And right now, for damn sure, she wanted to be. As far as Violet was concerned, a bee sting justified a sissy fit any day of the week. She dunked her foot under the faucet and switched on the tap. The rush of lukewarm water nearly made her pass out.
Possibly that was taking cowardice too far, but cripes. The whole situation was so unfair-and so ironic. Everything around her seemed to be heartlessly, exuberantly reproducing. Plants. Cats. Socks in her dryer. Even the dust bunnies under the bed seemed to lasciviously multiply the instant the lights turned off at night.
Everybody seemed to be having sex and babies but her-and that sure as sunlight included the bees. Lately she could hardly wander anywhere on the farm without running into a fresh hive. Possibly having twenty acres of lavender coming into bloom might-might-have encouraged a few extra bees to hang out. But its not as if she went close to the lavender. And her normal bees were nice bees. They liked her. She liked them.
Not this fella. Didnt male bees die after stinging someone? She hoped he did. She hoped his death was violent and painful and lingering.
The front doorbell rang yet again.
For Petes sake, could you lay off the doorbell? I cant come to the door, so either come in or go away!
Bravely gritting her teeth, she squirted antibacterial soap on the injured foot, then screeched when it touched the stinger spot, which was already turning bruisey red and throbbing like a migraine. She forced the foot under the tap water again.
The glass cabinet behind her head contained the box of first-aid supplies, but when she tried to stretch behind her, the movement sent more sharp shooting pains up her leg. The cat had been joined by another cat on the other side of the sink. Both knew perfectly well they werent allowed on the kitchen counters. Both still sat, as if they were the supervisory audience over an audition she was failing. Her skirt hem kept getting wetter. Her forehead and nape were sticky-damp from the heat-if not from shock. And she noticed the nail polish on her middle toenail had a chip. She hated it when her nail polish chipped.
Allo?
The sudden voice made her head jerk up like a rabbit smelling a jaguar in her territory. This just wasnt a kitchen where jaguars prowled. After the divorce, shed moved home primarily because it was available-her mom and dad had just retired to Florida, leaving the old Vermont homestead clean, ready for family gatherings at any time, but vacant.
Shed made it hers. Not that her mom hadnt had wonderful decorating taste, but shed fiercely needed to create a private, safe nest after Simpson took off with his extraordinarily fecund bimbo. Now, at a glance, she reassured herself that the world was still normal, still safe, still hers. The old cabinets held a prize collection of red Depression glass. A potbellied stove sat on the old brick hearth; shed angled an antique-rose love seat on one side, a cane rocker on the other-both of which made seats for more cats. Red-and-white chintz curtains framed the wide windows overlooking the monster maple in the backyard. Potted plants argued for space from every light source. A crocheted heart draped the round oak table.