“Always.”

“I want to believe he loves me more than the idea of loving me. And maybe one day that will finally happen. Even though we broke up, we still have a great relationship on social media.”

Chapter Two

It’s hot and humid and the summer’s only getting started! But we’ve got you covered – concert tickets at Jones Beach in ninety minutes. But now, more of the coolest songs of the summer on ninety-five-five PLJ. T-swift, Nick Jonas, and our friends, Walk the Moon . . . just shut up and dance, New York!

The cab driver lowers his window, punches his arm into the thick air, and shakes his fist. “Tu es mootafoocker!” His Haitian accent pours through his delivery as he repeats the crass sentiment. “Mootafoocker!” Mumbling under his breath, the cabbie changes the radio station to an AM business report while edging closer to the offensive Mercedes that cut him off.

“Hey, Meg – I’m sitting in traffic. Can you gather the gang for a quick meeting?” Thessaly listens to the husky voice on the phone while studying her chipped manicure. “Thanks! I’ll see you in twenty.”

Thessaly ends the call and sends a group text to her brothers.

Tess: Thank you for stashing forty tubes of Vagisil inside my carryon bag. TSA had quite the laugh.

Kip: You deserved it.

Shelby: Hey, Kip wanted to hide a jar of pickles. The nasty kind with the pickled cauliflower and carrots. I saved you.

Tess: I hate you both.

Kip: You crossed the line using THAT song as my ringtone, Tess.

Tess: But it’s a world of laughter . . .

Shelby: and a world of fear apparently.

Kip: Did the TSA flag you? Vagi-terrorist.

Tess: Revenge is near, brothers. It’s a small, small world.

Shelby: Ha ha ha! Sis, where do you keep the pot? It’s going to be a long summer with Lord Kipling in charge.

Tess: Check the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. Trader Joe’s bag.

Shelby: No fucking way. That’s brilliant.

Tess: It’s all yours.

Kip: Tess is a New Yorker now. She’s escalated to snorting lines of coke on the subway.

Shelby: Love ya.

Tess: xoxo

Kip: Pest

Tess: Jerk

Laughing quietly, Thessaly places her phone on her lap and peers between the layers of grime plastered on the backseat window. As the taxi picks up speed across the Brooklyn Bridge, the fading sunlight drips through the rusty cables and casts hues of sepia on the cars below. It’s a timeless photograph waiting to be captured. But like the millions of people before her, and the generations that will undoubtedly follow her, Thessaly Sinclair is merely one story – an immigrant taking the ceremonious passage to the island once known as New Amsterdam.

“Fulton and Water,” she instructs.

Following her orders, the cab swerves into the left lane without signaling, prompting the customary honk salute. One time, a few months back, Thessaly counted the seconds that elapsed over a single pressing of the horn. It’s become a backseat game – the current record being seven seconds.

As the cab idles at the corner of Water Street, Thessaly drops her phone into the large bag on the seat next to her. She removes two twenty-dollar bills from her wallet and waves them through the partition. He doesn’t seem thrilled with the small tip, but she wants to see if he’ll help with her rolling bag in the trunk before offering more cash.

The cab driver doesn’t move, but instead, pops in a cassette of creole music. Thessaly exits the taxi and slaps the trunk. It pops open with a loud creak and a rush of a strong citrus smell. She chucks her suitcase on the sidewalk, slams the trunk, careful not to smash the bags of navel oranges, and then proceeds to the cobbled street of Fulton.

Late afternoon is the least crowded in Lower Manhattan, especially on a Monday, but the Seaport is always packed with people enjoying the casual thrills of an urban playground. The newer restaurants, resurrected after Hurricane Sandy, serve light meals with some of the best happy hours Downtown. One of Thessaly’s favorite places, atop an original boat slip, celebrates the summer with ice cream waffle cones for three-dollars between five and seven.

Needing some caffeine and a dose of sugar, she makes a quick stop in the Seaport’s trendy coffee shop. She rolls her suitcase up to the counter and smiles, recognizing the barista.

“Hey, Tess! Usual?” he asks, grabbing a Sharpie from a coffee can.

“Hi, Noah – extra caramel and skim milk.” Thessaly enjoys all things sweet. In fact, if coffee beans were rolled in sugar and dipped in honey, she’d still add the swirl of caramel. “And extra ice, please.”

Noah scribbles her drink order in shorthand on the side of a plastic cup. “Five-fifty,” he says, starting the espresso drip. “Did you hear about the bees?”

Thessaly rolls her suitcase to the end of the counter to make room for more customers. “I read an online article – a bee swarm is really cool to watch.”

“Really? People down here are freaked!” Noah exclaims, scooping ice into the coffee shop’s signature orange plastic cups.

“A swarm can be terrifying, but honeybees couldn’t care less about humans. And people are scared of things they don’t understand.”

Swirling caramel on top of the skim milk, Noah passes the coffee across the butcher-block counter and announces in his best theatrical voice, “Iced latte with skim milk. Extra caramel. Extra ice. And extra love.”

“Thanks, Noah.” She slides a few bucks across the counter with a smile. “For your mint-green Vespa fund.”

Taking the money and shoving it in his apron pocket, Noah laughs. “How’d you know about that?”

“Meg,” she answers, walking backwards out of the coffee house with a sly smile.

Removing an orange dishtowel from below the bar, Noah shakes his head and laughs. He clears a plate and then wipes the counter. “Fare thee well, milady,” he shouts.

It’s no secret that Meg and Noah have a crush on each other. Since Noah began working at Fulton Beanery a few months ago, Meg has taken to three cups of coffee a day. She claims it’s because of the amazing blending technique, but she admitted recently that it’s Noah’s shaggy hair and cute dimples that started her coffee addiction. Thessaly doesn’t exactly see it, but she has yet to find a guy more attractive than Mason.

Approaching her store on Fulton Street, Thessaly pauses by a red bicycle leaning against the front window. With a giddy smile, she flings open the exterior metal door leading to a tiny vestibule lined with a honeycomb-patterned gold wallpaper. On one side, there’s a narrow console table painted glossy magenta that displays random objects in every shade of blue. The shop isn’t a typical artisanal store, and the only thing that hints at a bee farm is the rustic, interior screen door. With peeling yellow paint and a small rip in the lower screen, the old door is one of few items imported from her family’s farm.

Designing the store was a huge factor in the overall business plan. The Hive needed to be trendy and hip, but the basic methods of the business had to remain consistent in an evolving city. Thessaly committed to an upscale warehouse design, similar to the cottage on the farm, grounded in clean lines and luxurious materials. Marble counters, glossy white cabinetry, ebony-stained floors, and industrial lighting were all installed for a timeless, yet edgy appeal. For years to come, restaurants and food markets can purchase products from a reputable vendor directly from her store, and Downtown shoppers can experience an artisanal shop that embodies the vibe of the diverse neighborhood.