The Enlightenment of Bees Page 8

  Rosie squeezes my knee under the table, and Kai lifts his water glass. “To possibilities,” he says. We toast, even Winnie.

  “To possibilities,” I whisper, looking around at this group of almost complete strangers. I am about to embark on a journey I’ve dreamed about for years. For better or worse, these five sitting around this table will be my companions on the road.

  Chapter 14

  “Well, folks, now that you’ve gotten to know your teammates a bit, we’re going to get started with the rest of tonight’s program.” As we finish dessert, Bryant takes the stage, microphone in hand. “In a moment we’re going to hear from the founder of the Humanitas Foundation. He’s the mastermind behind this entire trip, and a little birdie told me that he’s just been named in People magazine’s fifty most eligible bachelors list!” Bryant winks at the audience and a few people cheer.

  “So let’s welcome our gracious host, Mr. Lars Lindquist!” Bryant claps loudly, still holding the microphone. We all turn as a tall blond gentleman walks from the back of the tent and mounts the stage.

  Lars Lindquist is strikingly handsome, with wavy blond hair curling over the collar of his white shirt and melancholy soft gray eyes. He looks a little like the Swedish actor Alexander Skarsgård. He’s wearing a perfectly pressed gray linen suit and expensive Italian loafers. He’s beautiful, Scandinavian, serene. I feel instantly underdressed. Rosie gives a little hum of appreciation, and I find myself drawn to him, too, like a magnet. He takes the microphone.

  “Good evening.” His manner and voice are refined and smooth. I expected glamor and showmanship, but he seems reserved, almost diffident. “Your presence here tonight is the culmination of a long-held ambition.” He scans the room, gazing at each table. “Three years ago, in a life-changing moment, I made a promise that I would use the resources at my disposal to help change the world for good. Tonight marks the beginning of fulfilling that promise.

  “You have been chosen for this trip because each of you possesses a gift that I believe can, given the right opportunity, make the world a better place. That is our aim, to work today for a brighter tomorrow. Thank you all for your sacrifice, your time, and your energy. I am truly grateful.” He puts a hand over his heart and bows his head slightly, then hands the microphone to Bryant and walks between the tables to thunderous applause. He doesn’t pause or look up, but disappears out the back of the tent.

  “Thank you, Lars. You are truly an inspiration,” Bryant says. We all applaud again, then he announces, “Cocktails and light jazz around the pool starting now. Breakfast and team orientation tomorrow at eight sharp.”

  Dusk is falling as we file out of the tent and spread out around the pool. The calypso band has been replaced by a trio of musicians in fedoras playing classic jazz.

  The same waiters from dinner circulate through the guests, passing out martinis and mint juleps. I accept a mint julep and take a tentative sip, grateful for something in my hand to lessen the awkwardness of this social event. It’s quite obvious that there will be no campfires and songs of peace and justice. So far orientation is luxurious, enjoyable, and seemingly incongruous for the start of a humanitarian trip around the world. Maybe this is just normal life for Lars. Perhaps it doesn’t seem ostentatious to him. Maybe he doesn’t know anything different.

  Rosie is making her way around the pool, introducing herself, a martini in one hand. I look around for my teammates, but they all seem to be engaged in conversation with other people. I don’t feel like socializing. I’m tired and emotionally drained. I’d rather go back to our cottage but don’t want to appear as though I’m not a good team player.

  Climbing the sweeping granite steps to the veranda, I lean over the wide stone railing, looking down on the scene. Dusk is falling, and around the house and grounds lights are winking on here and there, warm and yellow. The pool glitters like a sapphire, and beyond the wide strip of beach the ocean stretches vast to the horizon, the rhythmic sound of surf calming, almost mesmerizing.

  I close my eyes and press my ice-cold glass to my forehead, where a tension headache is starting to bloom. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long month. I think briefly of Ethan, wondering what he is doing, what he would think if he could see me now, on this elite private island, about to embark on this grand adventure. I wonder if he cares. I wish I didn’t feel so alone.

  “Good evening.”

  I whirl. Lars Lindquist is standing slightly behind me, a mint julep in his hand.

  “Oh, hi, good evening.” I stumble over my words in surprise, removing the sweating glass from my forehead.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” he asks, moving forward toward the railing beside me.

  “Yes. I mean no, I don’t mind, of course.” I scoot toward a huge stone urn laden with creamy white gardenia bushes in full flower, their sweet, heady fragrance filling the sultry air.

  He joins me at the balcony, leaning against the railing, and looks at me in puzzlement for a moment, as though trying to place me. “You’re . . .”

  “Mia West,” I supply. “The replacement for the Colombian drug mule.” I take a sip of my mint julep and try to act nonchalant even though he is standing so close. He smells delicious, like pressed limes and bergamot.

  “I was going to say latecomer,” he says with a smile. “I know who you are. Thank you for agreeing to join us on such short notice.”

  “Well, thank you for having me.” Up close he is just as handsome as he was onstage. There are crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and his hair is thinning just a little at the front, but he cuts a stylish, urbane figure. He has the well-manicured and polished air of a man used to expensive and elegant things. He is an expensive and elegant thing.

  “I wonder what will come of all of this,” he muses, taking a sip of his julep. “I hope great things.”

  I get the feeling he is not talking to me. He leans casually against another urn of gardenias and stares out at the party. There is an air of calm around him, of stillness, but he seems a little sad. What could possibly make this handsome, successful billionaire look so wistful? I follow his gaze across the pool, and my eyes light on Rosie, who is standing near the jazz band talking to Milo.

  “That is your friend, is it not?” he asks, his eyes on her. “The one who convinced you to join her on this trip? Rosalie Jasper?”

  Surprised that he knows so much about us, I glance at Rosie, who is laughing and shaking her head at something Milo is saying. She is glowing in the golden lights strung up in the palm trees around the pool, shimmering in her yellow dress, so effervescent you cannot tear your eyes away from her. As we watch, Milo reaches out and takes her hand, and they perform a few swing dance steps to the catchy jazz tune. Rosie twirls into Milo’s arms and out again, her yellow dress pooling around her knees like melted butter.

  “Yes, that’s Rosie.”

  “Extraordinary,” Lars says, and there is a touch of wonder in his voice, as though he is looking at a Degas or a Renoir painting.

  Has anyone ever watched me with an expression like that? I take a gulp of my mint julep and try not to think about my future stretching ahead of me, solitary, so alone.

  Lars looks at me then, really looks at me, and smiles. “What are you doing up here, when all the energy of life is down below us?”

  “I’ve never been great at parties,” I admit. “Especially ones where I don’t really know many people. And I’m a terrible dancer.”

  Lars nods as though I’ve said something profound. “It seems, then, that we are both watchers,” he muses. “Perhaps we watch so that we do not feel so alone.” He swirls the ice in his highball and takes a swallow of his drink.

  I don’t say anything. I can’t quite get a bead on him. He’s rich. He’s beautiful. He has a million followers on Instagram, or so Rosie tells me, so why in the world would he feel alone? And why is he up here talking to me and not down there in the thick of his own festivities?

  “You have a beautiful island,” I say,
searching for small talk.

  He nods in agreement. “My grandfather came over from Sweden in the late 1940s and opened Lindquist’s Pancake House in New York City. It was so successful that he kept expanding until he had fifteen restaurants from Pennsylvania to New Jersey. Then he started marketing the pancakes and waffles and syrups to grocery stores along the East Coast. He bought this island in 1957 and built the house later in life. It’s been in the family ever since.”

  “That’s quite a legacy,” I say. “It’s a magnificent place.”

  “It’s a gilded cage,” he says softly. “A beautiful, gilded cage from which there seems to be no escape.”

  I have no idea how to respond. A moment later he turns to me and dips his head in a small formal gesture. “Mia, it has been a pleasure. I will bid you good night.”

  “Good night,” I say to his retreating back. I watch him walk away, puzzled and intrigued by the enigmatic figure of Lars Lindquist.

  Chapter 15

  “Good morning, y’all,” Rosie calls, waving Team Caritas over to where she stands under a coconut palm bright and early the next morning. She has been designated by Bryant as our official team organizer for the week. “First thing we have is a team building activity,” she announces.

  It’s eight thirty and our team is assembled on the beach after a light breakfast of fresh muffins and tropical fruit smoothies hand-blended at the tiki bar. Looking like a camp counselor from the 1950s in a pair of high-waisted khaki shorts and a crisp white button-down shirt, her bright hair twisted into a chignon, Rosie hands copies of the schedule around to us.

  “Paddle boat races? You’re joking, right?” Winnie squints at the paper and groans. She looks hungover, with pink, watery eyes. “It is waaaay too early for this.” She pulls out a pair of large black sunglasses from the pocket of her cargo shorts and dons them, obscuring half her face.

  “Paddle boats. Sweet.” Milo, wearing a pastel plaid short-sleeved shirt that would look right at home in a Florida retirement community, stuffs his schedule into his pocket, picks up three coconuts lying in the sand, and begins to juggle them.

  I scan the schedule quickly. For the next five days there are blocks of time for cultural and geopolitical orientation in the afternoon and team building in the mornings. The late afternoons and evenings are reserved for recreation and group social activities.

  “What are these paddle boats you speak of?” Abel intently studies the week’s schedule as though there will be a pop quiz at any moment.

  “The name is kind of self-explanatory,” Kai quips, leaning back against the trunk of a nearby palm tree, arms crossed, looking totally relaxed. “You get in the boat and paddle hard and eventually you go somewhere very slowly.” Today he’s wearing a Willy Nelson T-shirt with Willy’s face sporting his signature braids down each side and a headband that reads Have a Willy Nice Day.

  I giggle at both the T-shirt and his description of paddle boating, and Kai meets my gaze with an amused look. I share his opinion; I love being on the water, but paddle boats feel almost pointless. So much effort for so little reward.

  One of the cameramen, Jake, a wiry Filipino man with a goatee, has been assigned to our team, and he crouches next to a nearby palm tree, fiddling with his video equipment and apparently waiting for us to do something publicity worthy.

  “Okay, everyone, pick a partner, and let’s head down to the water,” Rosie urges us.

  Milo springs into action, swiftly claiming Rosie as his partner. With a shrug Winnie beckons Abel to join her. “Let’s get this over with,” she mutters.

  That leaves me with Kai. He raises his eyebrows. “You game to join me for the world’s slowest boat race?”

  “Sure.” I nod, trying to act relaxed. Kai makes me nervous. He’s just so appealing, so easy to like, and I don’t know what to do with the plain and simple fact that I find him attractive. It is seriously throwing me off-kilter. I am determined to be a good team player, however, and I do have strong legs from cycling up all those steep Seattle hills. I will paddle like mad and make every effort to keep my feelings for him from developing into anything more than friendship.

  We follow the other two teams down to the half dozen paddle boats sitting just above the tide line. One end of the island forms a crescent around a lagoon, and across the length of the lagoon lies an obstacle course marked out with floating buoys. The goal, Rosie explains, is to navigate the obstacle course in the paddle boats as fast as we possibly can. The team who reaches shore first wins.

  “Ready. Set. Go!” Jake shouts to get us started.

  Together Kai and I drag our boat into the water and jump in. We’re already behind. Jake stands at the edge of the water, filming the race. I start paddling furiously as we inch away from the sand.

  “Nice form.” Kai glances sideways at me, looking both amused and a little impressed. He adjusts our course with the steering handle so we head straight toward the first buoy.

  “I’m a cyclist,” I pant, trying to keep up the fast pace. “But I sort of hate paddle boats. It feels like being perpetually stuck in first gear.”

  “Like paddle boat purgatory,” Kai deadpans. I laugh, a little breathless from the effort of paddling.

  We skirt the first buoy and are heading for the second when Kai looks down. “Uh-oh. I think we’ve sprung a leak.”

  I glance down. There are several inches of water in the bottom of our boat. I was concentrating so hard on paddling I didn’t notice. Already it is sloshing around my toes. There’s a crack behind my pedal, and water is gushing into the boat at an alarming rate.

  Ahead of us Rosie and Milo are laughing merrily as their boat veers around the third buoy. Abel and Winnie are making surprisingly good time, right on their tail. We are definitely not going to win the time challenge. As it stands right now, I’m not even sure we can make it back to shore before our boat sinks.

  “I think we’d better turn around.”

  I bite my lip, trying to assess our odds of reaching the shore. Not good. We both paddle as hard as we can while Kai steers us around in a lazy circle. Slowly, slowly we start back toward shore.

  “Hey, you’re going the wrong direction,” Milo yells at us as they pass us on the other side of the buoys, heading in for a first place win. “You have to go around all the buoys.”

  “We’ve sprung a leak. We’re sinking,” I yell back, still paddling hard and feeling a little nervous. I can swim, of course, but I’m not the most confident swimmer. I’m from the Northwest, where Puget Sound is a chilly fifty-six degrees at the height of summer. We northwesterners prefer to be on the water rather than in it. However, this is Florida. The water in the lagoon is warm and calm. We’ll just swim to shore slowly and steadily. It will be okay.

  Rosie leans around Milo and calls out, “Do y’all need a rescue?”

  “No, I think we’re fine,” Kai replies.

  “Are you a strong swimmer?” I ask, paddling like mad and trying to keep my tone light. We aren’t in any real danger, but slowly sinking into the salty water is a little unnerving.

  Kai nods. “Yeah, I grew up in Hawaii. My mom used to joke that I’m part dolphin. I could surf almost as soon as I could walk.”

  I smile. I pegged him for a surfer the moment I met him. I lean forward and paddle faster, not that it makes any discernible difference. We are definitely not going to make it to shore.

  Abel and Winnie pass us on the other side of the buoys just as Rosie and Milo beach their paddle boat for the win. Our defective boat is riding lower and lower in the water, the nose almost under the surface by now. Water is sloshing up to my calves. Suddenly our boat tips forward. Seawater rushes in over the sides. We are officially swamped. With a shriek I dive over the side, and Kai does the same. We both swim clear of the boat.

  “Mia, you okay?” I can see Kai’s dark head on the other side of the sinking boat, his expression concerned.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I say, feeling a little flutter of anxiety. We’re in deeper
water than I realized. My shorts and T-shirt are sodden, and I’ve lost my flip-flops. Thank goodness my iPhone is waterproof. Kai swims around to me. Just one corner of the boat is above the water now, a red fiberglass nub poking above the placid surface.

  “We can still place third.” Kai laughs, then turns and starts swimming toward the beach with long, languid strokes. “Come on.”

  I follow him as fast as I can with an awkward frog kick/dog paddle. Thankfully the water is calm, and now we have all the time in the world. The other teams are watching us from shore. I can hear faint cheering as we swim closer to shore. Rosie is waving and gesturing to us. The sun is warm on the crown of my head, dancing like diamonds on the surface of the water. Not what I had in mind for the morning, I muse as I swim behind Kai, but all in all not a bad way to spend the time.

  When I glance again toward the shoreline, Rosie is gesticulating wildly, swooping her arms over her head in a jerky motion. Milo is leaning toward us, his hands around his mouth like a bullhorn, yelling something. Their posture is no longer jubilant. It looks . . . frantic. My heart skips a beat.

  “Kai, something’s wrong.”

  A moment later we draw into range, close enough to hear Milo’s words. He’s shouting as loud as he can, “Shark! Shark! Get out of the water!”

  Time stops. For an instant I freeze in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Kai swears under his breath. He glances behind us. I panic and go under for a second, sure I felt a bump against my leg. I swallow water and flail, clawing the air. In an instant, Kai is there. He grabs my arms and pulls me upright.

  “Mia, put your feet down. You can touch here.”

  He’s standing, the water just reaching his chest. He holds me upright, his hands strong around my rib cage, until I calm enough to draw a full breath of air and set my feet down on the bottom. I can just reach on tiptoe.

  “Mia, Kai!” Rosie screams, pointing. “Shark!” The entire team is gathered on the shore, yelling and gesturing for us to hurry.