The Beekeeper's Secret Read online

  Josephine Moon’s first novel, The Tea Chest (2014), delighted readers with its strong heroine and enchanting story and was a bestseller both in Australia and overseas. Her second novel, The Chocolate Promise (2015), was a love-story with a difference set in luscious Provence and rural Tasmania and was also a bestseller.

  The Beekeeper’s Secret, a novel of family and the happiness, guilt and grief that can lie within them, is her third novel.

  Josephine lives with her husband, son and her horses, dogs, chickens, goats and cats on acreage in Queensland.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Allen & Unwin in 2016

  Copyright © Josephine Moon 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 9781925266139

  eISBN 9781952533471

  Typeset by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For my sister, Amanda, who in 1981 was adamant she

  would wear a lolly-pink dress to her first Holy Communion,

  rather than a white dress, thereby forever being the

  pink sheep in the formal group photo.

  I so love your individual spirit.

  And for my nan, Marie Joan, who came to our house early

  in the afternoon before I made my first Holy Communion

  and stood with me outside the kitchen in the sun and

  brushed my just-washed hair until it was dry.

  Such a precious memory.

  1

  Fridays at Honeybee Haven were the busiest day of the week for Maria. Guests were usually checking in to or out of the six cabins on the property. It was also the day before the Yandina markets, and rain, hail or shine, the Haven had a stall there each week. Consequently, almost as soon as Maria had finished breakfast, her small kit home was overrun with preparations.

  Wafting from the oven was the mouth-watering smell of roasting almonds. Maria had coated them in honey from her beehives beyond the vegetable garden. She’d have to get the nuts out of the oven soon or they’d burn. Then, after sprinkling them with sea salt, she would pack them into sterilised recycled jars and label them for sale. Not to waste a single minute, she was making throat lozenge lollipops at the same time. Her hand hovered over the pot of boiling honey, the sugar thermometer indicating that the molten gold was ready to be spooned over the tops of the lollipop sticks waiting on the lined baking tray. The lollipops were always great sellers at this time of year, as temperatures began to drop and people prepared for flu season.

  With her nose monitoring the roasting almonds behind her, Maria spun the honey into well-shaped circles on the sticks and left them to cool and set, then pirouetted around (as deftly as a seventy-three-year-old could) in her tiny kitchen to open the oven, snatch up the pot holders and extract the tray just in time. The smell was intoxicating, and it was all she could do to stop herself from popping one in her mouth and letting the flavour overwhelm her tastebuds, evoking an indulgent fantasy of a cosy fireplace and warm honey mead.

  But stop herself she did. These almonds, just like the honey lollipops to be wrapped in cellophane and tied with pretty strings, and just like the pyramids of jars near the window that were filled with raw honey and fresh-picked herbs, were not hers. Everything she did here was for the children. Honeybee Haven was owned by Michaela’s Cambodian orphanage and was its prime source of income. Maria served here, just as she’d served during her years in the convent, right up until . . .

  Stop.

  She swatted away the memory like an annoying fly.

  It wasn’t exactly an unwanted memory; she deserved to remember it. But it was distracting, and there was no time today to be anything other than completely focused. There was no time to be drawn back into the past.

  Maria’s assistant, Petrice—employed through an agency that matched people with disabilities to jobs—had been here early this morning to make breakfast for the guests, allowing Maria to clock several industrious hours in her kitchen. Now, most of her market wares were ready to pack into the Haven’s car to drive down the mountain in the dark tomorrow morning. She still had to whip some honey into a luxuriously thick cream spread, but for a brief change of scenery, she began the long walk down the steps to the letterbox at the gate of the property. She’d long ago made her peace with the one hundred and twenty-four handmade earth treads in the side of the hill. At first they’d been daunting; she wasn’t young, after all. But as soon as she’d made the mental commitment to love each step, to love the burning in her thighs and the acceleration of her heart as she ascended them, to appreciate that these steps were keeping her fit and strong for the work she had to do and the service she could offer, they’d become her friends. Each one had its own story to share and wore down in different ways, and she kept a watchful eye over them, mending them as needed.

  She paused at the wide, circular rest area halfway down, with the life-size statue of Saint Ambrose, patron saint of bees, in the centre. It was a nicely humble statue of Ambrose, who so often was depicted in his pompous gown and pointy bishop’s hat. In this one he wore the simple robes of a monk and bees had settled on his shoulders and arms.

  The statue had been a gift from a well-off Sydney gentleman who’d struck up a friendship with Maria over many visits over many years. He’d been taken with the multi-faith nature of Honeybee Haven. There were the obvious Buddhist influences, such as the six ‘Tara’ cabins, each named for a different form of the Buddhist deity Tara, their colours representing various virtues. Maria was particularly f
ond of Blue Tara, known for transmuting anger. Maria had had to do a lot of that in her life. The colour blue was also associated with Mary, whom Maria loved very much. She’d collected many small figurines of Mother Mary from the markets and contributed them to the Haven. Over the years, visitors had gifted their own symbols of faith and prayer—Hindu statues in the gardens, a copy of Sanskrit writings, a Jewish Menorah, prayer beads and other tokens of devotion. Honeybee Haven prided itself on inclusion.

  Maria stopped before Saint Ambrose not so much because she needed a break, although of course it was good to check her pace and make sure she wasn’t rushing—she’d be no use to anyone if she ended up in a heap at the bottom of the hill. She paused here simply because she appreciated the view. A mix of eucalyptus and rainforest trees sprawled out before her, cascading down towards the town of Eudlo at the foot of the mountain, and continuing all the way to the expanse of blue ocean on the horizon. It was silent here, except for the leaves rocking in the autumn breeze and the happy chitter-chatter of birds. Gazing out, she raised an age-spotted hand to shield her eyes from the late morning sun, and smiled. Honeybee Haven was as close to a home as she’d ever had.

  Continuing down the hill, she listed in her head all the things she needed to do when she got back to the top. Firstly, she needed to check on the bees. It had been chilly this morning, so they would have slept in, but now that the day was warming up they’d be getting out and about and in a good mood. She had a hive to open today, and it was ill advised to do so if the weather was poor. Cold, grumpy bees did not take kindly to having their home taken apart. A couple of midweek visitors would be checking out of Red Tara. Petrice would be cleaning the cabin and washing the linen for the group arriving on Monday—a corporate team-bonding trip. Maria would have to do an inventory of the pantry and what was doing well in the garden to know what supplies to pick up tomorrow afternoon when she’d finished at the markets. Her handyman, Trav, was coming today to do a few odd jobs, so she’d also have to show him what needed doing.

  On the last stretch of the steps now, she began to plan the next week’s meals. She had requests for food that was gluten free, dairy free, paleo, vegetarian and vegan. Personally, she thought all of this fuss over food these days was rather indulgent, but if it kept customers happy and made the charity money, then so be it.

  Finally reaching the letterbox, she flipped up the bright yellow backside of a large metal bumblebee and withdrew a fistful of envelopes. There was nothing unusual in that; Maria preferred paper correspondence. Of course she used email for work purposes, but only because she had to. When she’d left the convent, the world had been on the precipice of the great internet revolution. She’d hidden overseas for several years, working with non-government organisations in some of the poorest countries of the world. Then, twelve years ago, she’d come here.

  Michaela had built up the business and then holidayed in Cambodia, seen the dire situation there, and decided to come back briefly to employ a manager for Honeybee Haven, renouncing everything that was easy about Australia in order to serve others, making it her life’s work. Maria had liked her immediately. Michaela had been desperate for someone like Maria—someone with a broad skill set and no family commitments, and no desire to earn much money, motivated by service rather than status. It had been a win for them both.

  These days, Maria used email to communicate with Michaela about the property. But she had never bothered to create a personal account—there was no one to write to. And whenever she had to fill in a form she just ignored the section that asked for an email address. She didn’t have a mobile phone either. It just kept things a lot simpler. Most of her correspondence came via actual letters, which had the added benefit of keeping her at arm’s length from the world. In any case, it was rare for anyone to write to her personally.

  But today there were two envelopes in the bunch that caught her attention. One was a lovely pink with careful, obviously female handwriting on the front. It was addressed to her by name: Maria Lindsey, Manager, Honeybee Haven. The sender’s name, written on the back, was Tansy Butterfield, from a unit in Noosa Heads. Only an hour away. Intrigued, Maria dug her ridged thumbnail under the flap and tore it open, pulling out a handwritten note on matching pink paper. A brightly coloured business card fluttered to the ground and she picked it up. It identified Tansy as a Children’s Bedroom Decorator, and listed her contact details.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked the air around her. ‘Someone canvassing for a job?’

  But she began to read anyway, and to her astonishment, the woman introduced herself as her niece, twenty-nine years old and the second daughter of Maria’s sister Enid.

  Heavenly Father.

  Maria hadn’t seen Enid since the day their mother had dropped Maria, then sixteen years old, at the tall gates of the convent in the northern suburbs of Brisbane, a sprinkler spitting water across the green lawn. She could remember her younger sisters sitting in the back seat of the Holden, Enid’s face dark and furious, while Florrie’s was tear-stained, her bottom lip trembling.

  Maria leaned back against a large boulder beside the letterbox. Tansy went on to explain that she’d managed to find Maria online as the manager at Honeybee Haven and had been delighted to discover that her aunt was living so close by.

  Maria’s heart gave a loud knock against her chest. Was she that easy to find? She’d thought she was hidden away up here on the mountain, able to tend to her work, make money to serve the children in Cambodia, and live out her days in relative peace and quiet. But now this Tansy girl had tracked her down and wanted to meet her.

  Maria took a breath of the cool air and refolded the note, stuffing it back into its envelope along with the business card, and returned it to the pile of letters to be considered later.

  To distract herself, she opened the other letter that had caught her attention. Also addressed to her by name, it looked official, marked with a special government crest.

  She read it, then read it again.

  Her mind went blank. She couldn’t conjure a single thought. All she could do at that moment was stare straight ahead at the magpie sitting in a low branch of a tree, its head cocked to the side and its sharp beady eyes scanning the ground in search of prey. She felt coldness seep through to her bones from the boulder behind her. And she heard one of her girls buzzing somewhere nearby in search of pollen and nectar.

  She managed to push herself away from the boulder, but there she stayed, her feet unwilling to move from the spot. She read the letter again.

  Ian Tully.

  Through concerted practice, she’d managed to edit him into the background, drape him in shadows.

  Now it seemed that what they said was true, that the past would indeed always catch up with you—especially if you had something to hide.

  And that no good deed ever went unpunished.

  If Dougal hadn’t thrown this huge announcement at her, Tansy might never have realised that her period was late. She was terribly forgetful for someone her age. Still in her twenties. But only just. A whisker away from crossing over into the very-mature thirties. She still hadn’t come to terms with that. It sounded so grown up. Like she should have it all together. Which she did, didn’t she? A great husband, and a perfect home, their apartment overlooking Noosa National Park, the famous Main Beach (recently recognised as one of the world’s most iconic surfing beaches, right up there with Waikiki and Malibu, thank you very much . . . not that it mattered to her, because she didn’t swim in the ocean) and Hastings Street. To describe their postcode as enviable was an understatement of great magnitude. That was all evidence of having it together, surely?

  Also, she had a career. Okay, maybe not a career, but a business. Definitely a business, as a children’s bedroom decorator, a job she loved. Then again, if she was honest, which she did like to be (forgetful she might be, but dishonest she was not), as far as businesses went, it was more of a hobby, and could probably be legally classified as such by the tax offi
ce. But still, it was her hobby. All hers. One she’d worked hard to get off the ground, stubbornly refusing to take any advice or guidance from Dougal, who was well established in the corporate world. She liked to believe she was finally gaining some momentum here on the Sunshine Coast. And she probably would be if she remembered to organise some proper advertising in a glossy magazine or something.

  And that brought her back to the forgetfulness and Dougal’s big announcement.

  Yesterday afternoon, her husband had told her he was taking her out to dinner in Hastings Street tonight, which wasn’t unusual except that he’d said there was something important he wanted to talk to her about. She’d had a day to wonder what it might be and slowly but steadily decided that he’d changed his mind, after seven years of marriage, and decided that he did in fact want a baby. She was turning thirty, a number guaranteed to make people think about Time Running Out. Her best friend, Belle, and her husband, Raj, had a four-month-old baby and when they’d visited them two months ago Dougal had been clearly clucky.

  His eyes had gone all soft and romantic like they did sometimes when he was feeling particularly in love with her. He’d been the only one who’d been able to settle Hamish that day, holding the baby on his nicely shaped chest in the baby carrier for nearly an hour, Hamish nuzzled in under his chin, snoozing away in his fluffy romper suit. Dougal was a total natural with babies, she’d discovered. She longed to zip back in time to when Dougal’s grown son, Leo, had been a baby, just so she could see that look of tenderness on Dougal’s face and absorb the misty, wafty, loving glow.

  At the end of the visit, Tansy had had the creeping suspicion that she’d been wrong to make such a huge decision about her future in her early twenties, agreeing not to have children, a thought that was both alarming and mortifying. Her mother and sister had told her she’d regret it and she’d stubbornly ignored them.

  ‘Why?’ Tansy had argued, as only a naive twenty-something could. ‘Because I’m a woman?’

  ‘No,’ her mother had countered. ‘Because you are full of love to give.’