The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel) (19 page)

It was white and square and about the size of her palm. The top fit snugly to the bottom and was held in place by a flat bow of silver ribbon. She pulled both ends, then lifted away the box top to be met with cotton padding and a tiny bifold card. The outside was engraved with the same logo as the box and the paper.

But the inside . . .

With the box in one hand, the card in her other, she walked to the small bistro table she’d bought to have in the house and sat. Her hands were shaking when she opened the card to read it again, her heart in her throat causing her much breathing grief. She blew out a breath like she would a whistle, and forced her eyes to examine each word.

“The bee is more honored than other animals, not because she labors, but because she labors for others.”

Saint John Chrysostom

That was it. No salutation. No signature.

It didn’t matter. She knew whom it was from.

She didn’t recognize the name of the jeweler, but the piece itself told the tale. The delicate chain was made of tiny, lacelike links, and the dainty little bee dangling on the end was, she was certain, crafted of onyx and topaz and diamonds and gold. It was gorgeous. It was extraordinary. It was too much for a gift between . . . friends.

No off-the-shelf baubles for Oliver Gatlin. Uh-uh. She’d bet her whole crop of honey this piece had been custom-made. Meaning he’d commissioned it weeks ago. More than likely before the wedding and the reception and all the in-between cake.

And he’d given her a Patchwork Moon original for Christmas, which had her wondering how original it really was. Had he bought it off the shelf in the Austin boutique that sold Luna’s wares? Or had he made the request, even though Luna rarely took on special orders?

Two months ago he’d thought enough about her to buy these gifts, to have at least one of them specially designed, and considering the colors in the scarf, quite possibly both, and at some cost. Yet she’d only seen him in passing since Christmas, when she’d left him sitting in his car in front of Luna’s loft after gorging on the desserts he’d paid for.

That day in Butters Bakery . . . The things they’d left unsaid . . .

Once she’d made it upstairs to the reception, she’d stood by the loft’s windows, blinking back tears, and watching until he’d pulled away. She’d only been able to see a sliver of his car’s roof, and she’d had to stand on tiptoe to peer down at the street. He’d sat there in the idling vehicle for ten minutes, then burned rubber when he’d left.

Only when he pulled away had she realized she was shaking. Her hands, her knees. Her heart that wanted so badly to break. How had she let herself get so weak that she completely let down her guard?

This was frightening, and it tore her up because what she felt for Oliver cut to the core of who she was. Who she’d been since fifteen and her course set with the opposite sex. Robby’s assault had happened almost half her lifetime ago, and yet it ruled every choice she’d made since. A part of her knew she’d given too much power to that one boy, and that one night.

Yet how could she not?

Nothing about her seduction of Robby had compared to the tales Thea Clark told of the boys she’d had her way with. Thea’s stories had sent sparks tickling through Indiana’s body. She’d expected the same electric charge to happen from Robby’s touch, and it had, though the rest of her expectations couldn’t have been any further off base. Then had come the night of his attack, when fear had sluiced through her veins, as cold and cutting as ice shards.

Even now the emotion clutched hard, pulling her down, drowning her. She couldn’t let it,
she couldn’t let it
, and she stood, pushing up so swiftly her chair rocked back and fell to the floor. Leaving the bee in its box on the table, she exited the house, slamming through the back door before making her way to the closest greenhouse. It would be warm in the greenhouse, familiar, soothing. It would be safe. And her salvation.

She had starter plants at her Buda farm growing in biodegradable planting pots while waiting to be transferred into their permanent homes here. And here she had all the components of her growing mix, plus the trays for the larger pots.

Who cared that it was a holiday meant to celebrate romance? She was not a romantic. She was practical. She got things done. She didn’t let emotions get in the way of anything, and oh, she was such a liar. Emotions were eating her alive, crowding out logic and leaving her a mess. She hated being a mess. She hated it so very much.

She was sifting potting soil when he drove up. She’d heard the low thrum of his expensive import, wondering at first if she was hearing her bees, and what had their drone sounding so loud. She was being ridiculous, worrying the way she was, but since finding the dead one on her porch last month, she’d felt like a helicopter parent.

It took him a few minutes to find her, and waiting for him felt like a torturous game of hide-and-seek. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t think. She held her trowel so tightly her fingers lost all feeling. The cottage was unlocked, and she imagined him walking through the unfinished rooms, peeking into each, seeing the garage sale finds she’d moved in so she wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor between furniture pads, or eat standing up at the sink.

Seeing the discarded wrapping paper and packaging on the kitchen counter.

Seeing the bee in its box.

What would he think, the way she’d left it there, not ignored but not appreciated? Except she did appreciate it. More than she could put into words. She just didn’t know what she was supposed to do now . . .

“Hi,” he said, walking up behind her, having latched the door behind the influx of cool air. “It smells good in here.”

“It smells like dirt.” And now it smelled like him, spicy, earthy. Privileged.

“I’d say it smells like you,” he said, “but I don’t want you to think you smell dirty.”

She smiled at that. “I’ve been known to. But I know what you mean. It’s on my boots. I’m forever wiping my palms on my jeans or skirts. It gets under my fingernails. Even when I wear gloves, it gets under my fingernails.” Good grief, but she was babbling. “I don’t know how that happens.”

He moved to her side, leaned a hip against her worktable, shoved his hands in the pockets of his navy pants. Pants he wore with a pinstripe dress shirt beneath an argyle-patterned sweater in colors of heather and plum. Clothes from his old life, though his hair brushed his chin now, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

“I’ve never noticed,” he finally said, his gaze falling to the shovel in her hand. “And you’ve always smelled good.”

She couldn’t do this, be casual, be flirtatious, tease. He’d been clean shaven when he’d kissed her, and the way she wanted to feel his beard . . . She couldn’t.
She could not
. “About the necklace—”

“I know we left things up in the air at Christmas,” he said, turning to brace his backside and the heels of his palms against the table. Getting dirty. Not caring. “And I’d forgotten until today that this would be arriving. But I haven’t forgotten about you for one minute.” He paused, waited for her to look over. “And I’ve missed you like mad.”

Oh, her heart. Her stomach. Her heart. She did her best to breathe. His eyes were clear and bright, the circles beneath hardly visible at all. He looked good. So very good. She’d missed
him
like mad, and suddenly she found herself wanting to cry.

Why couldn’t life be simpler? “You sound like you’re in a better place than you were in December.”

He nodded, his hair falling forward. “I am. Eating right, getting enough sleep, working out.”

She could tell. “And painting.”

“And painting.”

Her eyes on her trowel and the dirt on the table, she thought back to the first new work he’d done. “More than bees, I hope?”

But he didn’t answer. He just stood there, waiting, staring, as if he knew he’d eventually get his way. That she’d stop what she was doing and pay attention to him. And she did.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling as he caught her gaze. “I’ve been painting, yes. More than bees, and I’d really love for you to come see what I’ve done.”

She listened to what he said, the words he used, the tone of his voice. But she also saw a plea in his eyes that left her thinking she had a decision to make: Did she follow her head, or her heart?

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” she heard herself saying, because now was not the time to determine the rest of her life.

“It’s all abstract,” he finally said, “but then you saw my idea of bees. And it’s all about Oscar and Sierra. Musical notes mostly. Cellos and pianos. It’ll all go in the arts center. The classrooms. The reception area. The board agreed.”

And Luna hadn’t told her? Then again, it was Oliver’s triumph, and his to share. “That’s wonderful.”

“So you’ll come see?”

“I’ll try.” Oh, that was lame. “I’m so busy.” And that even more so. “I might not be able to until they’re finished and installed across the street.” She added a laugh. It didn’t help. In fact, she feared it may have been the nail in the coffin of the effort he was making to either salvage or define what they’d had.

He nodded, knocked his fist against her table before pushing away. “I guess I’ll see you at the Meadowses’ for Easter.”

“I guess you will,” she replied, then because she really wasn’t a bitch, added, “I’m happy your painting is going so well. I really am. And thank you for the necklace. I don’t . . . You shouldn’t . . .” Gah, she didn’t even know what to say. “It’s too much. Really, Oliver. It’s too much for—”

“It’s not too much for anything,” he said, taking several backward steps toward the door and shrugging. “In fact, it’s nothing. It’s nothing at all.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he Easter barbecue at Meadows Land, the sheep farm owned by Luna’s parents, Harry and Julietta Meadows, was an annual tradition, though this year’s was Indiana’s first to attend. Mitch, Kaylie’s father, manned a fifty-five-gallon pit, and Harry, Luna’s father, manned one even larger, and the tables were piled high with so much food it seemed criminal.

There was chicken and sausage and brisket and ribs. There was potato salad—mustard-style, mayonnaise-style, warm German-style—and a macaroni salad with shredded radishes and ham. There was a tossed salad, a Jell-O salad with Red Hots, and a pea salad with cubes of cheddar cheese.

There were baked beans. There were mustard greens. Loaves of white bread and yellow-squash casserole and deviled eggs sprinkled with bright red paprika. And all of that before Indiana even got to the table laden with drinks and relish trays and desserts. So,
so
many desserts, and icings in every possible pastel to match the season. She thought she might just sit down and start loading her plate right there.

There were also kids everywhere dressed in their Sunday best, holding baskets at the ready. And there was Luna Meadows Caffey in charge of the annual Easter egg hunt. She’d wrangled the group like a boss, having hidden all the eggs and prizes herself this morning, and was now holding the little monsters at rapt attention as she explained the hunt’s rules. Also at rapt attention was Angelo, his expression as he watched his wife hold court as impatient as those of her subjects. It was a very personal impatience, and Indiana blushed.

Of course, she might’ve been more in a mood to enjoy it all if Oliver wasn’t staring at her from the far side of the Meadowses’ big yard. The expression on his face—hungry, expectant, restless—stirred emotions she’d thought long settled. Long because she hadn’t seen him but in passing since Valentine’s Day, and here it was closing in on the end of April.

At this rate, maybe they’d get their act together by Memorial Day. July 4th, even. Because it was obvious from the flutters tickling their way up her spine there was something very real lingering between them, something that refused to fade with time. It was worth holding close, this
something
, she was certain of it, and she didn’t have it in her to give up.

She’d driven over with Kaylie and Tennessee, and brought every one of the heirloom tomatoes from her greenhouse annex ripe enough to pick. The same tomatoes that had been destined for the Downtown Buda Farmers’ Market, but that she’d decided would make the perfect contribution to the community meal; she couldn’t pipe decorative frosting or deviled egg yolk to save her life.

“Indiana? Could I take those tomatoes off your hands?”

She supposed she did look rather lost, standing and holding the wicker basket. All she needed was a pair of ruby slippers, and to click her heels. The idea that she was so close to having everything she wanted, that she was almost home . . . She gave Dolly Pepper a smile. “I need to wash them. I just picked them this morning. And I hope you have a knife so I can slice them. I meant to bring one . . .”

Dolly gestured in the direction of the house. “Why don’t we do that real quick in Julietta’s kitchen? And maybe that young man will find something else to stare at while you’re inside.”

Good grief. Had everyone noticed? “Is it that obvious?”

“That he’s crazy about you?” Dolly held open the back door and smiled. “I’d say so.”

Indiana’s cheeks heated. “That wasn’t really what I meant.”

“Well, he is.” Dolly followed her into the kitchen. “Same as he was at Thanksgiving.”

Setting the basket on the counter next to the sink, Indiana said, “I’m just about to decide that it’s impossible for men and women to be friends.”

“Oh, sugar, that’s not the case at all,” Dolly said, echoing what Kaylie had told her. “Though granted, it works out a lot better without attraction to muck things up.”

“I didn’t mean for any of . . .
this
,” she said, gesturing with one hand and not even sure she knew what she meant, “to happen.”

“One rarely does,” Dolly said, setting a large colander into the sink, the simple gold band on her left hand reminding Indiana of the older woman’s unexpected romance. “It’s just the way of things, lightning striking when you least expect it.” She motioned for Indiana to get started. “How ’bout you wash and I slice?”

While Dolly found a cutting board, a long, serrated knife, and a large white plastic platter, Indiana turned on the faucet, looking out the window above the sink at the children scrambling through the ankle-high grass searching for treasures. “I’m not sure who’s having more fun, Luna or the kids.”

“Oh, Luna. Without a doubt. If she and Angelo decide to have a family of their own, she’s going to be an amazing mother. But then, it would be hard for her not to, with the example Julietta has set.” Dolly reached for the first tomato. “And Kaylie will be the same, with her foster mama looking over her shoulder every step of the way. May Wise was a wonderful mother.”

“Nurture over nature?” Which Indiana had to believe in with her history at home.

“Absolutely,” Dolly said. “Did you know I once met your parents?”

“Really? Where?” Because she couldn’t imagine Drew and Tiffany having reason to cross paths with the down-to-earth Dolly.

“Rick, my son, was in several classes with Kaylie when she lived with Winton and May. There was an educational fair, I guess it was, in Austin one year.” She paused, cocked her head, and frowned while she thought. “I chaperoned Rick’s class trip with another parent. Your parents had come as part of your school’s group.”

Indiana remembered the bus ride from Round Rock, but couldn’t recall much else about the trip. “Was it seventh-grade English maybe?”

Reaching for another tomato, Dolly nodded. “That sounds about right.”

“That was so long ago. I can’t believe you would remember meeting my folks.”

Dolly took a deep breath and blew it out while drawing the knife blade through a palm-size Mexican Red Calabash. “They were a hard couple to forget.”

Uh-oh. “Let me guess. They were more interested in quizzing the kids about the source of the food in their bagged lunches. And lecturing about the recyclable nature of their paper bags versus their plastic. Ahead of their time, my folks.”

Shaking her head, Dolly made a little sound Indiana wasn’t sure she could interpret. “I kept thinking what it must’ve been like for you and your brothers at home.”

“To tell you the truth, not as bad as you might imagine,” she said to set the older woman at ease. And really. Except for the lack of parenting, it hadn’t been. Though it was much easier to see that looking back now.

“It’s absolutely none of my business,” Dolly rushed to say, turning, contrite, to squeeze Indiana’s wrist. “That was totally out of line. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” But speaking of out of line . . . She watched the running water sluice over the last tomato, the thin skin of the plump fruit nearly vibrating. “Do you know Oliver’s parents?”

“Orville and Merrilee?” Getting back to her knife, Dolly nodded. “Sure. They probably moved to Hope Springs about the same time Rick’s father and I did.”

And?
she wanted to add, but it was bad enough that she’d been as nosy as she had. “Orville’s quite nice.”

Dolly chuckled. “Does that mean you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Merrilee?”

“I’ve met her, yes,” she said, and this time Dolly laughed.

“Not much of a pleasure, was it.”

“It was so unexpected I didn’t know what to think. It was before Oscar passed. She came to my office in Buda. Totally out of the blue.”

“
She
came to see you.” One hand on her hip, Dolly held the knife in the other and, staring at Indiana, repeated, “Merrilee Gatlin came to see you. In Buda.”

“It did seem strange . . .”

“What in the world did you ever do to her?” Dolly asked, laughing again, but this time with less humor than before, leaving Indiana to scan the yard, looking for Oliver.

“
I
didn’t do anything. Except mention to Oliver that I was going to look for Dakota.”

“Ah. And what did Oliver do?”

Dolly’s response had Indiana wondering what the other woman knew that she didn’t. “He hired the Gatlin family’s investigator.”

“To find your brother?”

Indiana nodded. “Is that weird? I mean, considering at the time Oliver and I had only talked a couple of times.”

“Oh, honey. No wonder he was looking at you like he wanted to eat you up. You know he wouldn’t do that for just anyone. I can only imagine what his mother had to say.”

“Mostly to leave him alone. It seems I don’t have the right pedigree.”

Dolly huffed. “Merrilee doesn’t even have the right pedigree. Not that you heard that from me.”

“Pray tell,” Indiana said, doing her best not to laugh at herself. Was she really standing here in Luna’s family’s kitchen gossiping with Kaylie’s stepmother about Oliver’s mother?

“Orville is the only one in the family to have come from money. Or to have made any money. To use Merrilee’s yardstick, he married beneath his station. And she’s done her absolute best to make sure he never regrets it, or that anyone would ever guess how far beyond the wrong side of the tracks she grew up.”

Indiana felt a pang of sympathy for the older woman. “She’s done a good job. I would never have known.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure her boys were ever aware.”

“Huh. I wonder what happened to make her so ashamed of her background.”

“You mean besides the background itself?” Focused on the spiral of tomatoes she was arranging on the platter, Dolly shook her head. “If there was a particular incident, I’ve never heard.”

“And how does your nurture-over-nature theory come into play here? I didn’t know Oscar, but Oliver seems quite well adjusted.” If not a little bit interfering. And possibly somewhat full of himself. Both traits that sounded just like his mother.

“I’d say it was their father’s influence that had both boys turning out so well, but Orville was always an absent father, the way he got wrapped up in his work. I don’t know this firsthand, of course, but gossip will be gossip.”

And apparently that was all there was going to be for now. Dolly rinsed her knife and the cutting board, stacked both with the colander on a towel. Then she picked up the tomatoes and gestured toward the door. “Let’s see if one of the kids has found Luna’s golden egg, shall we?”

He found her sitting on the stoop of what had once been Luna’s weaving shed, and before that a shearing barn her father had actually used. It was far enough from the Meadowses’ house to have offered Luna privacy while she worked, yet not so far that Indiana could be accused of abandoning the party.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Oliver said, staring down.

One side of Indiana’s mouth lifted as she raised her gaze to his. “And now you found me.”

He moved to sit beside her without asking, and braced his elbows on his knees. “Did you want to be alone?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she finally said, toying with the hem of her sweater.

He watched her thumb and forefinger rub at the fabric. “Are you not having a good time?”

“I was. I am.”

“Which is it?”

“I don’t know.” She shut her eyes, dropped her head back against the shed’s closed door. “It’s so dumb. But I see Kaylie with Mitch, and Mitch with Dolly, and Angelo with Harry Meadows, and I hate that Dakota’s not here to know everyone, and share in these friendships and enjoy the holidays.”

Her words had him bristling. This was where he was probably going to regret everything that came out of his mouth. But he couldn’t keep it in any longer. He’d known this woman six months, and he couldn’t recall a single time they’d been together that she hadn’t bemoaned her brother’s absence.

He got that. He better than anyone, good Lord. And because of that he didn’t want to see her let her missing Dakota ruin her life the way he’d let Oscar’s tragedy ruin his. “He’s probably somewhere with his own group of friends, biting off chocolate rabbit heads and chasing ’em with barbecued ribs.”

“I don’t care. I want him here.” Petulant and sulky and a testy crab. “With me and Tennessee. With Kaylie. He doesn’t even know he’s going to be an uncle. He needs to be here. Not”—she waved one hand—“wherever he is. Which I still don’t know. And I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will.”

He studied the ground, the tufts of grass between his shoes, the tiny ants scrabbling down between the blades, then lifted his head to look toward the party. “Why can’t you appreciate the family you have here? The friends? Why does everything have to revolve around your brother, who obviously doesn’t want to be a part of your life?”

The gears in her head, insulted and shocked, were whirring so loudly he swore he could hear her words even before she spoke. “Why would you say that? You don’t know anything about what Dakota does or doesn’t want.”

He knew Derek Wilborn hadn’t been able to find more than a faint trail. And any man who didn’t care about being found didn’t go to such lengths not to leave one.