All the summers of her childhood came flooding back. She tasted the faintest hint of cherry blossom; a dash of dandelion, clover, and strawberry; a whisper of honeysuckle and touch of sourwood, all the flavors clean and fresh as a June morning. She dipped her finger again and tasted the days of summer growing longer as the bees gravitated toward lavender patches and blackberry brambles, bringing a complexity to the flavor notes. Then August arrived with summer nearing its end. The honey became rich and buttery from thistle, sage, and alfalfa.

Her weariness faded, and for a moment she felt as if all life’s secrets clung to the tip of her finger.

THE NEXT MORNING, SHE COULDN’T get Toby out of bed, so she set to work alone. Her arms ached as she piled the old wheelbarrow with the brushes, rollers, rags, and paint cans she’d found in the storage shed. She maneuvered it awkwardly down the drive. The farm stand sat gray and weathered in the shade of a hundred-year-old oak. A sloping roof and rudimentary floor supported its three walls, and a pair of splintered shelves ran beneath a long wooden counter. With the exception of a small storage shed attached to the back, the whole thing could have fit inside her old kitchen pantry.

A blue Honda minivan whizzed by, followed by another just like it, both bearing families heading for the still-chilly waters of the south beach, the island’s best swimming locale. She made two more trips back to the house for tools, the temporary poster-board sign she’d painted, and a dozen jars of last summer’s honey. This year’s crop wouldn’t be ready for harvest until August. She hoped she’d be long gone by then, although she couldn’t imagine where. She stomped to wake Toby up and discovered a deserted bedroom.

Her spirits lifted when the first car stopped just as she was sticking her poster board sign in the ground. “It’s about time you opened up,” the woman said. “We finished our last jar of Myra’s honey a couple of weeks ago, and my arthritis is starting to flare up again.”

They bought two jars. Bree was giddy from her success, but her euphoria gradually faded when no one else stopped.

She filled the time sweeping away cobwebs and old bird nests and nailing loose boards back into place. Finally she was ready to open the first of two cans of exterior paint she’d found in the shed, a buttery yellow shade she suspected Myra had chosen for just this purpose. She’d never actually painted anything herself, but she’d watched painters work, and how hard could it be?

Harder than it looked, she discovered after several hours. She had a crick in her neck, a splinter in her hand, and a nasty gash in her leg. As she swiped her forehead with her arm, smearing herself with even more paint, she heard a car slow. She turned to see a late-model red Cadillac come to a stop. Her excitement at finally having a customer faded when she saw who it was.

“You putting any paint on the wood or is it all ending up on you?”

Mike’s obnoxious hardy-har-har laugh felt like fingernails on a chalkboard, and she snapped at him as he came toward her. “I’m doing fine.”

Instead of leaving, he inspected what she’d done. “Looks like you’re going to need more paint. The wood’s really soaking it up.”

Something she’d already noticed, but she didn’t have money to waste on more paint, and she hadn’t figured out what to do about it. He nudged one of the almost empty paint cans with the toe of an expensive cordovan loafer, then stepped away to examine the sagging shelf. “Why isn’t Toby helping you?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She dropped the paint roller into the tray, splattering even more yellow paint on her only decent pair of sandals.

“I just might. Where is he?”

If her resentment hadn’t gotten the best of her, she wouldn’t have answered. “Next door with his new best friend.”

“He should be helping you.” He chose a bottle of honey from the carton on the ground, tossed in a bill, and returned to his car with it.

As he drove off, she realized she was shaking. Just the sight of him flooded her with painful memories. Nothing in her life had ever really gone completely right since the night he’d spied on her with David.

Even though she left the rear of the farm stand untouched, she still ran out of paint. As she worked her brush around the bottom of the can, the Cadillac reappeared with a sullen Toby sitting next to Mike in the front seat. Mike rolled down the car’s window as Toby got out. “He forgot he was supposed to help you today.”

Toby’s angry door slam indicated he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Mike got out and walked around to the trunk. “Come on, boy. Grab these for me.”

Even though Toby was only twelve, she didn’t like hearing him addressed that way. David had gotten fired from one of the charter boats when he’d confronted a customer who’d called him “boy.” But Toby obeyed Mike without protest. Was Toby afraid of him? She eyed the two cans of fresh paint Toby pulled from the car trunk. “What’s this?”

“You were running out.” Mike pulled a paint bucket, some brushes, and another paint roller from the trunk. “I got you some more. No big deal.”

Her muscles clenched. “I don’t want you buying me paint. I don’t want you buying me anything.”

He shrugged and turned to Toby. “Let’s get that opened up.”

“No,” she said. “The paint’s going back, along with everything else.”

Toby shot her a disgusted glare, grabbed the screwdriver she’d left in the dirt, and shoved it under the lip of the can.

“Toby, I mean it. Don’t open that—”

The lid popped.

She’d never been able to make anybody do what she wanted. She couldn’t make Toby obey her or force Mike to leave her alone, and she hadn’t been able to turn Scott into a faithful husband.

Mike poured some paint into the roller pan. “Toby, grab that brush and start putting a second coat on the trim.”

Toby didn’t offer a single protest. He wouldn’t do the simplest thing for her, but when it came to taking orders from a racist ass, he turned into a model of cooperation.

“I’d help you myself,” Mike said, “but …” He made an expansive gesture toward his immaculate gray summer slacks. “Oh, heck.” He grabbed the roller, loaded it up with the buttery paint, and started to work.

She hated what was happening, but she didn’t know how to stop it. Mike Moody, nosing in where he wasn’t wanted, just like always.

“It’s a nice color,” he said.

She liked it, too, but she wasn’t exchanging polite chitchat with him. “Don’t work next to me,” she said. “Your cologne reeks.”

She’d finally managed to ruffle his phony geniality. “What are you talking about? Do you know how much this stuff costs?”

“You can’t buy good taste, Mike. Just like you can’t buy manners.”

Toby threw down his paintbrush, his face contorting with anger. “Why can’t you be nice to him?”

Mike didn’t miss a beat. “I sure would like something to drink. How about it, Bree? You got some lemonade or something in the house? A cool drink would simmer everybody down.”

Only Toby and Bree were simmering. Mike’s phony affability remained unruffled. And then he stopped painting. Not because she wanted him to stop but because he’d spotted an approaching pickup truck. A truck he apparently recognized, since he hurried to the road to flag it down.

A big salesman’s grin stretched his face as the truck stopped. “Jason, my man,” he said to the long-haired kid behind the wheel. “Have you met Bree Remington?”

She was Bree West. She hadn’t been Bree Remington in ten years.

The kid gave her a nod. Mike rested his hand on the roof of the truck. “Bree’s selling Myra’s honey now. I bet your mom would appreciate it if you brought her a couple of jars. Everybody knows Myra’s honey’s good for migraines.”

“Sure thing, Mike.”

And that was the way the rest of her afternoon went, with Mike alternating between rolling paint and flagging down customers. She stayed as far away from him as she could. Experience had taught her that whatever good deeds Mike Moody performed came with all kinds of strings attached.

By the time the day was over, the farm stand glowed under two coats of buttery yellow paint, and she’d sold eighteen jars of honey, but as Mike headed back to his car, she couldn’t find a “thank you” anywhere inside her.

LUCY FOUND HERSELF WATCHING FOR Toby as she pulled up some weeds along the porch. She hadn’t seen him in three days, not since Big Mike had taken him away. She decided to drop in at the cottage and check on him. Although she’d been out on her bike every day, she hadn’t ridden into town in nearly a week, and she needed some groceries. When she returned, she’d get to work. Really, this time. Instead of just thinking about writing, she’d sit down and actually do it.

Instead of following the back road, she took the highway, and as she rounded the bend, she saw the farm stand, no longer a dingy gray but a soft yellow. Jars of golden honey sat on the counter, and Bree was painting a fanciful carousel horse on one side of a teepee-shaped wooden sign hinged at the top. As Lucy got closer, she read the royal blue script:

Carousel Honey

Best on the island

Our honey makes your world go round

Toby sat on the counter, watching Bree, his legs dangling, a sour expression on his face. As Lucy got off her bike, Bree put down her brush. She had a splash of bright pink paint on one cheek, a dab of lime green on the other. Her sleeveless top revealed an angry red bump on her pale, freckled arm.

Toby hopped off the counter and raced over to her. “Hey, Viper. You got work for me to do?”

“Not today.” She studied the sign. “You’re a real artist, Bree. It looks great.”

“Thanks, but I’m just a dabbler.” She began maneuvering the heavy sign toward the road, being careful not to smudge the fresh paint.