The Wedding Bees (6 page)

12
TH

M
arlena bought Theo a cupcake, which had never happened before. He was more of a shortbread person, as it happened, but he would rather face three inches of putrid pale pink frosting than risk hurting her feelings. He would rather face three feet of it.

Plus it was truly difficult for a Scotsman to look a gift horse in the mouth. It hardly ever happened.

“I see from the time of night you've been sending e-mails this week that your dating has come to a standstill,” Marlena said. “What's up with that?”

“I thought I saw her,” Theo said. “Sugar, I mean. The one I told you about. And even though it turned out not to be her, it got me thinking.”

“Oh, thinking,” Marlena said. “Yeah, sure, like you haven't done enough of
that
since your divorce.”

“As you're clearly taking such a close interest, you might like to know then that I'm also doing a wee bit of stalking.”

“OK,” said Marlena. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

Marlena had worked within eyeshot of Theo ever since he first arrived in New York so knew all about his meteoric rise in fortune, his catastrophic marriage to a society blonde and his subsequent descent into misery. She'd also played a bigger role than she knew in his salvation.

Theo had been fully aware how much his mother would have despised the person he turned into after marrying Carolyn. And the one he turned into after Carolyn left him for their Amagansett gardener, Joe. But every time Marlena brought him an aspirin after a big night out or walked in on an unsavory phone conversation or laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder just when he most ached for a gentle touch, he was reminded how much he once wanted to be a man of whom his mother would be proud.

And with Marlena's stoic support he eventually turned back into that person.

He'd changed so much since those days. He had a different job, a different haircut, he wore different clothes. He was just plain different. And he was much better at being different than he was at trying to fit in, which was what he'd attempted in the first few years after he moved to New York.

“You just have to accept that you have old-fashioned values,” his therapist had told him when they both agreed he was no longer likely to rip the heads off flowers or beat up people called Joe, which meant he could stop coming. “I guess it's a Scottish thing. But it can put you at odds with the modern world so you must always trust your instincts, Theo. You have really good instincts.”

His instincts were now telling him that his mother might no longer be around to counsel him while sipping on a Rusty Nail and sucking on a cigarette, but he could hear her voice ringing in his ears all the same. He would know the one when he found her, she'd said. Without a shadow of a doubt. The problem was that he now thought he had found her but he'd lost her before the shadow of a doubt could either make itself obvious or be discounted. His instincts clearly weren't
that
good—they hadn't even kicked in enough at the time to do anything sensible like nudge him to ask Sugar for her number. But they were still suggesting that if he kept looking for her, he would find her.

He'd practically made a nuisance of himself hanging around Alphabet City since the aborted date with Anita, asking after Sugar at the Tibetan handicrafts store, the Indian spice shop and even at the dive bar on the corner of Sixth Street, where he was pretty sure they thought he was a cop.

His instincts told him to get the hell out of there before he got his arse kicked. They also told him that the coffee at Ninth Street Espresso was better than the coffee at the bar next door but he couldn't see enough of Avenue B from there.

13
TH

I
f there was one place Sugar had come to feel truly comfortable, it was among a crowd of people yet to discover the joy of good manners.

When she first fled the South, full of shame and remorse at her own unforgivable rudeness, she had been totally overwhelmed by the lack of courtesy shown in the world outside the one she knew. On the leafy peninsula of Charleston, South Carolina, where she'd been born and bred, folks still said “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me” even if they were hopped up on goofballs, pointing a shotgun at you and demanding the contents of your purse. But farther north, it had been the first of many rude shocks—rude being the operative word—to discover that courtesy counted for far less.

Until she found herself adrift from her family, her future, her home and her friends, Sugar had not known how important common courtesy was to her. In fact, she had not known what was important to her at all. In those first few dark months, however, she'd had plenty of time to take a good hard look at herself and she had seen, stripped of all her history, what was left of her, what lay at her core. There wasn't much there. So what there was counted for a lot.

She had her manners. And she had her bees.

Both of these she had inherited from her grandfather: the most important fixture in her past and a devoted beekeeper who cared about manners more than most. “Doesn't matter if no one else has them,” he'd once told her, “just so long as you do. That's how good manners work. Do unto others as you would have done unto you. Manners aren't anything but a polite person being nice, no matter what everyone else is doing. But they make the world a better place, Sugar Honey, you can trust me on that. So don't you ever go forgetting yours, you promise?”

She had promised, and she had broken that promise, but only once; and as she traveled across the country year after year, tending her bees and harvesting her honey, she tried to spread her manners around as much as she could to make up for that single transgression.

It was what her grandfather would have wanted, she figured. And it wasn't exactly hard to make improvements when the starting point was quite so low.

No matter where she went—California, Colorado, Washington, Pennsylvania, Vermont, wherever—pretty much nobody was as clued into manners as she was.

And 33 Flores Street was certainly no exception.

“I do believe that George can help make this world a better place,” Sugar told Elizabeth the Sixth once she'd escorted him back downstairs and seen him on his way. “And I know just the way to get everyone to agree with me.”

It was called brunch.

Very early the next morning, Sugar heard her 5A neighbor rustling in his window boxes. She slipped on her robe and scuffed over to the French doors, opening them enough to poke her nose out and pick up the scent of butter, flour, sugar, eggs and a hot oven working their indisputable magic.

The sun was coming up, casting its cotton candy colors on the skyline; the early-morning shadows fell across the surrounding rooftops like Dr. Seuss fingers on crooked piano keys.

She stood there for a while, breathing in the city, the baking, the good fortune of finding herself in such a delicious moment.

She could see someone behind 5A's curtains moving around the tiny apartment.

She slipped out onto the terrace, whispered a quick good morning to her bees, and faced the windows.

“Sugar Wallace from 5B right next door speaking,” she said. “I've invited everyone else in the building for brunch and I just wanted to make sure you got the note I put under your door.”

The figure stopped moving and sniffed loudly.

“I completely understand if you would rather keep to yourself but there is a small matter I need to discuss with you personally if you would be so kind.”

The figure moved closer and sniffed again.

“The thing is, I need to introduce my bees; it's the polite thing to do, because they're living even closer to you than I am.”

Sniff.

“This is my queen, Elizabeth the Sixth, and her subjects. There aren't too many of them just yet but she's building up her numbers and I'd like to move the hive a little closer to your window boxes if that's OK.”

Sniff.

“Would you like a handkerchief? I have a whole drawer full of them inside.”

The figure moved again, then the curtain drew back just enough for an arm to emerge, bearing a basket full of pastries.

“For me?” Sugar said. “Oh, you shouldn't have!” She took the basket and grasped the hand that had held it before it could be drawn back.

It was a solid young man's hand. A worker, she thought, possibly redheaded.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Nate,” he said, sniffing again. “Just Nate.”

He pulled back his arm and let the curtain fall.

“The bees are fine,” he said from behind it. “I like bees.”

“And brunch?”

“No.”

“No you don't like it or no to the invitation?”

“I like it but no.”

Not so much iffy as just plain shy, Sugar thought. She could deal with shy. “Well, you just sit tight,” she said. “You should be able to hear everything from right there anyway.”

She was not sure who, if any, of the other neighbors would show up although she had slipped invitations under each of their doors the previous evening, promising food and goodie bags to take home. “Everyone likes a goodie bag,” she told her bees.

Mrs. Keschl, as it turned out, was particularly fond of them. She arrived an hour early.

“I don't want that old fink McNally making off with more than his fair share,” she said, pushing past Sugar and looking around the apartment. “Plus I like to make sure the facilities are properly cleaned. Hospital corners on the bed. Good to see.”

“Would you like coffee or tea?” Sugar asked.

“I suppose. So you like this color orange?”

“I do like this color orange, as it happens, although I'm not sure I would have chosen it myself. It strikes me every day as pleasantly surprising, I guess is how I would put it.”

“Oh, you're one of those,” said Mrs. Keschl, fixing her with a beady eye.

“One of what?”

“One of those glass-half-full types. I've met people like you before and let me tell you this; surprising is just another word for shocking. You think I don't do the crossword? And shocking is never good. That guy who moved you in, that your boyfriend?”

“No, I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No, I don't have a girlfriend either. What about you?”

“What about me what?”

“Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

“Are you kidding me? Girlfriends weren't invented when I was on the market and boyfriends in my experience are nothing but a ton of flesh and bone just sitting there waiting to turn themselves into deadbeat husbands who will squash the joy of living out of you as soon as look at you. I had one of those for twenty-three years and I won't be having another one.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear you've had such a bad time,” Sugar said, thinking that she needed to make sure Mrs. Keschl did not sit next to Ruby.

“We've been divorced twenty-seven years now,” Mrs. Keschl said with a dismissive flap of her hand, following Sugar out onto the rooftop. “Although hardly a moment passes when I don't wish he was dead or, you know, permanently disfigured. Bees!” she said, clapping her eyes on the hive.

She seemed to be smiling.

“You like bees?” asked Sugar.

“My grandmother had them, back in Hungary. Talked about them like they were her children.”

“Did she keep any here?”

“She didn't live in some fancy schmancy penthouse like this! Although I think her apartment was bigger. No, nobody kept bees in the city in those days. But I took her to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden one day—you been there?—and do you think she cared about the tulips or the roses or the flowering rhododendrons? No. All she cared about were the bees. Made her happy and God knows her glass was almost always completely empty.”

The muffled rooftop air was pierced then by the approach of Lola and Ethan.

“Oh, crap,” Mrs. Keschl said. “You had to ask the bad balloon seller?”

“I asked everyone in the building,” Sugar said.

“You should can my coffee order then,” snapped Mrs. Keschl. “I don't want to be awake for too much of this.”

Lola looked tired and suspicious, yet seemed to relax when Sugar took Ethan straight out of her arms and led her out onto the terrace to sit with Mrs. Keschl at the table that she had laid with her honey loaf, Nate's pastries, fresh berries, cream and jugs of iced tea.

Sugar then took the little boy back inside and quickly checked his ears and throat. She wondered if his sinuses were inflamed because of allergies, and she got a piece of honeycomb out of the fridge for him.

“Hey, looks like she got the brat to shut up for once,” said Mrs. Keschl, not altogether unkindly.

Lola opened her mouth to bite back but instead just reached for a pastry and flopped in her seat. Despite the warm morning sun, she was wearing a fluffy vest in fluorescent green, and her hair was up in bunches. She dressed like a much happier person.

“I gave him some honeycomb,” Sugar said, bringing Ethan back to the table. “I hope you don't mind. It's a little sticky but otherwise delicious and it's my own so I know exactly what's in it, which is nothing but good old-fashioned bee stuff.”

Ethan took the comb out of his mouth and smiled at them all.

Lola gaped. “You can give him whatever you like if it makes him do that.”

“Kid's quite cute when it stops its caterwauling,” said Mrs. Keschl.

A gentle knock at the door heralded the arrival of Ruby but when Sugar answered the door they were both almost bowled over by Mr. McNally, who thrust his way straight toward the terrace without even stopping to say hello.

“I should have known,” he said to Mrs. Keschl, grabbing a pastry and taking a bite before he sat down, crumbs cascading. “Any chance of a free feed and there you are.”

“Meanwhile you're sitting at home with your hand in your pocket,” Mrs. Keschl returned.

“That sounds disgusting,” said Lola.

“And who are you?” Mr. McNally asked Lola.

“I'm Lola, from the second floor.”

“And this is Ruby from the first floor,” said Sugar. “I'm sorry, I thought you would know each other already.”

“I know him and that's one too many,” Mrs. Keschl said.

“And I know her too, more's the pity.”

“OK then,” Sugar intervened, sensing blows were soon to be exchanged, “before I tell you the special reason I asked you all here today, these beautiful pastries were made by Nate, who lives in Apartment 5A but couldn't be with us this morning.”

“Is that the big guy with the ginger hair?” Lola asked.

“All I know is that he's a real good baker and has a very nice voice. Don't you think these are delicious?”

Everyone, apart from Ruby who couldn't even look at the pastries, agreed.

“Also, I need to make sure that it's OK with you all for me to keep my bees up here.”

Mr. McNally's eyes swiveled around the rooftop and alighted on the hive. His features seemed to soften and Sugar caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like before he was old and angry. “Honey on porridge oats. Now there's a feed.”

“Are you allowed to keep bees up here?” Ruby asked.

“Of course I am, sweetie! Do I look like a rule breaker to you?”

“You look like Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
,” said Mrs. Keschl. “But with better hair. I'm ready for my coffee now, by the way.”

“So we're all good with the hive?” Sugar asked, and everyone nodded. “Coffee coming right up then.” She smiled, just as there was another firm knock on the door. “Although first, there is someone else I would like to introduce.”

Her neighbors looked at each other as Sugar opened the door. As far as they knew, they were all already there apart from Nate, who wasn't coming.

“This is George Wainwright,” Sugar called from the doorway as they peered over and saw George standing there hanging on to the frame with both hands. “And he won't be staying as he suffers from vertigo and prefers it on the ground floor, which is where you will see him from now on.” She gave George a pastry and introduced him to her other guests.

“Pleased to meet you,” George said. “And thank you for having me. But if that will be all . . . ?”

“That will be, George. Just quickly, how's the leg?”

“It's a miracle, like you said.”

“Well, we can all do with one of those,” said Sugar. “See you downstairs?”

“Indeed. Good day.”

She shut the door and turned back to her neighbors.

“And who the heck was that?” Mrs. Keschl demanded.

“That was our new doorman,” Sugar explained, bringing out the coffeepot and pouring the coffee into mugs.

“Our doorman?” echoed Mr. McNally.

“Yes,” Sugar said, offering him another pastry, which he took. “The poor man is a real natural when it comes to doors but is temporarily without one due to being replaced by a camera so I said he could have ours. I hope none of you mind. It's presumptuous of me I know, and I'm sorry for that, but it won't cost a thing. And we have two doors downstairs and they are both quite hard to open—had you noticed? Especially if you are carrying anything.”

“You're a real whack job, you know that,” Mrs. Keschl said. “This is Alphabet City—not Trump Towers. We don't have doormen down here.”

“Well, why shouldn't we?” countered Mr. McNally. “We're as good as anyone on the Upper East Side.”

“Better, in my opinion,” said Ruby.