Betsy Beekeeper's Arc

Chapter 9 of 10

Betsy slept four hours on the shed floor and woke to a cold sun. The cuttings in the lean-to were still standing. The outside bed showed two new blooms with the same deep red centers as the first. She should have felt relief. Instead she stood in the doorway holding a jar of pink honey from last week's pull, and thought about Morris. The fair was Saturday. Six days. Morris had the premium booth and a reputation for winning. If she brought pink honey and he brought pink honey, the judges would have no way to tell whose bees had found the flower first. He could say he'd cultivated it for years. She had no paperwork. No witnesses. She had done this alone. She set the jar on the shed table and made a list on the back of a feed receipt. Photographs of the mound, dated. Photographs of the greenhouse and the outside bed. A sample of pink pollen scraped from a returning bee. A signed and dated statement from the co-op manager, who had tasted the honey in June when she brought her bulk jars in. She drove to town before the co-op opened. The manager arrived at seven with his coffee. She showed him the jar and asked him to write down what he remembered — the date she'd first brought a small taster in, the color, the flavor. He wrote it out on co-op letterhead and signed it. He said Morris had been in twice asking about her pink jars. Her hands went cold on the counter. She drove home faster than she should have. In the kitchen she laid the letter flat and photographed it. She photographed the greenhouse from four angles, the outside bed with its new red-centered blooms, the sunken bowl where the mound had been. She caught a forager at the hive entrance and shook her gently into a jar. The bee's back legs were packed thick with pink. She sealed the jar and labeled it with the date. Then she drove to the notary above the hardware store. She brought the photographs, the co-op letter, the pollen sample, and three sealed jars of the pink honey. The notary stamped and dated an inventory of everything on the desk. She paid twenty-two dollars and walked out with a certified envelope in her hand. At home she pinned the envelope to the shed wall above her workbench. The pink honey jar sat below it, catching the late light. The proof existed now. Morris could bring whatever he wanted to the fair. She could show a paper trail six days deep and a co-op manager who would swear to June. She went out to check the hives. A forager landed on the platform with her legs bright pink. Betsy watched her walk into the box. Six days. She still had to make the entry honey itself, and it had to be the best jar she had ever filled.