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Frankly, I’m not sure I’d believe her if it wasn’t for the photos she attached, which show a rack of honeycomb and the most purple honey I’ve ever seen in my life.
It looks more like paint, something you’d use to dress up a pumpkin on Halloween or smear on a canvas while you’re watching Bob Ross.
I ignore the rest of her garbled incoming texts, which keep raving about this bee-given miracle and how I need to come overthis instant.
I’m wincing when I call her.
“Archer! Hi. You got my messages?” She picks up immediately.
“Yes,” I say cautiously. “I got them, all right.”
“Isn’t this amazing?” She practically squeals. No, scratch that—shedoessqueal, though she has the grace to move her phone away from her mouth when it happens so she doesn’t blow out my eardrum. I put her on speaker and lean back in my chair. “I’ve seriously never seen anything like it. I’ve only heard of this kind of thing before.”
“What, do you moonlight as a beekeeper on top of your senate staffer job?” I wouldn’t be shocked if it’s true.
“I’m no professional, no, but my grandparents gave me a good start. I know what I’m doing around bees. You have tobelieve me when I say this is unicorn honey. Like total freak of nature stuff. Honey so purple it almost glows? Do you know what that means?”
“No. But I have a feeling you’ll enlighten me.”
“Yes! People will paythrough the nosefor this honey, Archer. You don’t even know what medicinal qualities it might have, and it’s pretty yummy, too. So sweet you could dribble it on ice cream.”
What a weird image. My gut churns, unsure whether it sounds appetizing or absolutely revolting.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
This isn’t bad news, no, but the fact it’s this girl and these fucking bees again has me worried. Earlier today, her dad left another frosty voicemail. This time on my personal cell, which he must have blackmailed out of someone or pulled serious strings to get.
He damn near demanded a call back to confirm she’s renting my cabin.
“You need to come over and see it,” she says. “I know this sounds bonkers over the phone, but just come and I’ll show you. It’ll make more sense in person, I promise.”
Sure.
It’ll make the same sense as hearing about this batshit honey does now, except instead of a photo, it’ll probably involve her dancing around like a manic pixie while I get stung in the face ten times.
“I mean, assuming you’re not too busy,” she adds, almost like an afterthought.
“Fine,” I say, if only to humor her. “I’ll come, but no pulling apart bee boxes and pissing them off.”
“Yay! I’m so pumped. See ya soon.”
That makes one of us.
I end the call before her puppy energy changes my mind and push the phone back across the desk with a sigh.
Christ, what am I getting myself into?
Colt walks in as I’m still processing how best to deal with this level of crazy, and when I pick up my phone, he gets a good look at the screen and stops cold.
“Dad, why are you looking at potassium permanganate?
“Potassium perma-what now?” I stare at him.
“It’s an oxidizing agent. They use it a lot in hospitals for sanitation. It’s bright purple like that.”
Have I mentioned how much my little mad scientist scares me sometimes?
“No, Colt, this is honey. Apparently.”