Page 48 of Sterling Touch
Thankfully, I’m finished by noon and check out of work early. The spring afternoon is beautiful, and I need some time outdoors with my bees.
Roughly a year after Hudson’s birth, a beginner’s bee box arrived for me. A rare and unusual gift from Hudson’s father for my first Mother’s Day. At first, I was puzzled by the present. Ken never knew my nickname. It also felt ill-timed as I had a toddling son and my first job and no extra time for myself. But a year or so after the arrival of the gift, I found the box in the shed and decided to give beekeeping a try.
How cool would it be to harvest my own honey and use the surplus in homemade products?
Of course, then I had to learn how to make soaps and creams with this key ingredient. As a natural humectant, a compound that helps pull moisture to itself and retain it, honey is an ideal product for skincare. It’s great for sensitive skin and perfect in massage lotions, and over the past few years, I’ve developed a personal line.
I don’t sell it anywhere, although Clay has been pushing me to expand, offering to put my products on the shelf at Sylver Seed & Soil. I keep putting him off, telling him I’ll think about it.
For now, I keep bees for me. And this gorgeous day is the perfect temperature for inspecting the hive and opening for business, as I like to call it.
The concentration I need to pull winter insulation and assess frames allows me to escape for a little while. To forget about my father, and the memories the mention of him brought forward. To not think about Cort’s questions, his suggestions, or his proposition.
Let me help you never feel deprived again.
His hug certainly helped. The embrace was like none I’ve ever experienced before and don’t expect to ever feel again.Even hours later, though, just thinking about how Cort held me, it’s like I can still feel his arms around me. His hand cupping my nape. His nose against my skin. The sensation is surreal and one I try to shake.
However, like my bees beneath smoke, lulled into calm, the feeling returns again and again. The warmth. The promise.
I’m not one to put much faith in possibilities, but there is no doubt about the strength of Cort’s arms. The way he embraced me. The comfort of his body against mine. I’d like to experience it again.
Then I shake myself once more.Nope, not going there. Right now, it is time for me. Not my head or my heart.
Just me and my bees.
Despite my afternoonwith the beehive, in less than twenty-four hours later, I’m wound up again by Hudson on the evening before his mini-sports camp.
The Haven brothers asking Ford if they could use his future camp was rather shocking, but I also hoped it was an olive branch of goodwill. Maybe fences wouldn’t ever be mended between our families, but small steps had been taken to open gates of compromise.
I’d volunteered for the camp because my brother owns the place, not because I wanted to helicopter Hudson, as he has just accused me of doing.
“I’m what?” I choke, staring at my eleven-year-old which is like looking into a mirror. Thankfully, most of his features resemble mine and not his dad’s.
“You’re helicoptering me.”
My mouth falls open as I stare at my child across the kitchen island where he sits on a stool, eating the dinner thispilotprepared.
“How am I helicoptering you?” I’ve heard the term and its reference to parents that hover over every action of their children. I know parents who behave like that, living vicariously through their child, or hyper-monitoring their kid’s every decision. I am most certainlynotthat kind of parent. I’m involved, and there’s a difference.
“Why do you need to go this weekend with me?”
“I’m not goingwithyou, I’m going to help the team.” Parent volunteers were needed to prepare meals and handle cleanup. Plus, Ford needs help with the initial setup for the boys. He’s made the rooms as self-sufficient as possible, telling campers to bring their own pillows and sheets, preferably sleeping bags. The old hunting cabins on the property have been converted into bunkhouses that hold four kids per room.
Hudson snorts, lowering his head and picking at the spaghetti I made.
“Where is all this coming from, bud?”
“I’m not a baby,” he snaps, and I’m taken aback. Although he’s a pretty great kid, Hudson isn’t perfect, and I’ve never boasted that I’m the ideal mother. However, we don’t typically fight other than squabbles about hustling in the morning or homework at night. So, despite my shock at his tone, I tune into what he says.
“You’re right. You’re not a baby. You’re a boy. A smart, athletic, growing boy seeking independence but still needing guidance.”
Hudson huffs and that second puff of air tips me off. Atticus. That kid’s attitude is rubbing off on my son, who might still be angry at me for refusing to let him go to the Stanton’s house the other day after school without proof that an adult was present. When Hudson asked, I replied by inquiring if Henry was home.
“He’s home,” Atticus quickly told me before sliding a sly glance at my son as we stood in the school parking lot.
“Really? Let’s get him on the phone.” I tipped my chin at the kid, challenging him.
Challenge not accepted. He refused to call his dad, knowing he wasn’t home, and I refused to let Hudson go over to their house without adult supervision at the ready to intervene should trouble arise.
