Between You, Me, and the Honeybees

Between You, Me, and the Honeybees

“Authentic and heartwarming.” —Laura Taylor Namey, New York Times bestselling author of A Cuban Girl’s Guide to Tea and Tomorrow Perfect for fans of Jenn Bennett and Sarah Dessen, this swoon-worthy novel follows a teen girl during her California summer of beekeeping, secrets, and stolen kisses. Josie Hazeldine has just graduated from high school, and she’s ready for a summer full of sunshine, beekeeping, and…lying to her mom. Josie’s mom couldn’t be more proud of her daughter going to college, something she never got to do. But Josie wants to stay in her California hometown and take over the family business, Hazeldine Honey. So that college acceptance her mom is thrilled about? Yeah, Josie turned it down. But she’s going to come clean—just not yet. The neighbor’s artsy, adorable grandson who’s in town for the summer makes Josie’s web of lies even more tangled. He’s into Josie and the feeling is very mutual, but he’s a Blumstein—the sworn enemy of the Hazeldines and their number one competition in the annual Honey Show at the end of July. As their secret fling goes on, Josie knows she’s getting in way too deep to leave him behind when summer’s over. Can Josie keep the boy she can’t stop thinking about without the secrets she’s juggling crashing down around her? Amelia Diane Coombs is the author of Keep My Heart in San Francisco ; Between You, Me, and the Honeybees ; Exactly Where You Need to Be ; and All Alone with You . She’s a northern California transplant living in Seattle, Washington, with her spouse and their Siberian cat. When she isn’t writing or reading, Amelia spends her time playing video and tabletop games, road-tripping, and hiking the Pacific Northwest. Chapter One Chapter One LITTLE-KNOWN FACT: HONEYBEES are nature’s first feminists. I hold the hive frame up to my face, and scan the layer of fuzzy bees that cover the wax comb. After I track down the laying queen—the key indicator of a healthy colony—I set the frames back into the hive body. I give them a puff from the smoker to clear any bees off the tops of the frames, then lower the copper lid into place. A few girls fly onto the landing strip, their back legs swollen with pollen. They look like colorful balloon pants—white, red, yellow, purple, and gray blues. Over the years I’ve learned everything about the ecosystem of the beehive. For instance, any honeybee out in the wild, climbing over flower petals collecting pollen or nectar, is female. I could go on about them for hours, but if you have to know one thing about honeybees (other than we’d die without them), know this: Male bees are drones, and drones either (a) die while mating with another hive’s queen or (b) get kicked out of the hive when winter comes. Sometimes the females chew off their wings so they can’t fly or return to the hive. They’re an advanced society. I step beneath the vine-covered archway and dump the smoker onto the bench, popping off the lid with my thumb. Dark tendrils curl into the air, the charred remains of twigs and fire-starter fibers turning to ash in the wind. My phone buzzes, but since it’s tucked into the back pocket of my shorts, I don’t bother to check it. My nitrile gloves don’t work on touch screens. Not like I need to look at the text to know it’s Nan prodding me with reminders. Like I’d forget my own high school graduation. Bail on it, play hooky? Sure. But my head’s not too far into the clouds to forget the actual ceremony. I snap off the gloves, sticky with strings of honey, and toss them in a sealed garbage bin beneath the table. Exhaling, I drag my fingers through my damp hair. Even without a protective bee suit, sweat rolls down my back, collecting in the waistband of my shorts. I lean against the workbench and take a moment. Breathe. Listen to the slow, steady pound of my heart. Out in the apiary, the worries of daily life fall away. I’m able to forget everything and focus on being present. Since my anxiety disorder isn’t going away anytime soon, I spend most of my free time out with the bees. More so when I’m stressing out about life, my future. My phone buzzes again. I push away from the workbench and force myself back toward our two-story renovated farmhouse. I slide my phone from my pocket and unlock the screen, scanning the text message. NAN: Be there in fifteen! ME: Okay, okay! Meet you out front I tuck my phone back into my pocket and try to shake off the creeping unease clinging to my shoulders. My beekeeping- induced calm is slipping away, lessening with each step I take closer to the house. “Josie!” Mom leans out the back patio door, waving me inside. “Isn’t Nan picking you up any minute?” “Sorry, lost track of time,” I lie as I hop up the patio stairs. Before entering the house, I pat down my body, making sure a bee isn’t hitching a ride with me inside. All clear. I scoot past Mom and step over Ford, our ancient French bulldog who’s curled up at the base of the stairs, and run up