Page 82 of The Sweetest Obsession

Which is why I’m standing outside of Nobody’s Bees-Ness with my hands stuffed in my pockets, huffing cold air and very seriously pondering turning around and just walking off until I find somewhere to buy a decent coat.

A little comfort shopping.

A little escape.

A little doing anything I can not to create a rift in a family that’s lost so much. I’m so afraid we’re going to face that kind of loss again far too soon.

God.

The thought of fighting with Ros while our mom is dying absolutely guts me. I never once thought we’d be facing this apart.

But I don’t think confronting my sister over avoiding me is going to go very well, either.

Who knows, maybe I’m being pessimistic.

There’s still a chance it’ll be fine.

And if it isn’t?

Well, then I’ll just save that comfort shopping trip for later and take out my feelings with a little impulse spending.

Okay.

I suck in a deep breath for courage and push the door to the shop open.

The familiar jingle of the bell rips me back in time.

Ever since I was a little girl, this shop was a magical place.

The shelves are dark mahogany wood and mirror glass, with more mirrors paneled along the walls. Everywhere you turn, it’s glinting reflections and the soft amber light from paper lanterns dangling throughout the store.

True to the name, this place is like stepping into a beehive.

It even smells like warm honey in here, eternally shrouded in the thick scent of fresh beeswax.

Faint ambient music pipes through the store, floating over shelves lined with my mother’s handmade honey and beeswax products.

The little signs are still lovingly written in her handwriting like she only put them up yesterday.

It’s all here: lip gloss, soaps, shampoos, lotions, ointments, candles, little honey candies, fresh dripping honeycombs, bottled honey, and royal jelly supplements. Several more shelves hold tiers of gift baskets bulging with sweet delights.

There’s a beekeeper on the edge of town who sells his products almost exclusively to this shop, giving Mom the freedom to experiment with new ideas. Whether it’s cooking up new scented blends of beeswax fragrance melt cubes or creating milk and honey blends for soothing lip scrubs, she’s always got something new in the works.

The close, dimly lit space always seems like it demands whispers.

Almost like it’s some kind of secret library of warm, cozy things meant to be taken in with reverence for all the delicate objects crafted with such care.

That feeling of familiar wonder goes cold as I draw up short just inside the door, letting it swing shut behind me.

The noise is jarring.

So is seeing someone besides Mom standing behind the counter and realizing that strange woman behind the glossy glass display case is my sister.

She doesn’t look like the Rosalind I remember at all.

My baby sister was always a shy, bookish thing, sweet and romantic with a bit of a dorky introverted side.

When we’d take day trips to the beach, she was always the girl who wouldn’t even take off her t-shirt to go swimming, wearing it over her bathing suit instead.

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