Rosemary closed her sketch pad and stood. “I thought the mama bear thing was about protecting your kids?”
“You’re my little sister, Rose. Close enough.” Astrid smiled at her.
“You’ve got a point.” Her sisters had always been protective of her. If it hadn’t been for Poppa Tom, Willadeene Svoboda would still be talking about the ruckus that would have unfolded between her sisters and Kate and Libby Owens. Thankfully, his cooler head and wise counsel had reminded them that the Owens girls didn’t have the loving and supportive family she and her sisters had. Even though the knowledge didn’t make the bullying bearable, it had helped her endure it silently. The one time Poppa Tom had gone to the school to try to intervene hadn’t made a difference, so Rosemary had only shared with her sisters.
“Do you think that’s enough?” Astrid pointed at the new pea gravel they’d spread beneath the hives earlier.
Honey Hill Farms used a variety of anti-varroa-mite and anti-hive-beetle tactics. Their hives were all elevated off the ground and mounted on platforms. The ground below the hives was covered with river rock or pea gravel. Sprigs of thyme—a natural deterrent to hive invaders—grew in several places among the bee yards. And then there were the chickens and guinea fowl that roamed the property, happily making a meal of any would-be hive invaders.
Rosemary walked around the hive stands and nodded. “I think we’re good.”
“Good.” Astrid blew a strand of hair from her face. “I’m feeling nauseous. I could use some water and shade.”
“Oh, Astrid. I’m sorry. I got caught up in my drawing.” She hurried to clean up, loaded their spades into the wagon, then grabbed the handle to pull it along behind them. “Are you sure you should be out and about like this?”
Astrid snorted. “I’m pregnant. Not an invalid.”
“Right. Got it. Okay.” She shrugged. “I’ve never been pregnant, you know. In fact, I think you’re the first pregnant person I’ve known. Is that weird?”
“You tend to hang out with bee addicts whose only real relationships are with bees, so no, not really.” She glanced at her sister. “Circling back to the annual convention. Tansy and Dane are presenting on their agritourism venture. She’d never admit it, but she’s nervous.”
Tansy was nervous? Her big sister was always confident and purposeful. At least, that’s how she acted. But if she was nervous... It made Rosemary’s decision easy. Tansy had always been Rosemary’s cheerleader, and now it was Rosemary’s turn. “Then I’ll go. It will help her to see a few goofy faces in the audience.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Maybe I’ll go, just for the day?” Astrid grabbed her free hand. “Maybe me being there will help you, too? I know it won’t be easy for you.”
“It will only be hard if I let it be.” She was done letting Dr. James too-big-for-his-britches Voigt get in her head. It was hard to align the charming man who’d bolstered her confidence and inspired her to work harder and get more results with the man who’d stolen her work. Though nothing had happened between them, he’d been fully aware of how enamored she was with his experience, knowledge, and respected reputation—and he’d taken full advantage of that and her. She’d never suspected he was setting her up, why would she? But he had, and she was devastated. Betrayed. Angry.Enough of that.
They followed the trail around the lavender fields and along the fence. While the temperatures weren’t unbearably hot, the air was balmy and heavy with fragrance. “It’s one of the scents I can still tolerate. Thankfully.” Astrid took a deep breath. “I can’t say the same for mint or laundry detergent or corn chips.” She stuck her tongue out. “Gag.”
Along the way to the house, Rosemary found herself caught up in all things familiar and precious. The large Spanish oak that stood alone by the fence. The windmill on the old Wallace place—barely visible when they reached the top of the hill. The gray and rotting bits of wood that once served as their tree house and spy fort for keeping tabs on the evil Knudsons. The tree house was gone, but the memories she and her sisters had made were things she’d always treasure.
“Oh, lookee there.” Astrid nodded at one of the flower beds along the front of the house. More specifically, the two people working in the flower bed. “Aunt Mags and Mr. Dunholm.”
Rosemary wasn’t sure what was going on between the two of them, but for Shelby’s sake, she hoped they’d called a truce. “Mags loves to garden. Maybe he does, too?”
The closer they got, the louder the conversation between Aunt Mags and Roman Dunholm became.
“I’m sure your fertilizer is adequate, but we compost for a reason.” Aunt Mags knelt on a folded towel, her wide-brimmed hat shielding her face.
“I’m not suggesting you replace the compost. Only mixing the two.” Roman stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze traveling over the overflowing flower beds.
“I’ll take that into consideration.” She went back to spreading the compost mixture around her beloved rosebushes, asters, and chrysanthemums.
Roman chuckled. “Something tells me you won’t.”
Rosemary grinned. He was right about that. Aunt Mags did things the way her parents had—and her grandparents before that. It would take a miracle for that to change.
“Did we miss lunch?” Astrid asked, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Not that I’m all that hungry.”
“I had a bite not too long ago.” Aunt Mags sat back, her green eyes fixing on Astrid. “But you should eat, Astrid. For the baby.”
“I will.” Astrid sighed. “Assuming I can keep anything down.”
“Try, at least.” Aunt Mags nodded. “You should join them, Roman. Since you’re something of a chef, I’m sure you could...whip something up for them?”
Roman had a rather nice smile. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone.”
As hard as she tried, Rosemary couldn’t stop her smile. At least he had a sense of humor.
