Charmaine stood there a moment, her elevens shifting, like she expected something more—and was still waiting for it—even as she finally accepted that nothing more was coming.
She let go of the bottle as Zig gripped it with both hands. It was heavier than he remembered. “By the way, I’m sorry things have been hard with you and Warren. He’s still a good guy. Give him a chance.”
“We’ll work it out. Or we won’t,” she said, truly at peace, still standing there in the fading sun, looking as beautiful as he’d ever seen her—but also, in the subtle tilt of her head, looking sad.
Years from now, Zig would remember this moment, remember this woman in his doorway, the sunlight on her cheeks, his fingertips anxiously tracing the etched patterns on this antique bottle. Over Charmaine’s shoulder was her parked car, an old forest-green Subaru covered in yoga and 26.2 marathon bumper stickers. Over Zig’s shoulder was a quiet house.
Most people think morticians are obsessed with death, or at least fascinated with it. For years, Zig’s greatest fear was that death was all he was good at. Over time, especially lately, the universe seemed to be reminding him of that fact. But just being near Charmaine again—to feel the tug, the undertow of that old connection . . . just her smell of lavender and worn leather—nothing on this planet so instantly reminded him of one of the greatest, most rewarding things he’d ever accomplished—like his old life was right there, waiting to be reclaimed. All he had to do was ask.
Would it really be so bad to invite her inside?
Zig held his breath. Leaning toward her, he gave her a quick hug, adding a pat on the back. “It really was great seeing you again, Char.” Lifting the crystal bottle, he added, “Thanks again for returning this to its rightful owner.”
“Sure . . . no . . . of course. It was great seeing you, too, Ziggy.”
“Send my best to Warren,” he added, rubbing the back of his head to feel the patches of missing hair. Before Charmaine could react, Zig closed the door.
He loved her—he’d always love her. And maybe one day they’d give it a shot and try again. But not today.
Five minutes later, Zig was in his backyard, opening the roof of his hive, adding a fresh round of bee whiskey.
“I know, I know. Don’t even say it,” Zig said to his favorite girls.
Mmmmmmmm, thousands of bees sang back.
“You always liked her better.”
Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, the bees agreed, sounding stronger than ever.
“You gotta admit, she looked gorgeous, right?” Zig asked as he reached into the hive and pulled out a flat wooden frame. At the center of it was a smushed oval pattern, like a deflated basketball—a large cluster of larvae and eggs. Good sign, lots of activity.
As he pulled it closer, it wasn’t hard to find the queen. He just looked for her attendants, a dozen bees, all of them pointing their heads toward her, grooming her, taking care of her—making sure she was safe. Queens weren’t larger than other bees. Their giveaway was their shape—longer abdomen and legs; shorter wings. Plus, her back was bald and shiny.
“Looking good, your majesty,” he said to Diana-28.
Some queens were skittish. Diana-28 moved slowly, poised and proud. The hive was thriving.
Sliding the wood frame back into place, Zig pulled out a different one. Similar oval, similar larvae and eggs, and yes, similar attendants. But at the center of this crowd? Diana-27. The old queen.
Back on the night Zig got out of the hospital, he was ready to squish Diana-27. According to the experts, when you have two queens, it’s the only way for the hive to survive. Kill one to save the other. Otherwise, they’ll battle to the death, potentially killing both in the process. Game of Combs, one of the websites warned. Bee-mageddon.