Jennifer Greene - Cupid’s Confederates

Dear Reader,

I had so much fun researching this story. I had the chance to work with a beekeeper-and to make “mead” from a recipe I discovered from Shakespeare’s time. Honey is a major thread in this story…the hero and heroine are terrific at making it, in every sense. (!)

Bett is Zach’s sun-kissed golden girl. Zach is Bett’s strength, which is his whole definition of love. Their marriage has been one long honeymoon…until Bett’s widowed mom moves in and brings chaos with her.

Love is so easy-when it’s not tested. You can’t know what you really have-or who you really are as a couple-until you’ve faced real trouble.

I was so happy when Carina Press picked up this book. Romances through the decades change-because they’re always about women’s immediate issues. But this was one of my stories that apply now more than ever. Women are SO tested today. Many are supporting kids on their own; many are trapped in the “sandwich” generation-we have so many changing responsibilities inhibiting our dreams and goals. We all struggle to find the answers that work for us.

This book was so much fun to write-and I hope it brings you an enjoyable read.

I hope you’ll always feel free to contact me, either through my website or Facebook.

Jennifer Greene

Reaching under the netting, Bett brushed a trickle of perspiration from her forehead, bent back over the beehive and started singing again in a low, husky murmur. “Doucement, ce n’est que moi. Doucement, mes amants charmants, doucement…”

The temperature on this August day was 95; Bett was sweltering in ragged jeans, halter top and shoulder-length netting, and frankly wasn’t in the mood to croon seductive sweet nothings to anyone. Still, one didn’t quarrel with success. This particular clan of honeybees was touchy. And if they wanted French love words set in song, the little darlings got them.

A dusty cloud of wings buzzed up in protest as she uncovered the “super”-the top shelf in the man-made hive. The honey in the super was surplus, and removing it wouldn’t harm the hive in any way. In a few more weeks. Bett would have to convince the bees of that; at the moment, she was simply checking on their production and health. Unfortunately, the worker bees were quite annoyed with her. Bett felt sympathy; they had undoubtedly spent the entire day frantically fanning their queen to keep her cool, and now Bett had destroyed all their air conditioning. But as the smell of warm honey wafted through the sultry air, she frowned. A dozen bees settled on her gently moving bare hand; she paid no attention as she bent lower. Below the super was the largest part of the hive, where the bees stored their own food as well as brood combs for the young.

It was loaded. The hive would swarm and divide into two separate hives if one became overcrowded; to avoid that Bett would have to isolate the bees, and soon.

The thought of handling a swarm didn’t bother her; she’d done it before. But the last time, the swarming hive had settled in the top of a plum tree, and Zach had lain there on the ground rolling with laughter as he watched her climb after them, only to have them shift to the top of another tree. For an entire afternoon, the swarm and Bett had played leapfrog between tree tops. She’d tickled her husband unmercifully when it was over.

There were a great many occasions in Bett’s five-year-old marriage when her husband’s wayward sense of humor required a strong hand.

Reclosing the hive, Bett stood up and gently brushed the last cluster of bees from her shoulders and arms. They fluttered back to their business and Bett stretched, kneading her small fists in the hollow of her back. Her mind was busy cataloguing the rest of the day’s responsibilities. At least the morning’s peach picking was done, and Zach would handle the semi coming in that night; but someone still had to go for more bushel baskets, look at the garden, oil and fuel the Massey for tomorrow… Then, too, Zach seemed to have this strange idea that the bills on the desk should at least be opened…the list kept rolling. By the time she came to the zillionth chore, another trickle of perspiration was sliding between her eyes, and she came to the logical conclusion that it was past time for a ten-minute break.

With a springy step, Bett wandered out of the plum orchard and up a knoll blanketed with clover and wildflowers. Whipping off her veiled straw hat-a makeshift beekeeper’s garb at best-she felt her baby-fine blond hair shiver down to her shoulders, the same baby-fine hair that had been ruthlessly confined to a rubber band that morning. Confined for about three minutes, anyway. Not that Bett hadn’t tried all ninety-nine hair products guaranteed to thicken and manage, but beyond hating the women in the hair-care commercials, she’d given up finding a cure for too-soft, too-fine hair. Now, she just let it have its way and tried to keep the style simple.

Another bead of moisture trickled down between her breasts and blended with a little peach fuzz left over from the morning’s picking. It itched. Actually, just about her whole body itched. Her jeans were sticking to her like miracle glue; the terry-cloth halter top was as absorbent as a towel; and if another soul were anywhere near her, she would be having an anxiety attack about deodorant fadeout.

But then, there wasn’t another soul around. Just past the rise of the clover field were the woods, nine luscious acres of ironwood and hickory and walnut-the same nine acres that could have been sold as timber to pay off their monstrous operating loan except that both Bett and Zach would sell their souls first. The woods held solace and silence; how could anyone sell that? In the spring, the ground there was carpeted with violets and trillium; in the fall, wild animals built shelters in the depths of leaves and hollows.

And on a blistering day like this one, Bett felt instant relief in the cool shadows. She paused, her bright eyes surveying the splendid view. Their pond stretched out in a long lazy S, its spring-fed waters glittering in the sun. Wildflowers crept up to the shore, mingling with cattails. Beyond the pond stretched a twenty-acre slope of peach trees. She could see the glint of coral even from here, and the sweet smell of ripening fruit drifted toward her. Her dad would have loved the farm so much, Bett thought idly, and unconsciously bit her lip in remembered loss.

The town of Silver Oaks was a fifteen-minute drive from Lake Michigan. The lake was a little less than a lady, Zach often said. A storm would start in Washington, build up power in Idaho, gain fury in Montana and the Dakotas, be a raging tempest by the time it reached Wisconsin-and immediately settle down for Her Highness, the Lake. Michigan’s western coast suffered only the gentler breezes, and the promise of regular, nurturing rains and temperate winters. This was orchard land, a sandy loam with a mild roll and contour to the landscape.

Bett and Zach had first seen the area in springtime. Zach’s uncle John had willed him the farm, for no known reason since Zach had only met the man once. Neither Zach nor Bett had the least idea what to do with his inheritance, particularly once they understood that three-quarters of the 250 acres of orchard land had been given over to grain. This was due not to mismanagement but to Uncle John’s age and failing health. Grain was easier to take care of. In the meantime, though, it would have taken a fortune to turn the property back to the profitable orchard ground it was meant to be. A fortune Bett and Zach didn’t have. So, obviously, their only choice was to sell it.