Ignoring her first question, I kept going but gave Zara a genuine smile. “No need to twist my arm.”
A few minutes later, I walked past a few mismatched high-backed chairs and out the patio door to my car. Funny how chaos like this brought me comfort these days. It was such a dramatic departure from my whitewashed perfect world in New York. Kicking my tire, I called Hunnie.
She answered, saying, “Yo, Murphy, want to come by my place?”
“Um, sure. Want to send me the address?”
Just like that, I was driving along a winding two-lane road, dust kicking up in my wake, holding my breath I would make it to Hunnie’s apiary without my car breaking down. Her family had owned the place for three generations, she’d told me when I went back to see her at the farmers’ market, and she was looking to take it to the next level.
Finally, when I saw a signed marked hunnie’s sweetest honey infusions , I took a left down the driveway. Tall trees lined the gravel road, and again I feared for my poor car. Doing as Hunnie told me, I drove around the main house and parked in front of what she called her she-shed.
Her shed was exactly how I would have pictured it . . . worn-in ivory-painted wood, an adorable small porch complete with a rocking chair, and the windows wide open. I couldn’t see Hunnie living anywhere else.
A tiny wave of melancholy swept over me. Would I ever be so perfectly content?
As I swung open my car door, a reminder of what I’d asked Ben flashed in my mind. Does he have a thing for Hunnie?
Maybe I’m just a “friend” to him like when I friendzoned him back at Pressman. After all, when I sort of begged for him to have me last night, he told me to wait.
“Oh, great. You’re here.”
The door swung open and there stood Hunnie, wearing jean shorts and a red tank, her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, her feet bare.
“If your white shorts didn’t give you away as a newbie back at the market, that car would have. Jesus, you are not prepared for Vermont winters, girl,” she said, pointing at my beater.
“I know. Sadly, this is the best I can do for the moment.”
“Well, we’re going to have to deal with that later.” Hunnie waved me in, her bun bouncing on top of her head.
Not bothering to lock my car, I walked up the one step to her shed and entered what looked like a magical emporium. Glass bottles of all shapes and sizes filled with golden liquids lined the far wall of shelves opposite a log-burning fireplace. The other wall served as a small kitchen, housing a farmer’s sink, a stove, and a fridge. The fourth wall, faced with exposed brick, held picture frames of every shape and size.
“Most of them are my grandma Christine.” Hunnie pointed at the wall and then turned her attention back to me. “So, here’s the thing, Murphy. When I put in the ad, I thought I’d get a student from Burlington University, home for the summer and willing to do my bidding on the cheap. But now I have you, a city slicker wise beyond what I need. To be honest, I can’t pay much, but I’m going to pay you more than I would a student.”
“Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to do this gratis for you, but . . . but you saw my car,” I said, stumbling over my own words, a stranger to this kind of brutal honesty. I ducked my head, letting my hair curtain my burning cheeks.
“I would never let you do this for free,” she said, “but I need this to work. Yeah, my parents have given me a lot of leash with this infusion stuff, and I need it to fly. Also, the petting zoo . . . it’s what all these moms with disposable cash are looking for when they come for these hiking and ski weekends.”
Hunnie plopped onto a purple velour couch and motioned for me to sit in a red velour chair. This place was like Alice in Wonderland’s secret hideout.
“You see, they want an authentic experience,” she said. “Know what I mean?”
I nodded, not fully getting it, but fake it until you make it.
“I don’t want to take advantage of them. That’s not me. But they want to feel like they really did Vermont. And of course, goat yoga will be on the menu.”
I couldn’t help it, but my mind went right to Ben and what he said. He knew she would want that, because he really knew her and she really knew him. It wasn’t like how things were with us.
Standing, I walked toward the wall of photos. My mind spun with a few ideas, something else I couldn’t help. My mind liked to work, and it needed the exercise. After years of Pressman and college, taking the courses my parents told me to, then working as a student advisor after getting a marketing degree, I needed a chance to do something I actually liked.
“I’m not from Vermont,” I said as thoughts pinged in my brain, “but what strikes me about this place is the connections, the roots you all have planted here, more firmly planted than the ancient trees. You’re firmly entrenched in the area . . . in the soil.”
Wandering over to the window, I placed my hand on the glass, taking in the beauty outside—tall bright green trees, lush grass, wide-open fields, and a few dogs roaming about. It was straight out of a picture book.
“Must be pretty in the fall, when the leaves are changing,” I said. “What color do those turn to be?”
Hunnie patiently granted me this change of subject, a complete one-eighty from the internship or her honey, but a necessary diversion for me. “Red, burnt orange, yellow. Those sugar maples line the road all the way to Ben’s
