The Enlightenment of Bees Read online

  I glance back. Kai is watching me from across the pool.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I ask Stella, who looks annoyed at the interruption. She gestures toward the house. “In there,” she hisses. “There are twelve. Take your pick.”

  I stash my cocktail glass behind one of the posts on the veranda and hesitantly enter the enormous house, expecting that at any moment someone will appear and stop me. The front hall, a vast and pristine white swath of marble, is empty. I peer into room after opulent room outfitted with crystal chandeliers and expensive furnishings until finally I locate a bathroom. There are tiny shell soaps in a dish, and the marble sink has gold handles shaped like ornate fish. My reflection in the mirror is underwhelming. I look pale and my hair is going a little crazy Medusa in the heat. I smooth it with a dab of hair salve from my clutch, then apply a slick of lip balm and bite my lips till they have a flush of color.

  I’m shaken by my encounter with Man Bun Kai, and I’m not really sure why. He did nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it’s just beginning to sink in that I’m single again, and over the past six years all of my single-girl skills have atrophied.

  I stare at myself in the mirror sternly. “Get it together, Mia Alice West,” I mutter in my best drill sergeant voice. “Now go out there and do what you’ve come to do.”

  I am such a mess internally, my heart like hamburger meat. I need to protect it. I need to remain free from encumbrances. Mother Teresa didn’t have a man, and look what she managed to do. I gave my heart once and in doing so gave up my own vision for my future. I can’t let that happen again, not if I truly want to be Saint Mia, not if I truly want to make a difference in the world. The thought steels my resolve. I square my shoulders and march back to the party, resolute. I will keep my heart safe and my eyes firmly on the goal.

  Chapter 12

  “Hey, folks, good evening.” Bryant’s amplified voice booms over a sound system just as I descend the veranda steps. “Come on into the tent.”

  I join the tail end of the crowd drifting toward the white tent where tables and chairs are set up for dinner. A small bevy of waiters in tuxedos waits at one side of the tent, poised for action. Two videographers are circling the crowd like sharks, filming everything.

  “Come in, come in. It’s great to see each of you in person. Welcome to the Humanitas Foundation’s Global Experience kick-off dinner.” Bryant is standing on a small stage at the front, holding a microphone. “Now just look around and find your team table.”

  I scan the crowd for Rosie. Everywhere I look there are cool, serious-looking people hunting for their tables. Some look like adventure guides or world travelers, a certain hard professionalism making them downright intimidating. A few of the other women I’ve seen walking around could be models or triathletes. I feel decidedly uncool in this crowd. I’m pretty, but I am not one of these flawless women who seem to glide through life, nor am I a hardcore rock-climbing superwoman. People find me more endearing than dazzling.

  I turn at a tap on my shoulder to find Rosie standing next to me. “There you are.”

  We check two tables—Team Veritas and Team Fidelis—before we finally locate the Team Caritas table. Next to our table I spy a sign for Team Fortis. Veritas, Fidelis, Caritas, and Fortis. It’s been a few years since my college Latin class, and I’m a little rusty, but I can still translate the words. All virtues—Truth, Loyalty, Charity, and Strength.

  The tall blonde woman with the dreadlocks who I saw talking to Stella earlier is already sitting at our table. She appears to be in her midthirties, with a chiseled jaw and a hard stare. She would be pretty if she didn’t look so jaded.

  “Hello, I’m Rosie Jasper.” Rosie offers her hand to our new teammate, using her best Texas charm.

  The woman nods in a bored way and shakes Rosie’s hand. “Winnie Jones.” She has an accent, British or maybe Australian. I can’t tell for sure.

  Rosie cocks her head and studies Winnie for a moment, then asks. “Wait, are you the Winnie Jones?”

  The blonde jerks her head in affirmation. “That’s the rumor, yeah.”

  I am at a total loss. I shoot Rosie a confused look, and she leans close and murmurs, “Winnie Jones, lead guitarist and singer for Dynamite Kitty, the iconic Aussie all-girl punk rock band? She’s like the Joan Jett of our generation.”

  “Oh,” I say faintly, still clueless. I lean more toward the folk/Americana genre. “Hi.” I reach out my hand, and Winnie eyes me with a touch of amused derision before shaking hands. She has unusually small pupils, almost pinpoints, which give her a narrow look of suspicion. She’s wearing a men’s white sleeveless undershirt, and her right arm is covered from wrist to shoulder in a colorful, eye-catching array of flower tattoos interspersed with daggers, skulls, a Hello Kitty character wielding a large stick of dynamite, and a decapitated Ariel from the Little Mermaid, holding her own head in an outstretched hand and brushing her long red hair.

  I tear my gaze away from the disturbing tattoos and sit down in my assigned chair next to Rosie, eyeing Winnie Jones, celebrity punk rocker, across the table with a sinking heart. This is one of our six team members? I was hoping for someone channeling more Peace Corps and less heroin chic.

  “Is this Team Caritas?” I glance up, and my heart does a funny little flip. Kai is standing next to me, reading our table name.

  Rosie straightens her shoulders so her breasts are perky and smiles up at him. “It is. And you are?”

  “Kai Nakamura.” He gives her a firm handshake, then turns to Winnie, offering his hand across the table. Winnie shakes it, muttering, “Winnie Jones. Yes, the same one.”

  Kai stares at Winnie in puzzlement. “Great,” he says.

  Apparently I’m not the only one living under a rock. It’s a cheering thought.

  Winnie raises an eyebrow, then smirks when she realizes he doesn’t recognize her. “Cool shirt,” she says, gesturing to his Indigo Girls tee. “Those chicks are fierce.”

  “Um, yeah, thanks.”

  Kai takes a seat to my right, and Rosie leans over to me, saying in a loud, indiscreet whisper, “Well, isn’t he a tall drink of water?”

  I kick her swiftly under the table, and she widens her eyes at me and kicks me back, daring me to disagree. Which I can’t. I don’t know much about Kai Nakamura yet, but he is most definitely easy on the eyes.

  Waiters buzz around our table, filling glasses from pitchers of ice water infused with raspberries, cucumber, and mint.

  “I met one of our other teammates,” Rosie says, taking a sip of water. “Milo. He’s a sculptor from Wisconsin.”

  “That blond lumberjack-looking guy?”

  Rosie nods, eyes sparkling. “He’s a sweetheart.”

  I glance surreptitiously at Kai. With his T-shirt and man bun and surfer vibe, he’s definitely not her type. Rosie goes more for urbane, well-groomed men with Swiss watches and an extensive knowledge of wine.

  We have two spots left now. I survey the tent, but there are still a number of people looking for their places. Milo, the blond lumberjack, finds our table a moment later.

  “Caritas. Dude, finally!” He gives us a jaunty mock salute. “Milo Olsen, reporting for duty.” One of the videographers has followed him and films our introductions. Milo is charming in a millennial, lumbersexual way. Plaid button-down shirt, bushy but well-groomed blond beard, and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. As he shakes my hand I note the absence of callouses. Definitely not a real lumberjack. He’s had a recent manicure, actually. His nails look nicer than mine. I glance at Rosie and wonder if he knows anything about wine.

  Milo slides into a chair between Winnie and Rosie and leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head, relaxed and comfortable in an instant.

  “Can you believe this place?” he asks, looking around. “It’s like being at a resort. I thought we’d be roughing it; I brought like four bottles of insect repellent.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be this luxurious once we’re on the trip,” Rosie
says, serenely sipping ice water with raspberries bobbing in it. “So we’d better enjoy it while we can.”

  “Oh, I’m enjoying,” Milo agrees. “It’s just not what I was expecting.”

  I like him. I’m nervous and jumpy around Kai and feel instantly wary of Winnie, but Milo seems easy to be around. Now only one empty place left. Who will fill it?

  Just as the salad course is being served, a slender man with a narrow, intelligent face slips into the last chair. Although it’s hot as an oven in the tent, he is wearing a dark blue suit and tie. His skin is the color of burnished bronze. He looks East African. Ethiopian, maybe? He rises slightly and shakes hands all around.

  “I am Abel,” he murmurs to each of us, meeting our eyes. His English is laced with a slight melodic accent. He resumes his seat, careful of his suit, as a waiter appears to fill his glass. On his other side, Winnie glances his direction, then ignores him, texting on her phone. He sits without speaking, observing the action around him with a keen interest.

  Team Caritas is all here.

  Chapter 13

  The salad course is baby greens with goat cheese. Kai carefully lifts a forkful of lettuce and examines it intently. “Mache,” he says, sounding surprised. “Interesting choice with the baby beet greens and arugula.” He catches my bemused look and grins a touch sheepishly. “Mache bruises easily. It’s not usually used in commercial mixes,” he explains. “I like edible plants. Way more interesting than legal briefs.”

  I’m not sure that I agree, but I nod anyway. Both edible plants and legal jargon would rate fairly low on my scale of interest. To each his own, as Nana Alice would say.

  “So Mia, I’ve confessed my geeky hobby. What’s yours?” He gives me a sideways glance, still examining the salad on his plate.

  “I love to bake,” I reply. “I like making people happy with something I create with my own hands.” I stop, a little embarrassed that it’s not more profound. But then I guess I shouldn’t worry. He just confessed to a love of lettuce.

  “Cool,” he says. “Is that what you want to do as a career?”

  I shake my head, wincing at the still fresh sting of my apprenticeship’s abrupt end. “Baking’s just a hobby.”

  “Why?” Kai sets his fork down and looks at me curiously. “If you love it.”

  I glance away. How do I explain to him what I’ve known to be true since the age of twelve? That baking, while I love it more than anything, is not big enough to be my life’s purpose. That I need to strive for something more.

  “My grandma owned a bakery when I was little,” I tell him finally. “I wanted to be a baker just like her.”

  When I close my eyes I can still smell it—the warm, distinctive scent of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon mixed with the sharp tang of the homemade lemon-peel-and-white-vinegar cleaner Nana Alice used to keep the display cases sparkling.

  “I used to pretend I had my own bakery. I served cardboard cakes and pies to all my stuffed animals. But my aunt Frannie, who I admire more than anyone on earth, encouraged me to think bigger, aim higher.” I look down at my wilting salad greens, at the little round of goat cheese flecked with chives perched in the middle.

  I think of that moment with a pang. Aunt Frannie was staying with us on one of her whirlwind visits home. The first morning after she arrived, I shyly offered her a blueberry muffin I’d baked myself. I was proud of it, the perfect conical dome glazed with crystalized sugar, the plump organic blueberries I’d picked with my mother.

  “I want to be a baker, Aunt Frannie, like Nana Alice. I’m going to own a bakery too and call it Sweet Something.”

  Aunt Frannie took the muffin and studied me, a flicker of disappointment in her fierce green gaze.

  “Oh Mia, you can think bigger than that.” She set aside my perfect muffin and leaned forward intently.

  I studied the tanned, freckled lines of her face, the mop of unruly ginger hair. She was both intimidating and awe inspiring. I hung on her every word like it was gospel.

  “You are smart and strong. There’s so much you can give and do if you want to. Don’t settle for rolling out pie dough and making muffins. Aim higher, my dear girl. Shoot for the moon.”

  I felt the weight of her words settle onto my young shoulders, a conviction, a calling. If I wanted to be like her, I had to reach higher, seek better things.

  I never forgot her words. For a few years I lost my way as I dreamed of a life with Ethan. Now I’m hoping this trip will help me get back on course and discover these better things, whatever they may be.

  “So if baking’s just a hobby, what do you plan to do for your profession?” Kai asks, breaking into my reverie.

  I open my mouth for a split second, almost telling him the truth, that I don’t know, that the only thing I really love is to bake and that I am searching for the right thing. But instead, I recite the pat answer Rosie gave Bryant, even though it is a lie.

  “I want to provide free medical care to disadvantaged women and children in the US and abroad.” Saying the words makes me cringe a little inside. Even if the heart is the same, I don’t like being misleading about the details.

  “Really?” Kai surveys me. “Huh.” He looks surprised and maybe a little disappointed. “That’s cool.”

  “Yep.” My heart is beating fast in my chest. I hate lying. Why can’t I just tell him the truth? “It will fill a real need.” I try to muster enthusiasm.

  Kai nods. “Yeah, sounds like it. Are you planning to go to med school or something?”

  “I’m . . . considering my options after the trip is over.” I deflect the direction question, brushing away a twinge of guilt over lying. I can’t tell my teammates the honest answer. How disappointed they would be in me from the start. I don’t want to be the vestigial teammate with no helpful skills. Taking a swallow of ice water, I avoid Kai’s eyes.

  During the main course we all take turns introducing ourselves, starting with the basics.

  “I’m a barista by trade,” Milo tells us over the slow-roasted pork with mango slaw, “but I’m also trained as a woodworker. I want to use woodworking to help juvenile offenders learn basic life skills. That’s my plan after this trip. And I’m here because I’ve never been out of the US and I like the idea of helping people.” He shrugs. “I want to see things in a new light.”

  Next to him, Winnie tips her chair back on two legs and stretches her arms above her head, cracking her knuckles, looking bored. When it’s her turn she keeps it brief. “Winnie Jones. Rock star, recovering addict, Australian. I think that about sums it up.” She laces her fingers behind her head and looks around the table at us with a mixture of amusement and insolence.

  “What made you decide to come on this trip?” Rosie asks.

  Winnie smirks. “My manager, Bruce. The band is taking a break and he signed me up, said it was this or another stint at a detox ranch in New Mexico. So . . .” She shrugs. “This is definitely the lesser of two evils. I’ve been touring with Dynamite Kitty since I was nineteen. There’s nothing new under the sun for me. I’m just marking time till this is over.”

  No one says anything. Rosie glances at me and raises her eyebrows, channeling consternation. I speedily google Winnie on my phone under the table. Dozens of images spring onto the screen. Winnie onstage screaming into a microphone. Winnie making an obscene gesture to the camera. Winnie posing on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine with three other members of Dynamite Kitty, her long blonde dreadlocks and heavy black eyeliner her signature look. In every photo she looks angry or vacant or both. A few news headlines catch my eye—the release of the band’s first smash hit album Bang Bang Chaos, and then a couple of gossip column articles about her stints in rehab for alcohol and drug abuse. Perturbed, I tuck my phone away as Abel begins to speak.

  “I am a lawyer by training and am now a researcher for Amnesty International,” Abel tells us. “I was born in Kigali, Rwanda, but came to the US when I was a child. I hope to start my own foundation to help monitor and en
courage fair criminal justice practices in developing world countries, specifically in African nations like Rwanda.” He looks around the table solemnly.

  I have a vague recollection of studying the Rwandan genocide in a college class. There were horrifying photos—piles of dead bodies, a line of blood on a church wall three feet high, the violence even more terrible because it was neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend.

  I study Abel thoughtfully. I’d guess him to be no more than thirty or thirty-one. If I recall correctly, the genocide took place somewhere in the late nineties. That means he would have been a child when it happened. Did he flee the genocide and come to America? What has he seen and endured?

  I glance around the table at my teammates, both impressed and intimidated. What am I doing here, the girl who can bake a fluffy biscuit, amid people like Abel and Kai who are motivated and equipped to change the world? I feel like a fraud.

  When it’s my turn to share, I try to be as honest as I can. I say a sentence or two about being from Seattle and gloss over the medical care for disadvantaged women and children bit with just a brief mention. Then I say what is really on my heart.

  Rolling my glass of ice water between my palms, I watch the shreds of mint and slice of cucumber tilt from side to side. “I thought I knew what I wanted from my life,” I say finally, focusing hard on the glass. “I had it all planned out. And then it all fell apart. I got my heart broken. So I guess I’m hoping to see a way forward, to find significance in the midst of loss, to discover a new and unexpected life and to make a difference in the world.”

  No one says anything. I look up to find all eyes on me.

  “Good luck with that, Pollyanna,” Winnie says, raising her water glass in a mock salute.

  Abel meets my eyes. “It is possible,” he says. “I know this from experience. It is not easy, but it is possible.”