Page 69 of Must Love Bees
He glanced at the faceless figure and nodded. Nova would probably have a similar reaction.
“Sometimes Aunt Mags would come up with us. She liked to organize little plays or fashion shows.” Astrid ran her hand along the top of a scarred chest of drawers.
“What about her daughter, Shelby?” There was no denying Shelby was Magnolia’s daughter. From the deep red hair to the probing nature of their dark green gaze, they were both slightly intimidating.
“Oh, Shelby wasn’t here.” Astrid tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her face shadowing. “We didn’t know Shelby existed until a few months ago. Mags was very young when she had Shelby so she gave her baby up for adoption—hoping she’d have two loving parents and a family that could better care for her.”
“I didn’t know. You all seem at ease with one another.” Aunt Rebecca was the only person he’d ever been that close to. But he’d been a child then. As an adult, his letters took the place of his visits.
“Dane said the Hills make you part of the family, whether you like it or not.” Astrid smiled. “I guess that’s true. Mags says the family of our heart will always find us. I guess that’s true, too.”
He had a hard time picturing Magnolia Hill saying such a flowery, sentimental statement. But, then again, he couldn’t picture her playing up here with her nieces. He had no problem imagining little Astrid and little Tansy donning hats and spinning in front of the large mirror propped against the far wall. He could imagine Nova and Halley doing the same.
“On bad weather days, we’d spend hours playing dress-up.” Astrid patted one of the chests. “Clothing and gloves, fascinators and jewelry. Every little girl wants a dress-up box. We had that, plus some.”
“Bad weather only?” It was such an odd thing to say that he needed clarification.
“If the weather was good, we were outside.” Astrid squeezed between an antique wardrobe and a grandfather clock. “With the bees.”
“With the bees.” He shook his head. “Even when you were little?” He couldn’t forget what her precious bees were capable of.
“Our bees are gentle. Sadly, you’ve yet to see that, but it’s true.” She dusted her hands off on one another. “Poppa Tom had zero tolerance for a hot hive.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Beekeeping was a whole other world. But if Astrid loved it, there had to be some good in it.
She smiled at him. “No. It just means bad-tempered.”
“Are the Hill bees sent to some sort of etiquette school?” He was terrible at jokes so it was a surprise to hear her laugh.
“No.” She was still laughing. “You’re funny.”
“I’m really not.” Her laughter caused a series of physical reactions. Palms sweaty, throat tight, the urgent need to put his hands on her. He flexed his hands and shoved them into his pockets.
“That was funny,” she argued. “Etiquette school.” She shook her head. “No, you requeen a hive with a docile, laying queen and she’ll take care of the rest.”
He was too busy trying to breathe and get a hold of himself to keep the conversation going.
The thunder sounded especially loud in the cavernous space. Through the dormer windows in the wall, the flicker of lightning cast long shadows across the wooden floor. It was the sudden surge in rain that reminded him why they were there. He looked up, scanning the ceiling for any spots or discoloration.
“It was really bad over here—the repair is on Aunt Mags to-do list.” Astrid climbed over an especially large trunk and stopped. “No sign of water.” She pushed her hair from her shoulders and nodded. “Thankfully.”
Astrid’s hair fascinated him. The way the light revealed different shades of red, gold and copper. It moved with an almost fluid grace.
“I guess we’re done up here. Unless you want to dress up?” She was smiling until her eyes met his. Then she froze. She swallowed and drew in a deep, unsteady breath.
“I overheard you and you sister.” The words came out far gruffer than he’d intended. “Earlier. Talking about kissing frogs.”
Her cheeks went scarlet.
“I...” He hadn’t meant to say a thing but, somehow, words were still coming. “You might have plenty of frogs in your past but I...I don’t.” These weren’t good words. “I don’t.”
“No. I don’t have a lot of frogs in my past, Charlie.” Astrid swallowed again.
“I mean, none.” He forced the words out and braced himself. He was a grown man. Grown men didn’t choose to be celibate. But, for him, the alternative held no appeal.
Astrid blinked. “Kissing?”
“Like today?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell this is. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. And, to be frank, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
