Page 3 of Deep Gap

“You aren’t mad, are you?” Greer asks.

I’d never expect anyone on a cleaning crew to wear a ball gown. Yet it strikes me, in comparison to Karen’s laid-back style after being married for thirty-odd years, that for a young woman Greer hides how pretty she is.

“Nah. I let her in, but I am going to have to make sure I keep her out so that she doesn’t make a habit of it. What were you looking at?” I clear my throat. I’ve just given away that I’ve been watching Greer.

Greer’s brow twitches. “The hives. Mac split two of them last summer. I’m not supposed to disturb them. Curiosity has the best of me.”

“Those bees are plenty fine.” Mac’s voice comes from behind. “But I’ll make you a deal. You can go check before you leave for the day if you let Byron drive you home,” he says to Greer.

“Deal! I don’t have much left to clean, Mac. I swear it won’t take long.” Greer jumps up from the mat she’s been sitting on. She hugs Mac and scoots down the hall toward her mop and bucket.

I’m guiding Tallulah toward my office when Mac pats me on the shoulder. “It’s okay I volunteered you? Greer has a proverbial bee in her bonnet about accepting a ride from Karen and scattered showers are passing through before it clears up.”

“Yeah, no. It’s fine. I have stuff to keep me busy until she’s ready. No rush.”

“Good. I hadn’t found much that made that girl happy until she started helping with my bees. I’ll do just about anything for Greer to smile every now and again. I appreciate your willingness to do us a favor.”

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I’m now the distracted guy looking out the window. A sense of nervous anticipation has me poking my head up from my computer and searching the horizon to see if Greer’s gone to check the hives.

I have plenty to do. Staying occupied, reading incoming applications, and sorting them based on the vets we are best suited to match with service dogs isn’t the problem at all. It’s more me wanting to be ready when Greer is so that she’s not waiting around.

Mist shrouds the windowpane when I finally see a figure moving toward the far side of the property.

The layers of fencing Mac installed are impressive. A congenial white one greets visitors as they approach the barn-like structure. There is a shorter chain link style ones we use for outdoor lessons off the back of the building. In between is a hidden electric fence for security. His home, lacking a great barrier to keep bears out, wasn’t suited for beekeeping. This place is. There’s ample room for Mac’s hobby and his growing collection of hives.

I grab my coat, and my dogs’ attention, and we tromp over the damp grass. Greer weaves between the tall boxes. She stoops and stands, ducking again after moving on. It reminds me of the dance the bees do themselves.

I tuck my hands in my jeans, making one-sided conversation with Jovie and Tallulah. The dogs run in oblong circles around me. They couldn’t care less what I have to say. I want to make sure we’re loud enough that we don’t scare her.

We reach the tall oak that’s shed orange and gold leaves not more than three weeks past. Underneath the empty boughs, Greer is now inspecting the feet of the wooden platforms that hold the hives. Jovie decides the water in the footholds that are supposed to keep out ants and other insects is best for drinking. Tallulah laps from a different basin.

“Those are there for a reason, not to quench your thirst!” I shoo the dogs to get them to cut it out.

They take off running in the open space. The whisper of a smile Greer has on her face fades when she glances from them to me.

It’s a punch to the gut and I ease a breath out the way my granddaddy blew a steady stream of cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth.

I don’t need any woman to like me. Yet I’d appreciate it if this one at least seemed slightly more relaxed that I stood on two legs instead of four.

I rock back on the heels of my boots. “Everybody still buzzing?”

“Not all of them.” Greer toes the dirt.

Bee bodies litter a foot or so in front of the hive she’s standing near.

I grimace. A single bee exits the hive while I’m offering my condolences. We swerve and spin to avoid the lone insect. It is a bee after all.

“This is what’s supposed to happen. Those are the drones. The females push them out during the winter to conserve resources. They can’t survive the cold. New ones are born in the spring.” Greer stands a little taller.

“Interesting,” I say because it is. “It’s chilly today.”

Raindrops spatter on the fallen leaves and the shoulder of my jacket. The rain picks up a notch.

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