Page 80 of The Best Kind of Bad

Her lips move down to my neck. “You want to?”

Once I get past my damaged ego, the suggestion is more than appealing. “It’s the best damn idea I’ve heard all day.”

53.

Marnie

Dusty pulls into a dirt lane that skirts along a creek.

“Why don’t we irrigate this field?” I ask, looking past Ed at the rolling fields.

“Don’t need to. It’s got the pivots.” He points at the long metal sprinkler, linked metal arches, spanning the southern half of the field.

He pulls up to the well, a chugging beast, massive and loud. Climbing out of the truck, he crosses the well and starts fiddling with it. Dusty goes out every afternoon to ‘check on the wells’, but this is the first time I’ve accompanied him. I glance at Ed. “You have any idea what he’s doing?”

Ed chuffs, laying down with a groan. I idly scratch him behind the ear, letting my gaze span across the field. This field undulates more than others. I suppose that makes it less desirable than the pancake-flat fields closer to town, but to me, the contouring adds interest. Beauty.

The wind passes over the field and the leafy crops bend beneath its touch like ocean waves swelling and dipping.

With clouds sailing overhead, I can almost picture that they’re fluffy schooners sailing over deep green waves. An egret, long-necked and graceful, flies overhead, landing somewhere near the creek.

Dusty returns to the truck, leaning on Ed’s side. “You want to see my bees?”

“Excuse me, what?”

He laughs. “My bees.”

“Like…beebees?”

“Yup. Bee bees.”

“You’re a beekeeper? This I have to see.”

Dusty opens the truck door. Ed pops his head up, not bothering to move. I crawl around him, taking Dusty’s hand as he helps me to the ground.

“You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No.” I squint up at him. “Don’t you have special hats or some shit so we don’t get stung?”

He laughs. “No.”

We cross the dirt lane again. “Don’t you get stung?”

“Only if I piss them off.” The creek curves away from the road, creating a small enclave. We stop about twenty feet back. Already, the bee traffic is picking up significantly. He points at the towers of white boxes near the creek.

I would never have pictured Dusty as a beekeeper, and yet, it kind of fits. He does his own thing. I glance up at him. “They make honey?”

He laughs. “They’re bees. So, yes.”

“And what do you do with it?”

He shrugs. “Pawn it off on people.”

“I bet I could bake with it.” Already, my mind is skipping ahead, thinking of the cakes I could make with fresh, local honey. “The gluten-free crowd would go bonkers. What other secrets do you have up your sleeve?”

“Just lavender and some berry patches. You could use the raspberries, I bet.”

“I can use the lavender, too.”

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