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“What’s wrong?” Grandpa Bob says through the screen door. “I heard yelling.”
“The kids found some old beehives.”
Right away, I see terror in his eyes. “Mina wasn’t stung. There aren’t any bees in there right now,” I say.
He sighs as if he was holding his breath. “Thank goodness.”
“Please, come in,” Dean says, opening the door.
“Thank you.”
“But now they’re saying they want to revive the thing and get bees back in the hives,” I continue.
“They shouldn’t be interested in coming near the main house or the barn as long as we tend to them properly. And even when we have to go near them, we’ll have protective gear on,” Dylan says, his voice breaking at the end. He might seem confident, but he’s still just a fourteen-year-old kid.
“Wait, so what are you all saying?” Grandpa asks, before sitting down at the table.
“We want to establish a colony of bees,” Dylan says, looking my grandpa in his eyes as he says it.
“Think about it, Grandpa. We’d be helping the environment by keeping a bunch of bees alive. Also, we could sell the honey,” Mina chimes in.
“You know,” he rubs at his chin, “I have always wanted to learn to make mead.”
“Mead?” the kids ask in tandem.
“It’s an alcoholic beverage that’s made with honey and water,” he explains.
“Oh. It sounds like something that would be served at the Renaissance fair.” Mina says.
“For sure,” Dylan adds, giving Mina a dopey look. I can’t help but think how sweet it is. Young love. If only I could experience something like that as an adult, maybe I wouldn’t be a single mother sleeping alone every night.
“Dang, Grandpa. I knew you were old, but I didn’t know you were that old.”
He smiles. “Yes, Wilhelmina. I’ve been alive for thousands of years.”
“I mean, you look great,” she teases him.
“Little girl, you’re lucky your mother won’t let me hit you with this cane.”
As much as I appreciate their playful relationship, I want to get back to the topic at hand.
“Can we go back to talking about bees, please? Let’s take a vote. The Cornels included, since the decision could affect both of our properties. On the count of three, hold your thumb up or down. One, two, three.”
Dean and I voted ‘nay,’ while everyone else went with ‘yay.’
“Three to two,” Dylan announces. “We win!”
“Ugh. I still don’t feel great about this.” Especially since the only adult who voted ‘yay’ was Grandpa.
“I actually know a beekeeper,” Dean offers. “He might be willing to help out.”
“Really? Who?” I ask. This man, I think to myself. Not only is he handsome, but he just keeps being kind and helpful.
“His name’s Dwight Summers. I’ve worked with him in the past. Would you feel more comfortable if we talked to him and he confirmed—or denied—what Dylan said?”
“I mean, sure. I guess.” It sounds reasonable, but the idea of inviting more bees to the farm sends a shiver of anxiety through me.
“Okay, I’ll set it up. I’m sure he can give us information, and maybe even help along the way.”
