“After I got back, Beatrice came over. We dressed up in our bee suits, then she helped me introduce the bees to the hive.
“I was surprised that they were so docile. My ego misread this to believe that I had some special power, like I was a bee whisperer or something. I even got brave enough to take off one of my gloves. Not a single sting. I told Beatrice that I thought the bees knew I meant them no harm and I probably wouldn’t even need the suit in the future. She smiled and said, ‘You might want to rethink that.’
“I asked her where the queen was, and she pointed to a matchbox-sized box connected to the top of the larger box. The little box was also mostly screen with a cork in one end. I said, ‘We let her out last?’ She said, ‘No; if you let her out now, the bees will kill her. They have to get used to her smell.’ Then she pulled out the cork and replaced it with one of those tiny marshmallows. She said, ‘By the time she eats her way out, the bees will be used to her smell and accept her as queen.’
“We set the little box inside the hive, covered the hive with a cloth, and left. A week later I came back with my brother. He wanted to watch, but he kept his distance. I had told him how much the bees liked me and that I really didn’t need the suit. I lifted the top of the hive and the bees went nuts. They swarmed me. I’m standing there covered with bees and screaming while my brother laughed and recorded it on his phone. He thought it was hilarious. So did the Internet. It went viral. It had like two hundred thousand views.”
“Now I have to see that,” I said.
“I made him take it down,” he said. “I called Beatrice and asked why the change. At first she said, ‘They’re women, they get moody.’ Then she laughed and said, ‘When we introduced them to the hive, they didn’t have anything to protect. When you went back, they had honeycomb, and babies, and a queen.”
“So is that why you quit?” I asked.
“Actually, they quit me. One day I went out to the hive and they were gone. All five thousand of them. The queen left and took her friends with her. I took it personally. I mean, I introduced them, bought them a home, fed them, and they left me. I told myself it was them, not me.”
I laughed. “Of course it was.”
“Then after my wife left me, I figured it really was me.”
He makes me happy, I thought. I cooked the pasta for a few more minutes, then fished out a noodle with a fork and tried it. “Al dente,” I said. “It’s ready.” I poured the noodles into a colander, then put them in a bowl and brought them over to the table. After I sat down, Andrew opened the wine and poured our glasses.
“What should we toast?” he asked.
“You brought the wine. You decide.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “How about loneliness.”
“Loneliness?”
“If it wasn’t for loneliness, you probably wouldn’t have asked me to stay for coffee.”
“Well, if we’re taking that route, then we should toast my Fiat as well. Because if I was driving an SUV, there would have been no reason for you to come over.”
He smiled. “All right, to your Fiat. May it never encounter anything larger than itself.”
“Amen,” I said.
We clinked our glasses, then savored the wine. It was delicious, fruity with a hint of chocolate and anise. Perfect for the meal.
We ate a moment in silence. I’m not sure why, but I suddenly felt shy. I hadn’t been on a first date in more than a decade. Was this a first date?
“You’re a good cook,” he said, breaking the silence. “Of course you are. You’re a professional.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you like cooking? I mean, it’s your business, which means either you’re living your passion or you’re sick of it by now.”
“Yes,” I said.
He smiled and nodded.
“Do you cook?” I asked.
“Some. Lately I eat out a lot, so this is especially nice.”
“Do you always go by Andrew?” I asked. “Or do your friends call you Andy?”
“Not if they want to remain friends.”
I laughed.
“It’s helpful, having a name that people want to abbreviate. People used to call my office and try to bypass my secretary by saying they were ‘a friend of Andy’s.’ She’d say, ‘If you were really a friend, you’d know he never goes by Andy. Good-bye.’ ”
“So it was like a secret password.”
“Exactly. How about you? Is Maggie your name, or is it an abbreviation of Margaret?”
“Actually, neither,” I said. “It’s complicated. My real name is Agnetha.”
“Agnetha. That sounds Norwegian. Is it a family name?”
“It’s Swedish. And no, it’s not family. My father was a fan of the Swedish band ABBA. Do you know ABBA?”
He nodded. “Agnetha was the cute blonde.”
“My dad had a crush on her, so I got her name. Growing up in Oregon with the name Agnetha didn’t work real well, so everyone started calling me Aggie. Then after I moved here, I learned that the Utah State sports teams are called the Aggies. After a year I got tired of being reminded that I shared the name with their blue bull mascot, so I added an M. Like I said, it was complicated.”
“I’ve always thought of names as fluid,” he said.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. I think everyone should have at least a couple of aliases.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me with a peculiar grin. “Absolutely. So what should I call you?”
“Maggie,” I said, glad that he asked the question.
“Maggie it is.”
We quietly ate for a while, and then I said, “Do you mind my asking what happened to your marriage?”
“My marriage,” he said with a sigh. “I guess she found out that I wasn’t as great as she thought.”
“She must have had unreasonably high expectations.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I tried to tell her that. She just wasn’t having it.”
I laughed. “I’m sorry.”
“I should have seen it coming. You should never marry someone who is better-looking than you are. She was a full point and a half ahead of me on the Standard Attraction Scale.”
“The Standard Attraction Scale? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Oh, it’s real. It was established by a grant from the Coco Chanel Looks Matter Foundation.” I laughed again. He continued. “See, if I were smart, I’d get up and walk out that door right now, because you’re at least a point and a quarter above me.”
I grinned. “Only a point and a quarter? So you’re saying your ex-wife was prettier than I am?”
He grimaced. “Yikes. I walked right into that one. And no, I may have exaggerated her a little.”
I smiled at him. “You make me happy.”
“At least I’m making someone happy. After she left me, she married a rich guy who looked like a young George Clooney. She was always looking for the BBD.”
“What’s the BBD?”
“The bigger, better deal.”
“Oh.” I took a bite of pasta and followed it with a sip of wine. I thought Clive was my BBD. “For the record, I think you’re better-looking than George Clooney.”
“Now you’ve lost all credibility. But thank you for trying to flatter me.”
“I’m not flattering. I meant it.”
“Thank you,” he said. “So what was your ex’s Standard Attraction Score?”
“Clive, my ex, was handsome in a Ken doll sort of way, if that’s what you’re into.”
“Is that what you’re into?” he asked.
“I thought I was.”
“And now?”
I grinned, swirling my wine in its glass. “Maybe clean-cut isn’t the way to go.”
He looked like he was thinking. “So if he’s a Ken doll, what does that make me?”
“You’re more like a G.I. Joe. The one with the beard.”