The Enlightenment of Bees Read online

“He’s very handsome,” I observe. “The ladies are going to swoon when they see him.”

  Nana nods. “Yes, and he still has his hair.” She purses her lips. “He’ll be the toast of the town around here.”

  “What about you,” I tease gently. “He seemed awfully fond of your Beatrice.”

  “Pshaw,” she says lightly. “That was ages ago. The girls all liked him, though, even then. They thought he looked like Paul Newman.”

  “He still does,” I say, giving her a sideways glance.

  Nana Alice tilts her head with an uncharacteristically coy smile. “I guess you’re right,” she says. “He does.”

  Chapter 3

  “You look pretty.” Ethan gives me a quick kiss as I slide into his vintage silver BMW idling against the curb.

  “And you’re very dapper.” He’s wearing his gray cashmere cardigan over a button-down shirt in sky blue that makes his eyes pop. Is this the outfit of a man about to propose? I can’t decide, but he looks endearingly handsome in it.

  “I thought we could go down to Pike Place,” he says, darting a sideways glance at me.

  “Sounds perfect.” My heart is beating fast against my rib cage as we head toward downtown Seattle and the waterfront. Pike Place Market is one of Seattle’s most iconic spots. After today it may be my favorite location in the world.

  I clasp my hands between my knees and try to calm my nerves. I didn’t take Nana Alice’s admonition to put on a nice dress, but I’m glad I thought to put on waterproof mascara and my new spiffy red pair of TOMS canvas shoes.

  “How’d the meetings go today?” I ask as we drive down Queen Anne hill.

  “Great. They really like the concept and want to move forward on a contract.” As he talks enthusiastically about the start-up, I try to focus on his explanation, but I can’t stop thinking about what I hope is about to happen.

  I fell for Ethan White the instant I saw him. It was the first week of my sophomore year as a sociology major at the University of Washington. Standing in the front of the line at Wow Bubble Tea in the University District, I was frantically rooting through my satchel in search of my wallet, which was nowhere to be found. Panicking, I was scrambling for loose change at the bottom of my bag when an arm reached around me and placed a five-dollar bill on the counter. I whirled around.

  The owner of the arm was about my age, impeccably groomed and dressed like an investment banker on vacation. Khaki shorts and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt in a pale pink the exact shade of strawberry ice cream. He was adorable, with straight blond hair and broad shoulders, but it was his eyes that caught me; they were the color of the Caribbean, so clear and aqua blue I couldn’t look away.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammered, embarrassed by my cashless plight and a little tongue-tied by the star appeal of the man standing before me. “I think I left my wallet in my dorm. I’ll pay you back.”

  He smiled, revealing a dimple in one cheek, and took a sip of his smoothie. “Don’t worry about it,” he said casually. “Happy to help a fellow Husky in distress.” He motioned to an empty table in the corner. “Care to join me? I’m Ethan, by the way.”

  We talked for hours, sitting on the uncomfortably hard chairs until my bottom went numb. He was educated and cultured but not snobby, just sweet and earnest and funny, very funny. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard. It was so easy between us, as easy as falling, as easy as breathing. We were friends for months first, but I sensed we both wanted more. I certainly did. The first time he kissed me, I saw sunspots.

  I glance at Ethan in the driver’s seat, his hair blowing in the wind, his eyes alight as he talks about the future of the start-up. My first love, this man I’ve given my heart and six years of my life to.

  In an instant I glimpse the life ahead of us in a burst of images, the life we’ve sculpted from a hundred nights sitting on Ethan’s plaid blanket side by side at Gas Works Park, dreaming of the future. The restored Craftsman cottage we’ll buy in Green Lake. A French bulldog named Butterworth. Lazy Sunday mornings reading the Seattle Times over coffee and deliciously flaky morning buns from the Butter Emporium. Sampling craft beer and listening to Ethan’s band perform in slightly grotty venues on Capitol Hill. And some years down the road, a little curly-haired girl and a blond boy with a dimple in his cheek. For a split second I picture my passport sitting in an unused suitcase under my bed, its pages still blank as a disappointed stare, but I push the thought away. This is the life I have chosen.

  It may not fit my childhood fancies of exotic adventure and sacrifice, following in the footsteps of Aunt Frannie, but I adore Ethan. I don’t want to live without him—the way he cups my face in his hands and looks at me like I’m the only thing in his world, the Beatles tunes he hums constantly under his breath, his practicality, ambition, and sensible can-do attitude. I want him so very much. I want us more than anything in the world.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, envisioning Ethan down on one knee, holding a sparkling diamond solitaire. When he asks me, of course I will say yes.

  * * *

  “Oh Pike Place,” I sigh happily, wandering hand in hand with Ethan through the long covered walkway lined with vendors’ stalls. The market is usually jammed with tourists, but it’s starting to close down for the day and is surprisingly empty this late in the afternoon.

  “Scene of our first real date, remember?” Ethan says. “Clam chowder at the Athenian . . .”

  “And coffee from the original Starbucks,” I finish, squeezing his hand. He remembers. Coming here today can’t be an accident.

  Pike Place is a feast for the senses—the fresh briny smell of the seafood stalls with their glistening king salmon and octopus and prawns on beds of pebbled ice, a man in a straw fedora playing a Willy Nelson song on a banjo, fruit vendors handing out segments of tangerine, their produce piled like jewels behind them. We pass stalls with honey and beeswax skin care products, framed photographs of the Space Needle, orca whales made from recycled metal, handmade hippie jewelry.

  Ethan seems distant and distracted. I try to lighten the mood, laughing and making witty observations, but I’m nervous. There’s a fluttery sensation in the pit of my stomach, and my laughter sounds forced in my own ears.

  He slows at one of the flower stalls run by diminutive Hmong ladies. Sitting behind a low wall of gorgeous seasonal flowers, they craft beautiful bouquets with quick, ever-moving hands. “Pick one,” he urges, and I choose a gorgeous little bouquet of double daffodils and tulips, a riotous orb of sunny spring colors. Ethan reaches into his messenger bag for his wallet to pay for the flowers, but just then his phone rings.

  He grabs the phone instead and glances at the number. “Oh, I have to take this. Here.” He hands me the bag and ducks into a quiet corner of the hall. I fish around for his wallet and pay the woman. As I drop the wallet back into his bag, I spy something. A little ring box in unmistakable Tiffany blue. My heart does a grand jeté against my rib cage.

  For an instant I panic. Am I sure? Can I do this? This is forever we are talking about. And then I brush aside those momentary nerves. Of course I’m sure. I close the bag.

  Ethan rejoins me.

  “Sorry about that. Just Vihaan checking in about some projected numbers from this morning,” he says. He takes his bag and holds out his hand. I take it, and we continue through the market.

  I eye him furtively as we walk. There’s something in the set of his shoulders . . . He’s seemed distant for weeks now, but when I’ve questioned him he’s brushed it off as busyness, stress over the start-up, preoccupation with the possibility of investment from a major company in Silicon Valley. But now I understand. He’s nervous about this monumental step we are finally about to take together.

  As we near the end of the market hall, he turns to me. “Hey, can we ride the Ferris wheel?”

  The Seattle Great Wheel was built just a few years ago down by Elliot Bay. At night it’s lit up with different colors and always looks so jaunty and enticing, but
we’ve never ridden it.

  “Sure, sounds fun,” I say, trying to sound light and nonchalant. This is where it will happen, then, dangling above Elliot Bay, all of the city spread out behind us. This is where our future will start.

  Twenty minutes later our airy glass-and-steel gondola lifts us into the air above the Seattle waterfront. For a moment I forget everything else and lean forward eagerly, taking in the breathtaking panorama—the wide gray blue of Elliot Bay below us, flat and shiny as a new nickel, and beyond that the low green mound of Bainbridge Island. Farther west, beyond Bainbridge, the snowcapped Olympic Mountains rise jagged and majestic on the peninsula. And behind and below us lies Seattle, my beloved city. Our capsule pauses at the apex of the ride.

  Ethan clears his throat. “Mia.”

  I snap to attention, sitting up straight and swallowing hard as Ethan reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out the Tiffany-blue box. It sits in his palm, a beautiful invitation, a promise.

  Yes, I almost whisper before he asks the question. I’ll marry you. The words sit on my tongue, lozenge shaped and weighty with commitment. I want them to be smooth when I utter them, round and smooth as pearls.

  “Mia.” His hands are trembling. Those beautiful hands that have interlaced with mine a thousand times, that can mix a perfect margarita, strum an Eric Clapton tune on the guitar. He meets my eyes, his the limpid blue of the Caribbean shallows. He opens the box, and I stifle a gasp. The round diamond solitaire sparkles in the sun, throwing rainbow glints of light across the white walls of our capsule.

  Ethan opens his mouth, then glances down at the ring and pauses. His silence stretches long.

  “Yes?” I prompt, but he doesn’t say anything. “Ethan?” I stare at him in bewilderment.

  He fiddles with the ring in the box, then looks up and meets my gaze with a pained expression. It’s strange how many things begin and end without words. I learned once in a college communication class that only 35 percent of conversation is what you say. The rest is nonverbal. And so this is how I finally know. Not with a flood of words, not from a mouth twisted in grief, but with two eyes that slide from mine like oil on water.

  Dread sinks like lead, cold and hard, in my stomach. Oh no. Oh no. What is happening?

  “I can’t,” he says as our gondola starts the descent from the top with a jerk. “I’m sorry. I thought this was the right thing to do, but I can’t . . . I can’t seem to make myself propose.” He looks so surprised. He fumbles with the box, snapping it closed. The click of that lid shatters all my hopes and expectations. “Mia, I need to take a break from us. I can’t go forward with this right now.”

  After that I hear only the outline of his words. Going different directions. Been growing apart for a while now. Need time to figure things out. Will I give him space?

  His words are rushed, a little pleading, as though he thinks he can rationalize me into agreement or at least understanding. But I can’t make out the details over the ringing in my ears. This can’t be happening.

  I look down at the colorful buildings along the pier far below, the Seattle Aquarium, Miners Landing with its carousel and carnival music, Ye Olde Curiosity Shop where you can see a preserved walrus penis and purchase gaudy souvenirs from Seattle. I glance back at him, sure I’ve misunderstood, but he is waiting for an answer, looking at me pleadingly.

  I know every bone and freckle of him, but I didn’t see this coming. I didn’t know this corner of his heart. I swallow and swallow again, unable to get my bearings. What can I possibly say? I feel dizzy, as though the gondola is listing to one side, leaning too far out over the water. I have the sensation for one brief second of falling. How long has he seen this coming? Did he really intend to propose and then at the last moment gain this flash of insight, this earth-shattering clarity?

  “Please, Mia. I just need a little time to figure this out. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just need some space to get my head on straight.” I can see the fear in his eyes, in the rapid throb of the pulse in his neck. He looks trapped by the circumstances, by his own words.

  I dart a look around the gondola and then down again. Below us an Argosy dinner cruise ship is docked in the harbor and tiny people are gathering beside it. Beyond the pier lies the ferry terminal for the islands, and farther south the monolithic red container cranes of the port.

  What about the ring in the little blue box? What about our future together? The Craftsman cottage and Butterworth and the flaky morning buns? I want to ask so many things, but in the end I just ask why.

  “I don’t know, Mia.” He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture, those hands that have cupped my face so tenderly, brushed away tears with his knuckles when I cried. “I just don’t know if this is right anymore. Please, give me time to figure it out.” His tone is pleading for me to understand, but I don’t, not at all. I cannot think of what to say to change his mind.

  So as the Ferris wheel slowly completes its final rotation, I agree to give him space, three days to determine the course of our future. I agree because my heart is breaking. I can’t seem to draw enough air into my lungs. I’m choking on the panic and grief welling up in my throat. The disappointment and fear taste bitter in my mouth, like the charred edges of burnt toast.

  When our gondola finally bumps to a stop, I alight with as much courage and grace as I can muster. My eyes are like dikes for a sea of tears, my pride the little Dutch boy’s finger trying to hold back the flood.

  “Let me know,” I tell Ethan finally, “when you figure it out.”

  He takes a step toward me, his expression pained, but I quickly step back, clutching my jacket. I glance at his messenger bag, picturing the little blue box sitting within like a broken promise.

  “Mia, I’m sorry,” he says.

  I look away. If I see pity in his eyes, I know it will be the end of us. I will shatter. Instead, I gather the shreds of my dignity and the small but stubborn hope that he will realize his mistake and come back to me, and I walk away. I don’t look back at the man I love and the ruined remains of what I thought would be the happiest day of my life.

  Chapter 4

  “How can this be happening?” I whisper to the empty living room. Three hours after the disastrous Ferris wheel ride, I am curled in the fetal position on the couch at the cottage, puffy and wrung out from incessant ugly crying. Cocooned in a fuzzy brown blanket my mother crocheted for me when I left home for college, I stare out the picture window at the cold drizzle. Floor lamps cast pools of light onto the Persian carpet and Bonnie Raitt warbles plaintively in the background. “I can’t make you love me,” she sings with such aching poignancy fresh tears well up in my eyes.

  Six. Six years since Ethan first kissed me. Six years since this all began. So many anniversaries, so many opportunities, all ended in disappointment. There was always a reason—paying off school debt and getting on firm financial footing, the start-up that’s taken all his time and energy for the past few years, his desire to be financially secure and able to provide a good life for us together. But the years ticked by with alarming rapidity and still no proposal, no start to our life together.

  Were all the delays, all those years of waiting for the right time, actually because in his heart of hearts he didn’t want to marry me?

  The front door swings open with a sudden gust of cold air and Rosie rushes in carrying a bakery box from Trophy Cupcake.

  “Sugar!” she exclaims dramatically in her big Texas twang. “I got your message. I came as soon as I could.”

  Clad in a canary-yellow wool coat that looks sensational with her burnished red hair, the exact color of a shiny copper penny, she kneels next to the couch and envelops me in a hug that smells of butter cream frosting and damp, salt-tinged wool. “Come into the kitchen and tell me everything. I’ve got cupcakes.” She leans back and eyes my blanket-wrapped form lying prone on the couch. “You look like a pupa.”

  “This is my chrysalis,” I mutter pitifully. “I’m waiting to be reborn.” />
  “Come on then, my poor little caterpillar. Follow me.” She sheds her coat on an armchair and breezes into the kitchen at the back of the house, waving the cupcake box enticingly. I shuffle obediently behind her, taking my blanket cocoon with me.

  In the outdated but cozy kitchen, I slide onto the bench in the breakfast nook. Rosie places a single cupcake on a white plate in front of me. It is hummingbird flavor, my favorite, a combination of pineapple coconut cake with cream cheese frosting, but how can I eat when I’m suffocating in grief?

  Carrying a French press of coffee to the table to steep, Rosie squeezes her tall, curvaceous frame onto the opposite bench. “Okay, sugar. Tell me all about it. What in the world happened?”

  I tell her the whole messy, sordid tale, and when I’m done she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.

  “Mia,” she says sympathetically, “I’m so sorry. If Ethan doesn’t choose you, he is dumber than a box of rocks.”

  I smile wanly, appreciating the display of loyalty, then promptly burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably over my cupcake so that salty drops dapple the frosted top. Rosie just sits with me and lets me cry. Finally, I take a napkin from the stack on the table and blow my nose, hiccupping softly. “I guess I just have to wait three days and see what he decides, right? I can’t change anything now.” I sniff. “Let’s talk about something else. How was your day?”

  “Well, I have some news,” Rosie says carefully, pouring herself a now terribly overbrewed cup of coffee. “It’s such bad timing to tell you now, I know, but I don’t want to keep it from you either. I just heard back from the Humanitas Foundation.” She looks up at me, and a surprised smile breaks over her face. “I got in. They said yes!”

  “They said yes?” I repeat, staring at her, agape and aghast. Then I try to cover my reaction with a feeble “That’s great!”

  When Rosie first told me about her desire to apply for an around-the-world trip with a global humanitarian organization, I encouraged her to go for it. Up to this point, the extent of her philanthropy has been volunteering to be Seattle’s tallest and sexiest elf and singing “Santa Baby” at charity galas around town at Christmas. Her international travel has included a week in St. Barts and five days at an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica, both gifts from her last boyfriend, an art dealer who turned out to be very married. I’m not one to talk, though. I’ve only ever been to Canada.