Page 42 of Must Love Bees
This couldn’t be happening. He had cared for people before. His aunt Rebecca. Yasmina. His affection and devotion for Nova and Halley were instinctual—unshakable and more concrete than he’d thought possible. But those were familial bonds. He’d cared for them because they were his family.
Marrying Yasmina had been a relief. He had his best friend as his partner, without the pressure of any romantic complications. Yasmina’s relationship with the girls’ father had been so emotionally and physically combative, she’d welcomed the safety their marriage had provided. And, with Yasmina, he was getting a family of his own—something he’d never imagined possible. Yasmina’s ex had been all too happy for Charlie to adopt the girls and, for a brief time, Charlie had more than he’d ever dared hope for.
Through Yasmina’s patient guidance, it had become less awkward to give the girl’s a hug or smiles or praise.Something I should be doing more of.It had been Yasmina that had put Nova on his lap—over and over—until he’d overcome his uncertainty holding the toddler.
But, none of that was...this.
He wasn’t thinking about holding Astrid on his lap. He raked his hands through his hair and blew out a long, slow breath. Even if he did ask her to sit on his lap, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to her. Not that the idea didn’t hold a certain appeal. Why was he smiling?
He stared out the front window, sighed and checked his watch. It was almost seven. He’d worked late because he’d been so damn distracted he’d had to double-then triple-check his work...not because he wasn’t having to worry over the girls, but because of Astrid.
Waiting any longer would be rude.
Par for the course.
He could do better. Halley and Nova had asked him to try—for them. It wouldn’t be easy for him, but he would try. If he was being honest with himself, he had other reasons for dragging his feet. Namely: Astrid’s family. He hadn’t bothered to make a good impression on any of them. Now he was supposed to endure their judgment-laden stares and likely long, awkward silences after he’d taken advantage of their kindness all day? He was already dreading the evening. The sooner he got there, the sooner the whole ordeal would be over and he and the girls could come home.
The same thick heat filling his house waited to greet him outside. There was no breeze. No movement. It was quiet. So quiet. No cars or honking, no airplanes overhead, no conversations drifting in from the upscale condominium complex he and the girls called home in Fort Worth. Instead, he was fully aware of the crunch of the river rock beneath his brown leather lace-up shoes. The sudden whir-click of a grasshopper jumping amidst the thick yellow-brown grasses. The gentle call of a dove perched in the trees overhead. Little sounds. Peaceful sounds. He slowed to take it all in. There was a calm here he welcomed.
It took a good ten minutes for Astrid’s family home to come into view. When it did, he found himself chuckling. The house was straight out of one of the girls’ fairy-tale storybooks. Two stories high, with a rounded turret window and steeply pitched roof that suggested a large attic space, too. Its pale mint green color and bright white trim blended in with the abundant shrubs and flowers overflowing from carefully tended flower beds and hanging pots. As he drew closer, he spotted the intricately carved details that covered every single one of the wraparound porch’s finials. Tiny flowers and bees.
Of course.
He paused and stared up the steps at the closed front door.Try. I can try. For the girls.He shoved aside the anticipation of seeing Astrid—which was ridiculous—and took the stairs two at a time, crossed the wide porch and knocked. No answer.
They were home, he could hear...everything. Someone was playing the piano quite well. There were voices. Laughter. A bark? And some possible squawk? That had to be Lord Byron, the parrot.
He knocked again and rocked back on his heels. Waiting. No need to be nervous or anxious. No reason at all.
The piano kept playing and there was no discernable break in the overlapping voices from inside.
After a third knock, he opened the door and stepped inside.
If he’d thought the outside of the house was very fitting, the inside was equally fanciful. As soon as he opened the door he was transported. The scent of cinnamon hung heavily in the air. Astrid had warned him there would be baking. Lemon cleaner filled his nostrils next—faint but lingering enough to imply the house was often cleaned. The navy-and-white pin-striped walls were covered in a hodgepodge of family pictures, paintings and prints. To the left was a set of dark wood stairs. A formal sitting room was on the right. And in that formal sitting room was the piano—currently played by an older man Charlie vaguely recognized.
“Hello?” he murmured, stepping forward so the man had no choice but to see him.
“Hello.” The man stood. He had a well-groomed silver-and-white mustache and beard and deep creases at the corners of his eyes. But he stood tall, fit and lean, and he had one hell of a solid handshake. “Nice to meet you. Van Kettner.”
“Charles Driver.” He returned the handshake, with equal pressure and vigor.
“I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Your girls are something.”
The knot in his stomach tightened. “Something? Should I be concerned?”
Van chuckled. “No, no. I mean they’re precocious and charming and have my Camellia and the rest of those Bee Girls wrapped around their little fingers.” He clapped Charlie on the shoulder. “As it should be, if you ask me. Can’t spend too much time with a child.”
Charlie’s stomach eased. Instead of nerves, pride welled up.
“They’re all in the kitchen.” Van waved him to follow. “I was getting in Camellia’s way so I figured I’d steer clear and play some tunes.”
He nodded, his attention wandering along as they walked back into the foyer and down a hallway. There were more carvings on doorframes and built-in bookcases. Not just carvings, though. Someone with a gentle touch had painted bees, flowers and other hints of the natural beauty of the region.
“First time visiting?” Van asked. “The house. I’ve visited more times than I can remember over the years and I still find something new each time I’m here. Kinda like one of those hidden object pictures for kids?”
Charlie knew exactly what the older man was talking about. Halley had loved the picture puzzles so much, he’d subscribed to a children’s magazine that offered a new puzzle every month. It was something he and Halley could do together—but that had been a few years back—before he and Yasmina were married. He suspected she’d roll her eyes if he showed up with one now.
The closer they got to the kitchen, the louder the chatter became. It was a constant stream of conversation. Numerous voices, overflowing, in a harmonious stream. He couldn’t decipher the topic of conversation, but it was being discussed with great enthusiasm.
