Betsy Beekeeper's Arc

Chapter 10 of 10

Betsy carried the sealed envelope out to her truck at dawn. The paper trail proved she'd made pink honey first. It proved nothing about whether the honey was good. Judges tasted before they read. If Morris walked in with a smoother jar, her documents would sit on the table unopened. She needed a name the judges already respected to say, on record, that her honey was extraordinary. She drove into town with a jar of the pink honey wrapped in a dish towel on the passenger seat. The confectioner kept a shop three blocks from the fairgrounds. Betsy had never spoken to her. She had only seen her once, judging pastry at last year's fair, tasting each entry with a small silver spoon and writing a single line in a notebook. The judges had leaned in to read what she wrote. The shop smelled of burnt sugar. Marguerite Dulcet stood behind the counter in a white coat with gold buttons, pulling a tray of candied violets from a rack. Her hair was pinned high and silver. She did not look up. "I keep a list," Marguerite said. "You can leave a sample. I taste on Thursdays." "It's Wednesday," Betsy said. "Then leave it and come back." Betsy set the jar on the counter and unwrapped it. The honey caught the shop light and threw a rose color onto the marble. Marguerite's hands stopped moving. She set the tray down. "Where." "My field. Pink flowers. I've been working three months for one clean jar." Marguerite took a fresh spoon from a drawer. She dipped, held it to the light, then to her mouth. She closed her eyes. She dipped a second time and did the same. She did not speak for a long moment. "Saturday," Betsy said. "The fair. Morris will bring a jar that looks like this. I have papers that prove I made it first. I need somebody the judges already trust to say it tastes like what I say it tastes like." Marguerite opened her eyes. "You're asking me to sign a statement." "Yes." "I don't sign for people I don't know." "You know the honey now." Marguerite looked at her for a long time. Then she took a card from beside the register, wrote three lines on the back, and pressed her thumb into a red wax stamp beside her signature. She slid it across the marble. "That's my note to the head judge. It says this jar is the finest honey I have tasted in twenty years of judging. It does not say who made it. If Morris brings the same flavor, the note helps him as much as you." Betsy took the card. Her hand was steady for the first time in a week. "Then I have to make sure my jar is better than his." "Yes," Marguerite said. "You do."