about my issues.
Open a hive, and I entered their reality: drones and queens, hunger and rain, every problem solvable with hard work, and every threat life-or-death.
It really put my own non-problems into perspective.
First light, I was out there in my veil, smoke canister in one hand and hive tool in the other.
Willow came, too, but she’d learned to keep her distance, ever since the time she’d gotten too curious and discovered just how defensive bees could be.
The hives had overwintered better than expected, thanks to a mild season.
I checked each frame for brood pattern – tight and uniform, just how we wanted it – then for honey stores, queen presence, and any sign of the telltale varroa mites that, if left unchecked, would slaughter the whole colony by autumn.
Hive three was a particular troublemaker: too many queen cells, with workers clustering around the entrance like they were plotting a coup.
I made a note in the battered logbook to make a split later, then scraped away a bit of burr comb, saving it for the soaps I’d started making from excess beeswax.
I didn’t mind the repetition. Every frame was a nuanced little ecosystem; its own puzzle to solve. And I preferred the tedium to a crisis, given that crises now could have downstream impacts on harvesting, mead production, and the viability of the farm.
By mid-morning, I’d finished with the apiaries for the day and was halfway through mending the gate that kept the sheep in the next field from eating our blueberry canes. Rain moved in by lunchtime – a persistent, sullen drizzle – so I ducked into the warehouse to work on the soap.
The soap was supposed to have been my little side project last season, but it had mutated into a fixation, and I’d let myself get even more excited about it over winter, stuck thousands of miles away in my van.
I’d used honey and wax from our own hives, scented with whatever herbs we had available: rosemary, lavender, and sometimes thyme, if I was feeling wild.
This batch used vanilla. The basic recipe was easy: fat, lye, liquid, and a little heat.
There was satisfaction in the monotony of measure, mix, pour, wait.
The afternoon’s only interruptions were Willow periodically sighing at the door and the occasional ping of my phone – usually a reminder from Jen to take breaks.
I never got any other messages, except maybe from my dad, though I’d heard from him precious little since I’d arrived.
I also didn’t get any messages from Chloe, which was a relief; Jen had apparently committed me to participating in some “content creation” efforts, but clearly Chloe hadn’t worked up the nerve to break the seal, which suited me fine. The less I thought about Chloe, the better.
But every time I let my guard down, there she was; or, at least, the memory of her. The way her hair had tumbled over her shoulder as she’d turned to face me. The way she’d confidently held out her hand, as if she’d been genuinely glad to see me.
I poured the last of this batch of soap into silicone moulds, wiped down the counters, then got to work on labels.
Jen had mocked up a few designs, but they were all too …
well, twee. My aesthetic ran more modern and minimalist, while hers was more “just found out about Word Art”, which was ironic, since Jen was the artist.
That gave me an idea, actually.
I ran to her studio, having to push a stack of canvases aside just to get in, and found one of her works in progress, which was currently nothing more than a goldenrod-coloured smear of watercolour across a canvas.
I took a picture of it with my phone and then sent it to my computer, where I opened it in the graphic design app I sometimes used for event materials.
I isolated the colour from the painting, then layered over the simple serif font from the Gwenynen logo, listing everything we needed to include on the labels – ingredients, weight, etc.
The resulting label looked much more sophisticated than what Jen had mocked up, but still undeniably like it was ours.
I sent it to the printer, which started juddering away in the corner of the studio, and I dreamed of the day I could order professionally printed labels once the soaps were approved for sale.
By the time the sky cleared enough for a pre-dinner walk, my arms were dusted with dried wax, and my brain was as close to empty as it ever got.
I opened the door for Willow and headed for the orchard.
She shot off, nose to the ground, beelining for something in the hedgerow.
Most of the trees in the orchard were still in bud, ready to explode into white and pink the second the sun held for more than an hour.
As I sucked in the country air, filling my lungs, it caught in my throat. I’d kept the ache at bay all day, but the moment I had space to breathe, it crept up and took root in my chest.
No matter how successfully I ignored it, Chloe being here changed everything.
I’d half convinced myself that this was the year I wouldn’t have to leave; the year I’d stop packing up my life every six months.
The year I’d get to see the farmhouse covered in snow, and help Jen and Maggie clear ice from the drive.
The year I could start calling Gwenynen my home and mean it – not just fifty per cent, but one hundred.
Instead, hiring Chloe had set us back months, if not years if she stayed on long-term.
So, where did that leave me? Was I stupid to think there was a future for me at Gwenynen at all?
Just as I felt myself getting worked up – my breath shallow, my cheeks hot, my chin wobbly – I saw a flash of orange among the apple trees. I leaned to one side to see Maggie, in a hi-vis jacket, bend over double and start hacking away at a root ball with a mattock.
Willow bounded over, with no regard for the sharp implement being bandied about, and started licking Maggie’s face. She stood up, stretching to her full six-foot height, and my quivering lip curved into a smile. Boy, was she a sight for sore eyes.
“Hello, trouble,” Maggie said, scratching Willow’s cheek with the back of her glove.
Then she looked up and saw me, and her wrinkled face settled into a grin.
The way the wrinkles disappeared when she smiled was a testament to how she’d come by them.
“Teddy,” she said, standing upright and letting the mattock fall to one side, stepping over to me with her arms wide.
I let myself be wrapped in them, ignoring the mud no doubt transferring to me.
“Hey, Mags,” I said into her chest. She was a bit taller than me – even taller than Jen – so I nestled perfectly under her chin. As always, she smelled of sweat and woodsmoke. “I missed you.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been gone too long.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, trying to keep the wistfulness from my voice.
Maggie released me, and we instantly started talking shop – pruning schedules, the odds of another frost, and whether we’d need to net the cherries this year.
Most people might have caught up on each other’s lives from the last few months, but Maggie and I were cut from the same cloth; we both took solace in our work. This was our life.
I kept my tone light as we spoke, but Maggie had known me for a long time now, and she could spot a lie at forty paces.
“Jen says you’re extra grumpy right now,” she said, not unkindly.
I rolled my eyes. “I went to bed early, and I’ve been working all day.
It’s my first full day back. What does she expect?
” She wasn’t wrong, though. My early bedtime had been partly due to jet lag, sure, but I was also avoiding talking any more about the Chloe situation until the sting had faded.
I wasn’t very objective right now, though perhaps I never would be where Chloe was concerned after the way we’d met.
“She thinks you’re mad about the new hire.”
“I don’t get mad,” I lied. “It’s just … fast, is all.”
Maggie laughed. “You’re the only person I know who’d complain about more help.”
“Yeah, well, if she turns out to be a disaster, I’m blaming you.”
“She seems harmless to me.” Maggie plucked the mattock from the mud and dug back into the root ball, but her smile lingered. “Jen says she’s got some good ideas.”
I made a noncommittal noise, then changed the subject again. I could feel the rage stirring within me; clearly, I still wasn’t ready to talk about it.
Once I’d caught up with Maggie and made her promise to stay for dinner sometime this week, I called for Willow and started back toward the house.
The dog came running, her fur slicked with mud and whatever rotting thing she’d rolled in.
I hosed her off outside, detangled her ears, gave her a towel rub, and let her loose inside.
From the wet marks she left on the wood floors, I clearly hadn’t been quite as thorough as I should have been, but oh, well.