“The Bird and the Bees” by Neena Gaynor

 

 

The Bird and the Bees blurb…

When Larkin Maybie buries her mother in the foothills of Appalachia, she is left all alone. Her only inheritance? A crazy aunt, a mountain of debt, and a run-down, secluded cabin left by a mysterious benefactor. While Larkin thinks an escape to a cabin miles from anything familiar might be exactly what she needs, the quick answer to her problems only leaves her with more questions… Questions concerning her true identity. 

As Larkin searches for her link to the Lewandowski Estate, she begins to accept the kindness of strangers on Presque Isle and the affection of professional baseball player, Ketch Devine. Charged with caring for the cabin’s honey bees and haunted by past choices, Larkin struggles to move forward in a new direction and is running out of time. With summer and baseball season coming to an end, she must decide: what is the value of true love?

The story behind the story…

As a new writer, I really latched onto the advice to “write what you know.” While much of The Bird and the Bees has details of which I’m intimately familiar (nursing, professional baseball, Appalachia, and honey bees), the story stops there with autobiographical details.

I wanted to focus on the theme of the book: the power of choice. While there are many circumstances in life we would never choose, from the simple things like flat tires to a global pandemic, we aren’t alone. The best response is always to embrace the Heart of Jesus. Always!

 

Excerpt…

CHAPTER ONE

They say if you don’t tell the bees when someone dies, they’ll leave. I never consulted our hives concerning Mother’s funeral arrangements, but somehow the bees found their way graveside. Under the swarm of humming wings, I perched myself in a metal folding chair, crossed my legs, and prepared for a message on, ironically, the Promise Land flowing with milk and honey.

A crowd of folks had pulled their chairs back a safe distance, fanning themselves and straining to understand Brother Jeffrey through his shaking and stuttering. Not that I blamed the man for being severely allergic to bees. Amongst blossoming apple trees and under the flurry of bee activity, Mother was tucked into the Appalachian foothills. The rusty chairs clung to the ground as they dared to overturn from the grade of the land.

And then they did.

After a closing and enthusiastic “Amen!” the bees made their move for a new home. Frightened, Earl Bean flipped backwards in his chair, knocking over Mrs. Polk, the entire Tate Evans family, Dixie Smith, Jimmy Lee, and his cousin twice removed, Jemma Lee. It was a chain reaction of toppled chairs and tumbling townsfolk down the side of Cat Hole Cemetery. Thank heavens Mr. Bennet had made a fuss over getting a less-than- humble tombstone for Mrs. Bennet, as it saved Tate and his youngest tot from rolling all the way into traffic. Well, all the way to the road. Cat Hole doesn’t have traffic.

My Aunt Aster looked on from a distance. Since her beloved poodle had died, she had been avoiding riding in cars, all perish- able food items, and now tents with bee swarms. Aster was certain she or I would be next since, after all, “everyone knows death comes in threes.”

While Jemma helped Jimmy to his feet and Mrs. Polk blew dirt out of her nose on Earl’s handkerchief, others assessed the damage of several scraped knees and elbows. Some began folding the toppled chairs and loading them into the funeral van. My chair, one of the few remaining upright and under the tent, was still weighed down with my horrified body.

“Excuse me, Larkin Maybie?” The town lawyer approached from the parking lot, pausing with wide eyes to take in the sight (spectacle) of Dixie Smith readjusting her twisted skirt. “I…” he tugged at his shirt collar and cleared his throat as Dixie proceeded to pull off her torn pantyhose. “I realize it’s a tragic time to talk finances, but I’m afraid there isn’t a moment to waste.” Mr. Edington’s forehead glistened with sweat, and he stole yet another peek at the 1988 Tobacco Festival Queen.

Men.

Mr. Edington never saw me roll my eyes and I stood to greet him. “Is everything okay?” I knew it wasn’t. I had started getting notices about late payments from multiple institutions but assumed the problem was more Mother’s than mine.

He stepped under the shade of the tent, now free from any lingering bees. “I’m sure she meant no harm, but she listed you on multiple credit lines that have been sent to collection agen- cies. You are the only natural executer left, now that she is…” he searched for words and bought time by dabbing his upper lip again, fumbling and settling upon, “in a better place.”

I’d already scheduled an auction to flip Mother’s junk, lose the Oldsmobile, and finally get rid of Daddy’s pickup for cash, even penciled in an escape to some colorful beach town. But probably not. The mountains had a clutch on me as deep as their roots. I was as founded in them as the coal in their guts. Extracting me would take much more devastation than losing my last parent.

Most attendants had left for the sanctuary of air-conditioning. Two sweat-drenched crewmen prepared to cover the simple wooden casket with dirt. The funeral director, a lanky man with black hair and skin the color of Mother’s pearls, began loading his van with the podium and a few flower vases. He extended his hand for a noodley handshake and returned to me Mother’s picture. I stared at the beautiful bridal photo, her tiny waist almost hidden behind a simple bouquet of daisies, her smile bright against her olive skin. Hard to believe this was the same haggard woman I called Mother.

Sweat slid down my back under my black dress. My new funeral heels sank a hair in the clay dirt.

“Larkin?” Mr. Edington tilted his head, perspiration beaded on his round face.

“Right. What’s the total?”

There is never a good time to hear certain things like your reservation has been lost, you didn’t make the sports team, that lump you’ve been feeling is cancerous, and so on. The number Mr. Edington leaned in to whisper was one of those soul-tram- pling chunks of bad news. I gave the bridal picture a dirty look.

It didn’t matter that dirt was being flung onto Mother’s casket. Nothing was going to make coming up with the money any easier. As Cat Hole’s funeral director/owner of Second Hand Smoker BBQ/pest-control-specialist hummed a happy tune, the notes were barely audible over the blasts that would signal my extraction from the mountains.

Purchase link

(releases April 21, 2020)

 

About Neena…

 

 

 

Neena Gaynor is a former nurse who has spent much of the last decade traveling with her husband, Wade, a former professional baseball player. Throughout the 29 changes of address and the stresses of moving a young family, Neena learned to embrace the peace that only comes from the steady accompaniment of Christ in her heart.

Today, Neena is ecstatic to be back in her old Kentucky home, beekeeping, writing, and being Mom.

 

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