13. Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Savannah
Iturn onto the gravel drive a little before eight, coffee in the cupholder, still not entirely sure how I got talked into picking vegetables this early in the morning.
Then I see them.
They're all out front like they're waiting for me.
Mr. Stapleton on the porch steps pulling on work gloves.
Wyatt loading crates into the truck.
Ellie perched on the tailgate swinging her legs.
Moose flopped in the grass nearby like the whole operation is exhausting him just to watch.
Nobody's on a phone. Nobody's rushing. There's an easy routine to it, like everyone already knows their part.
The only difference is that this morning, they're waiting for me.
Ellie spots me first and waves both arms over her head.
Wyatt straightens up from his loading.
Our eyes meet. He winks.
Well, that’s new.
Turns out one hug in the cab of his truck is enough to make saying good morning feel different than it did yesterday.
His mouth lifts at one corner.
Mine does the same before I can stop it.
I park, and by the time I've got the door open, Ellie's already jogging over.
“You're late,” she informs me.
“I'm early. It's not even eight.”
“We've been up since six.”
She says it like this settles the matter permanently and heads back toward the truck without waiting for a rebuttal.
I've spent the last decade in fitting rooms and design studios, not standing in a garden with dirt under my nails. I expect to feel out of place.
Wyatt doesn't give me the chance. He hands me a basket before I've even said good morning.
“Tomatoes first. Anything red goes in the basket. Anything green stays on the vine.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“We'll see.”
Ellie's already three rows ahead of me, moving through the plants like she's done this every day of her life, which she probably has. Moose trails behind her, mostly getting in the way, occasionally flattening a squash vine with total indifference to the damage.
“You're doing it wrong,” Ellie informs me, without looking up.
“I'm picking a tomato, Ellie. There's not really a wrong way.”
“You're supposed to twist, not pull. Pulling hurts the plant.”
She demonstrates, quick and efficient, dropping a perfect tomato into her own basket.
“Uncle Wyatt taught me.”
“Seems like Uncle Wyatt taught you everything.”
“Pretty much.” She says it without an ounce of modesty, the same way she talks about the honey jars.
Wyatt's a few rows over, working faster than either of us, basket already half full. He catches my eye and doesn't bother hiding the smile.
“She's not wrong. You're murdering my tomato plants.”
“I am gently harvesting your tomato plants.”
“Sure. Whatever you want to call it.”
By mid-morning, the sun's high enough that we've all got dirt streaked somewhere we didn't intend, and the vegetable count is genuinely impressive — crates of tomatoes, squash, peppers, everything headed for the festival's community dinner table.
Mr. Stapleton comes out with a pitcher of sweet tea and surveys the operation like a general reviewing troops.
“Well, there you go. Actual progress.”
He pours a glass and hands it to me first.
“We get a lot more work out of him when you're here.”
“Dad,” Wyatt says.
“I've been trying to get that row finished all week.”
“I've been busy.”
“Should've invited Savannah over days ago.”
“You didn't invite her.”
Mr. Stapleton grins. “Didn't have to.”
He heads back toward the porch, leaving the two of us in the middle of a half-picked row of squash.
Dirt covers my hands. Ellie is three rows over, and Wyatt is working beside me like having me here is the most ordinary thing in the world.
I expected to feel like a guest this morning.
I don't.
It's Ellie who finds the hives first — or rather, gets a little too close to them, chasing after Moose who's decided the flower bed near the hives is exactly where he wants to dig.
“Ellie, slow down—” Wyatt starts, already moving.
Too late. She yelps, one hand flying to her arm, and by the time we reach her she's crying — not hurt-crying, more startled and a little embarrassed by how loud she'd been about it.
I'm on my knees in front of her without a second thought.
“Hey El. Let me see.”
“It stung me.” Her voice wobbles. “It really hurts.”
“I know. Bee stings hurt like crazy.”
I pull her hand gently away so I can examine the sting — a small red welt, already swelling slightly, nothing dangerous, just the kind of thing that feels enormous when you're nine.
“But you’re okay. It just hurts.”
Wyatt crouches beside us, calm in a way that settles Ellie faster than anything I'm saying.
“Let me see.”
Ellie holds out her arm.
He checks the small red welt.
“I’m sorry it hurts, El. You’ve been stung before. You know it’ll hurt for a few minutes, and then it’ll start feeling better.”
“But it really hurts.”
“I know.” His voice stays steady. “Doesn't mean you're not tough.”
Ellie sniffles and reaches for him.
Wyatt doesn't hesitate. He lifts her, and she wraps her arms around his neck like there's nowhere else she'd rather be.
“Baking soda paste,” he says to me. “Kitchen.”
I follow them toward the house, watching Ellie settle against his shoulder before we've even reached the porch.
“You're really not scared of them?” Ellie asks, once we're on the porch steps, watching Wyatt mix the paste at lightning speed.
“Of bees?” I laugh, a little shaky myself, adrenaline still working through me.
“Ellie, I'm terrified of bees.”
She gives me an offended little huff. “But you're not even freaking out right now.”
“Because you needed somebody to not freak out. That's different than not being scared.”
I smooth her hair back from her face.
“Being brave doesn't mean you're not scared. It just means you don't let the scared part drive.”
Wyatt pauses with the paste in his hand.
He's watching me.
Not for long. Just long enough that I notice.
Then he turns back to Ellie and dabs the paste gently over the sting.
“There. Give it a little while.”
“Can I have ice cream?”
“That's not how bee stings work, El.”
“It's worth a try.”
Wyatt laughs, and I smile. I like this side of him.
Four minutes later, Ellie is on the porch swing with Moose and a small bowl of ice cream.
Wyatt never stood a chance.
I find him back by the hives a few minutes later, checking the boxes Ellie startled.
“They're fine,” he says before I even ask.
“Just riled up for a minute. They'll settle.”
“I'm sorry. I should've kept a closer eye on her.”
“She's nine. Keeping a close eye on her is mostly theoretical.”
I smile.
He straightens and brushes his hands against his jeans.
“You handled that pretty well for somebody who's terrified of bees.”
“I meant it. I really am.”
“How terrified?”
“Wouldn't-go-near-one terrified.”
That gets a smile out of him.
“I got into a nest when I was little. Got stung several times before my mom could get me away from them.”
I rub one hand over my arm just thinking about it.
“I don't remember much except crying and realizing my mom was scared too. That was the part that really frightened me.”
“Were you allergic?”
“No. Just terrified.”
Wyatt nods. “Fair enough.”
“I've avoided them ever since.”
“And yet you were the first one to Ellie.”
I shake my head. “That's different. That was Ellie.”
“That's not different.”
“Most people don't move toward something that scares them,” he says. “Not even for somebody they care about.”
The quiet certainty in his voice leaves me without much of an answer.
I turn toward the colored boxes stacked in neat rows, humming faintly in the morning heat.
“How do you do it?” I ask. “Work with them every day. Doesn't it ever scare you?”
“Sometimes. Less now than it used to.”
He follows my gaze.
“You learn their rhythm. What calms them, what doesn't. Once you understand what they're actually doing in there, it stops feeling random.”
I watch a few bees moving around the entrance of the nearest hive.
“It's not chaos,” Wyatt says. “It's a whole world working.”
“That sounds like something you'd have to see up close to actually believe.”
He looks at me.
“You want to see inside a hive?”
My stomach drops at the thought.
Which is probably why I nod.
“After what just happened?”
“I've spent most of my life running from bees because I was scared of them.”
“Maybe I'd do better if I understood the whole thing. Like how you actually get jars of beautiful golden honey from a box of bees.”
Wyatt studies me for a second.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“Not today. They're still unsettled. Tomorrow, when they're calm, I'll suit you up properly and show you.”
“You're sure that's safe?”
“I wouldn't offer if it wasn't.” His mouth lifts.
“I'm not in the business of feeding people to bees, Savannah.”
“Good to know. That was actually a real concern of mine.”
He laughs, and for a second we're just standing there in the garden, dirt on both our hands, Ellie's voice drifting over from the porch.
Yesterday, I climbed through a window.
Today, I agreed to open a beehive.
Stonebridge is doing strange things to me.
And just like that, I'm spending the afternoon with Wyatt's family while he runs errands.
The strange part is how normal that feels.
“Okay,” I say. “Tomorrow. Suit me up.”
Wyatt checks on Ellie, who's sitting on the porch with an ice pack against her arm and Moose stretched across her feet.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Depends.”
“I've got a couple errands I need to run this afternoon. Two hours, max. Would you mind staying with Ellie and Dad until I get back?”
“You trust me with your niece after I just admitted I'm terrified of bees?”
His mouth lifts. “She knows more about this farm than you do. I'm mostly asking you to keep her company.”
“That I can do.”
“Thanks.”
He starts toward the house, and I fall into step beside him.
“Anything exciting?”
“Not even a little.”
“Good. I'd hate to think I was missing out.”
“Thanks.” His mouth lifts. “I'll stop and get some more ice cream. Do you still like chocolate chip?”
I smile. “I do. I’m impressed you remember.”
“I remember a lot of things about you.”
And just like that, I'm spending the afternoon with Wyatt's family while he runs errands.
Stonebridge really is doing strange things to me.