If Not For A Bee

“Sure,” Janie said, but Aidan didn’t think she looked too enthused by the prospect.

“Janie is not just an expert clammer—she’s an expert clamming instructor,” Bering added.

Emily was nodding. “It’s true, Aidan. Janie taught me. Bering gets impatient, forgets he’s supposed to be helping, because he wants to get his clams.”

“I have a problem,” Bering confessed with an easy shrug. “Clam fever.”

Aidan grinned. “I understand—there are certain mushrooms back home in Oregon that I get wild-eyed about.”

Emily added, “Pay attention to Janie, Aidan. You do need to be kind of careful.”

Bering agreed. “She’s right. The surf can be sneaky here.”

“Got it,” Aidan said.

Bering, Claire, Gareth and Reagan gathered their buckets and shovels and headed down the beach.

Tag was busy pulling on his waders—the kind that fit like coveralls and reach up to the chest. Aidan slipped on the tall rubber boots Bering had packed for him.

“I feel like we’re getting outfitted to go on a safari hunt after a wildebeest or an alligator or something. This is a major undertaking.”

Tag laughed. “We do take our clamming very seriously. There are few things in this life as delicious as a fried razor clam.”

Janie watched them with a kind of half frown on her face.

Aidan suspected she was trying not to show her displeasure at being stuck with tutoring him, reminding Aidan again of how dramatically they’d gotten off on the wrong foot.

She picked up a shovel and a bucket and started walking toward the ocean. After traveling several feet she stopped and turned around. Her voice held a tinge of impatience. “Let’s get going there, Safari Boy. The tide waits for no man.”

“Oh. Right,” Aidan said.

Janie raised her brows and gave her head a little shake. “Yes, so that means we need to get going.” She turned and headed once more toward the surf.

Aidan grinned at Tag, picked up his gear and jogged after her.

Maybe it was an Alaska thing, Aidan thought as he followed Janie toward the water—taking normal activities to a level of seriousness that didn’t seem quite warranted. It was a clam—a simple bivalve. How tough could this be?

* * *

JANIE KNEW WHAT Aidan was thinking—or she imagined she did. The esteemed scientist was going to easily master this task, slay some clams and probably teach her a few things in the process. Well, she’d let him try. Was she hoping to exact a little revenge for the comments she’d overheard? Maybe. Initially. But at least part of what happened next he deserved, because she did try to warn him.

Janie quickly explained the basics of razor clam digging.

“See these holes?” She pointed out some indentations in the sand. “That’s where a clam is showing. The back of the clam will be toward the ocean. So you put your shovel about this far from the hole.” She placed the tip of her shovel in the sand. “Dig down with a couple quick strokes. If you’re good—or lucky—you’ll get close to the shell, almost grazing it, as you remove enough sand to stick your hand in and pull out a clam.”

She smoothly demonstrated her instructions and held up a clam.

“Looks simple enough. Wow. They’re bigger than I expected.” He took the clam from her and examined it.

“They’re also fast. So—”

“I’ve got it,” he interrupted with easy confidence.

Numerous attempts later and he still definitely had not “got it.” Janie glanced in his bucket and counted four clams. They would be here all day at this rate and the tide definitely would not wait that long—and neither would she.

“I don’t feel it. Where in the world is it?”

“Probably about halfway to China, I’d guess,” Janie responded as he mucked around in another hole.

Aidan chuckled but kept scrounging around in the sand, his arm buried nearly to his shoulder.

“No, seriously—give it up. They can dig like nine inches in a minute—probably faster here. Even though it’s cold, this sand is pretty soft. That clam is long gone. Here, watch me again.”

His voice held a note of disbelief. “Nine inches per minute? That would be—”

Janie talked as she dug and tried not to let the exasperation seep into her voice. “Yes, that means they could dig several feet in no time flat. I’m not making these numbers up. You’ve met my son, right? He finds these kinds of facts extremely interesting and recites them nonstop.”

Aidan flashed her a quick grin. “I can relate. But, wow, that seems awfully quick...”

She leveled another look at him, daring him to dispute her as she placed three more clams in her bucket.

He held up a hand. “Okay, I’m trying again.”

“Don’t dig quite so much sand this time. You don’t need a hole that big—you’re not burying a body.”

Untold minutes later he was on his hands and knees with his arm elbow-deep in yet another still too-large hole, feeling around for a clam she knew was long gone.

Janie glanced toward the ocean and saw it coming. She called quickly, “Wait, Aidan, you need to move—”

“I’m getting this one.”

“Aidan—”

“Hold on a sec...”

Picking up Aidan’s bucket as well as her own, she backed up the beach a ways to watch the action unfold.

Seconds later the incoming wave doused him, surging right over his back, which was unadvisedly turned toward the ocean.

He yelped and popped to his feet, water whooshing out the tops of his boots.

Janie smothered a laugh in the crook of her arm, before looking up again. Aidan stood there, holding a clam, dripping and silent, gaping at her in that breath-stealing, cold-water-plunge kind of way. It reminded her of when the boys surfaced after jumping into the river on a really warm day.

“Hey, good job! You got it.” She snorted out a laugh—it was too funny not to.

He finally found his voice. “You could have warned me.”

“I did.”

“You said not to turn my back on the ocean.”

“Exactly.” She gestured toward the water because that’s precisely what he’d done.

“I thought you were being overly cautious. I was envisioning a tsunami. I figured the odds of that were slim and that I’d have plenty of time.”

Janie shrugged and chuckled again. “I tried to warn you that the wave was coming, but you shushed me. Do you want to go back to the pickup so you can warm up? Bering usually has extra clothes in his vehicles.” She hoped he’d say yes.

“No, I don’t have my limit yet.”

“Um, I doubt that you’re going to get—”

“I will get my limit.”

“Or hypothermia,” she quipped.

Aidan grinned and ran a hand through his wet hair. Then he leaned on his shovel. She had to give him credit for being a good sport. But suddenly the intensity on his face had her bracing herself for an uncomfortable question.

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t like me?”

Really? she wanted to ask. Instead she said, “I have no idea.”

“Is this still about the bee?”

She sighed. “No, it’s not about the bee.”

“Then what? I, uh, I’m not the best at reading people. Sometimes I need things spelled out.”

“Well, do you think you’ve done—or said—something to earn my dislike?”

He looked perplexed. “No, of course not, or else I wouldn’t be asking.” He sounded like he thought she wasn’t very bright, which was true—he did think that.

She couldn’t take this anymore. She knew how he felt about her and he needed to know that she knew... “Maybe it’s my incompetence that’s the problem or my lack of education? I know how excruciating this must be for you—spending time with a simple mom like me.”

In an instant his features seemed to sharpen—eyes narrowed, lips thinned, jaw tightened, even his cheekbones seemed to jut more dramatically than they normally did. Satisfaction seeped into her because she’d managed to rile him. She was gratified to see something other than the laid-back, happy-go-lucky facade that normally seemed to emanate from him like an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt.

His voice was coldly disapproving when he spoke. “You were eavesdropping?”

“Not on purpose,” she returned. “You’ve got a very...loud voice.”

He stared at her for a long moment and his gray eyes felt almost menacing. Janie had no idea what he was thinking but she suspected it wasn’t good. In fact, she expected him to blow up at her, or at the very least let loose with a resounding reproach; even an apology would have surprised her less than his reaction. His face broke into a smile and laughter began spilling from his lips.

First he judges and insults her in that unfair manner and now laughs about it? Unbelievable. She wanted to let him know precisely what he could do with both his educated babble-talk and the interview she didn’t want to do anyway.

“Listen—”

He interrupted, “I never said I thought you were incompetent. I asked if you were qualified.”

“I don’t have a degree.”

“I didn’t say you needed one.”

Janie huffed. “You implied it, but I’m not going to play these silly semantics games with you. That’s what you meant.”

His sigh sounded gruff, aggravated. “I did. You’re right. But there’s a good reason why—”

“I don’t care about your reasons.”

She glanced around the beach and realized they were the only ones still digging. She could see Bering and Tag sitting on the tailgate, probably sipping coffee and snacking on the cookies she’d made. And that was where she was going to be soon...

She tapped her shovel and quickly scooped out a few piles of sand, stuck her hand in and nabbed a clam. She put it into her bucket and repeated the process. “You can stuff your reasons. There are no good reasons to speak about someone the way you spoke about me—all judge-y and imperious. You don’t even know me.”

She looked up to see frustration dance across his face. “Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right.” She dug another clam, and then several more.

He stood watching her for a few moments before he gestured at the sand. “That’s astounding—how good you are at this.”

She dug some more and dropped the clams in her bucket. “It is shocking, isn’t it? That someone as unworldly as I am could be good at this? Now, I have my limit and I’ve taught you all I can, so I’ll see you back at the pickup.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Nope.”

“But I want to tell you something.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She slipped her shovel over her shoulder, picked up her clam bucket and turned to walk away.

He reached out and snagged the handle of her bucket. “Yes, you do.”

She tugged. “No, I don’t.”

He held tight, looking puzzled by her words. “Why not?”

“Why in the world should I? You didn’t say those things to me. You said them about me, never dreaming I would hear. There’s no need to apologize for your opinion, but don’t pretend like you think better of me than you do. I am a simple person—that’s true. A mom.” She gestured at herself in her blue jeans, ponytail and Rankins Rebels hoodie. “What you see is what you get. And I’m fine with that. No, I’m happy with that. But don’t insult me and then patronize me by trying to be fake-nice.”

His face transformed with what looked like genuine surprise. No doubt he wasn’t used to people calling him on his bad behavior.

“What? I don’t think... I mean you’re... What I mean to say is, I’d really like to explain—”

“No, thank you. That’s not necessary. Let go.” She yanked hard on the bucket, but he held firm. She felt like one of her kids playing tug-of-war with MacGyver and she was suddenly afraid that he would let go and she’d tumble backward onto the sand. So she released her hold, intending to leave the bucket, even as she wondered what he’d been going to say about her.

“Can you please wait a second? I want to tell you why I said those things—some of those things.”

She stopped, turned and glared as his words sunk in. “You want to explain part of it now?”

“Yes.”

He seemed determined and not at all fazed by his odd comment. Janie suspected he wouldn’t leave this alone until she heard him out—or heard whatever part he deemed important enough for her mommy brain to hear. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeated.

“Yep,” she answered along with a one-shouldered shrug. “Let’s hear it.”

He seemed momentarily taken aback by her acquiescence.

“Um, all right... So, there was a woman a while back—a reporter—who wasn’t really a reporter...” He set the bucket down, then lifted his hand to the back of his neck and squeezed, looking up toward the sky as if searching for the right words to explain away his behavior. Finally he let out a whoosh of breath. “Long story short—she wrote an article about me and... It was unfair and dishonest.”

Janie watched him, silently waiting for him to add more. But he just stared back, all serious and sincere and...wet.

She felt a prickle of annoyance and finally asked, “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to add anything else? That’s your big explanation?”

“Yes, it was a very bad experience. It caused problems for me and...”

“I’m sure it did,” she said somberly.

He nodded like she was actually being sympathetic now and not sarcastic.

So much like Reagan, she thought, and wondered why supersmart people were often so literal. Reagan she felt sorry for—this man, not so much.

“You poor thing—how did you survive it? Someone said some unfair things about you, which you knew to be inaccurate and untrue? That’s just awful. I bet you were really angry, huh?”

His face evolved into a frustrated scowl. “Oh,” he said, “I get it.”

She shook her head. “I doubt very much that you do.”

“You’re a very stubborn and unforgiving woman, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m actually really, really not. Normally I’m way too forgiving and I let things go that I shouldn’t. I hate confrontation and I avoid it as much as I can. But you...” She stopped herself from adding an insult, barely.

“O-kay,” he muttered.

He was obviously not sure what to do with that statement and she couldn’t blame him. It was probably a bit of an overshare on her part, but talking to him was so frustrating...

And apparently he wasn’t finished. “So I can see you’re not ready to forgive me.”

She tipped her head like she did when one her boys was feeding her a line of nonsense. Not ready to forgive him? Was he really not aware of the fact that in the course of this conversation he hadn’t ever apologized? Only “explained”? But she wasn’t really expecting an apology and she knew this conversation wasn’t going to get her anywhere. It wasn’t going to resolve anything. And she was being truthful when she’d said she didn’t want him apologizing when he really didn’t mean it anyway.

She sighed. “Let’s just forget about it, hmm?”

“I don’t—”

She silenced him with a look. “That’s your only option at this point. Either give it up or I walk.”

He muttered something under his breath, then said, “All right, fine. For now.”

“Forever,” she countered.

He grinned. “Let’s dig some clams. I feel like if I go back to that pickup without my limit, Bering might leave me here.”

That actually made her laugh because Bering wouldn’t, but he would want to. “He might,” she teasingly agreed.

Janie had to give Aidan credit for improving; he managed to get half a bucket, but after a few methodical, yet unsuccessful, attempts in a row, Janie could see they were running out of tide...and time.

“You need to be a little faster,” she advised after he failed to get yet another.

He nodded. “I can do faster.”

He looked around determinedly until he found a dimple in the sand. He began scooping furiously, but she could see that the blade was too close.

“Aidan, hold on—you need to make sure you keep enough distance—”

But he was too fast this time, and Janie winced as she heard the telltale crack of the clam’s glasslike shell. She didn’t realize that he didn’t recognize the sound himself until it was too late.

He’d already dropped to his knees and pushed his hand into the hole.

“Wait, wait—”

“Ouch!” he yelped.

Janie squeezed her eyes shut.

“Crikey... That hurts.”

Janie cringed when she looked down and saw the bloody ends of his fingers. The water was cold—if he was bleeding that much already this really wasn’t going to be good.

Janie turned toward the surf, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun as she looked for Tag.

“Is this why they’re called razor clams?” Aidan’s voice was perfectly calm as he studied his injured hand. “Because the shell is literally as sharp as a razor?”

“I don’t know about that, but this is why it’s nice to have a cousin who is a paramedic.”

* * *

AIDAN SAT ON the tailgate of the pickup and watched Tag clean the wound. He examined the cuts.

“You’re definitely going to need stitches. The tip of this finger is almost sliced clear through.”

Aidan repeated his earlier observation. “I can see why they’re called razor clams.”

Tag chuckled and applied some disinfectant. “Maybe—I’ve heard different accounts on that. On the east coast they’re longer and skinnier—more like a straight razor. They also call them jackknife clams back there. Our Pacific razors are a lot more oval-shaped, and bigger—fatter and meatier. Tastier, too, I think. Anyway, a lot people claim the shape is where the name comes from.”

Aidan shook his head. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

Tag laughed. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“My fingers, they’re going to be—”

“Don’t worry. Dr. Grady is on today and he’s great. I’ve never seen a doctor who can sew better. It’ll barely even scar.”

Aidan watched as Tag wrapped his fingers in a length of soft white gauze. The blood seeped through and Tag kept wrapping. Aidan thought about the repercussions of an injured hand, but scars were the least of his concerns.

Emily examined Tag’s handiwork. “Aidan, what will you do? How are you going to work?”

“I’ll manage. They’re just lacerations, Em—they’ll heal.” Leave it to Emily to voice his concerns.

“But your boxes are arriving tomorrow, right?”

“That’s right,” Bering said as he began transferring clams into a cooler. “Your stuff. Don’t worry, we’ll help.”

Bering turned to address Janie, who had been hanging back silently. Aidan wondered what she was thinking. “Can I borrow the boys in the morning? To give Aidan a hand?”

“Yes, of course.”

Tag closed his first-aid kit and stood. “Hop in my pickup, Aidan. We need to get you to the hospital.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“JANIE, THE RESPONSE to your ugly-Christmas-sweater column has been unbelievable. Mayor Cummings is talking about having an ugly-Christmas-sweater contest at this year’s Festival of Trees in December. People are asking if you’ll teach a class. We could print a summary in the paper the day after each one, so people who have taken your earlier classes can follow along in the paper. What do you think?”

Janie handed a plate of scrambled eggs over to Laurel, who had stopped by to discuss the matter since it was Sunday—the only day the paper was closed, although Laurel worked every day.

“But I don’t get it,” Claire said as she rinsed her plate in the sink. She and the boys had already eaten so she could drive Gareth and Reagan into town for the work party at Aidan’s. “Your sweaters aren’t ugly—they’re beautiful.”

Laurel tried to explain and Janie let her. She had been over this with her mom too many times to count. “That’s kind of the point, Claire. The silly design versus the quality of the knitting and the beauty of the yarn... That’s the appeal and no one does these better than Janie.”

Claire shook her head in confusion. “That’s what Janie says, too, Laurel. But I still don’t understand why you have to call them ugly.”

Janie and Laurel exchanged grins, as her mom continued her argument.

Janie had held basic knitting classes in the past, always with a great turnout. Students would complete the class with knowledge of basic stitches and a scarf or the start of a throw blanket. A sweater would entail much more detailed teaching, but knitting was her passion and she enjoyed teaching the skill hands-on.

“I would be happy to do a class.”

“Awesome.” Laurel beamed. “I’ll get it set up.”

Claire put on her coat. “We’re leaving now. Bering is bringing the boys home, right?”

“Yes, thanks, Mom.” Janie explained to Laurel, “Bering, Tag, Gareth and Reagan are helping Aidan Hollings move a bunch of his stuff in today.”

The boys appeared with their plates and stowed them in the dishwasher. They said their goodbyes and filed out the door. Janie poured herself and Laurel cups of coffee.

“Which reminds me,” Laurel said. “Emily said Aidan was really resistant to the idea of an interview, so I called his agent. He thinks Aidan will do an interview when he hears what the Insider’s Alaska column is all about...and we settle on terms.”

“Terms?”

“That’s actually pretty standard procedure with celebrity types. They’ll let you know right off the top what topics or questions are off-limits—most of the time they’ll even want a list of questions beforehand.”

Janie scoffed. “Celebrity types? Are you kidding me? Some guest shots on Here’s the Dirt and Flower Power make him a celebrity? I played Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady back in high school—maybe I should get an agent?”

Laurel chuckled. “And you were excellent. Did you know Here’s the Dirt is the most popular gardening show on cable television? And don’t forget about that film on endangered plant species. He cowrote, produced and directed that, you know? It’s already being considered a pretty important piece of work in the scientific community and it hasn’t even been released yet. The film is going to be shown in IMAX theaters all over the world. And they are having like a real film premiere later this summer. A bunch of movie stars and business people and politicians are attending. I was thinking our articles could coincide with that.”

Janie took a bite of toast. “Sounds great.”

“I know, and I want you to do the interview. Emily is right about this and you would be perfect—”

“Laurel, I’m sorry, but can you give this one to someone else? I don’t want to do it.”

“Of course you do. Don’t be nervous—you’ll be great. It’s a human interest story—you’re great at those.”

“I’m not nervous. It’s not that.” This wasn’t actually true—the thought of doing the interview made her stomach knot like the ball of yarn Crosby had gotten ahold of last night. The yarn had been hopelessly shredded and tangled, so she’d had to toss the expensive wad of mohair in the garbage. “I don’t want to interview him—Aidan Hollings.”

“What? But why?”

“I... We didn’t really click.”

Laurel peered at her intently. “You don’t like him?”

The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Not particularly.”

“Really? Why not? Everyone seems crazy about him.”

Everyone hadn’t heard him talking to Emily about everyone.

Laurel stared at her expectantly, waiting for more information. Janie should have known Laurel would push the subject and she knew better than to try and lie to her friend.

“He’s... We’re very different.”

“How?”

“How?” Janie repeated the word and heard the sharpness in her tone. She inhaled a breath, searching for calm.

“Yes, in what ways are you so different? What’s he like?”

“Not what I expected.”

“I have this impression of him as this nice, easygoing, laid-back kind of guy... Plus, he’s Emily’s brother.”

The implication being that he must have some redeeming qualities as Emily’s relation. That had been Janie’s assumption, too.