Once she had a business plan, securing the space at a decent price was fairly easy. The Seaport needed to rebuild after Sandy, and Thessaly had the expendable funds to make that happen. Diving into her savings and taking a loan from a bank, as well as a loan from the Department of Small Business Services of New York City, The Hive was completed in only eight months. During the week of her grand opening, she moved out of the apartment she shared with Mason in SoHo, and settled into a cozy, yet affordable, studio apartment a few blocks away from The Hive.

“Whose beach cruiser is parked outside?” Thessaly asks, propping the screen door open with her suitcase.

“Oh, that’s Cherry Bomb,” Seth interjects.

Placing her iced latte on the long marble island and attaching her phone to a charger, Thessaly laughs. “Are the handlebar streamers on backorder?”

“Along with the horn,” Meg quips.

“You’re just jealous of my sweet ride,” Seth defends.

Snorting with laughter, Meg scoots up to the island on a black stool and places her phone on the counter. She takes a sip from Thessaly’s coffee and purses her lips. “Gross, Tess.”

Grabbing the latte from Meg, she snaps, “Hey, it was lovingly prepared by your friend Noah.”

“Uh-oh, No-ah.” Seth chants, grabbing the stool next to Meg.

“I can’t take much more of him.” Frustrated, she adds, “He’s like the annoying red-headed stepchild.”

Seth wraps his arm around Meg and squeezes tightly. “You’re so cute when you bitch.”

“Children, behave. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll buy lunch this week. Deal?” Thessaly barters.

Meg claps her hands and agrees. “Sushi!”

“Chipotle!” counters Seth.

“Fine. Where’s Lois?” Thessaly asks.

Checking the texts on her phone, Meg replies, “Um, she sent me a text earlier about having to do something with her daughter. We could get her on speaker if you want.”

“No, no – let’s get started.” Thessaly moves a blue vase filled with sunflowers to the end of the island and then places her laptop in its spot. “Our next shipment is coming on the fourteenth, which gives us a week to test some new ideas. What’s the schedule like this week?”

Meg opens an app on her phone to read off the week’s appointments and meetings. “Tomorrow we’re hosting a booth at New Amsterdam Market. They requested we bring a selection of jams as opposed to honey – not sure what that’s about. Seth will man the booth until three, and then Lois will close it up and bring back any inventory.”

“Jams? Okay, maybe there’s a theme or something.” With an intimidating glare, Thessaly asks, “You gonna push that jam, Seth?”

Seth raises his eyebrows and replies, “I’m a jam pusher. Jam, jam, jam.” His hand taps invisible words as he says, “The Hive is my jam.”

“Nice. Take tons of photos and post them as the day goes on. What else, Meg?”

“Wednesday you have a sit-down with a wedding planner and her bride. She wants shabby chic things for her wedding on Shelter Island slated for Columbus Day Weekend.” Meg sarcastically uses air quotes as she reads her notes.

“Awesome – remind me to wear overalls that day.”

“And a straw hat. Okay, Thursday the shop is being photographed for a foodie blog and magazine – excellent exposure, but they’re also expecting country charm nestled in the Seaport. And then Friday, you have a meeting with that incredibly hot chef from Les Etoiles. I should probably go with you.”

“Oh, please. My meetings with Pete are usually twenty minutes of me gawking like an idiot while he tries to chat about normal things.” Thessaly opens a document on her laptop and continues. “Anything I should know about from the weekend?”

“Not only was it the Fourth, but that bee swarm scared everyone away. Very slow weekend,” Seth drones. “Oh, and the fireworks were just so-so.”

Meg jabs Seth in the side and whispers, “Tell her about that guy.”

“What guy?” Thessaly interrupts.

“A mysterious voice called earlier asking for you specifically. He didn’t want to leave a message.” Seth waggles his eyebrows and grins.

Thessaly shudders. “Sounds like a creeper.”

“Not at all! His voice was sexy,” defends Meg, nudging Seth in the ribs.

Taking the hint, Seth deadpans, “Um, yeah. Totally weird and sexy.”

“Oh? Maybe he’ll call again,” Thessaly replies casually, remembering that Mason’s voice is deep and sexy.

“Flies to honey,” Meg hums.

“For real, Meg? My grandma tells better jokes.” Seth laughs as Meg shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, Tess, what are these new ideas we’ll be testing?”

Slapping the counter in the rhythm of a drumroll, Thessaly chirps, “Finally! On to the exciting new additions.”

Seth matches the pitch of her enthusiasm while asking, “Are we finally getting a Donkey Kong arcade? If we remove a few shelves in that corner it will definitely fit.”

“Keep the dream alive, Seth.” Thessaly slurps her sugary coffee, leaving only the ice, and then leans toward her friends prepared to tell a secret. “Hear me out – so, I walked around downtown Asheville on Saturday afternoon after jumping in the fountains in Pack Square. It was eye-opening to say the least – almost every storefront was a quirky knockoff of the West Village. Ridiculous signs plastered in windows bragging about locally-grown sustainable artisan foods – those tag lines are sadly becoming the gourmet trend of the nineties.” Thessaly glances at the framed black and white photo of her family’s barn hanging on the wall behind the register and takes a deep breath. “Later that night, after too many shots of honey whiskey and two slices of red-velvet wedding cake, I had a Don Draper moment.”

“You had sex with a waitress in an alley?” Seth asks flatly.

Thessaly flicks the air in front of Seth’s face. “No, you dork. I sat on the back steps of the barn, swept away by the fresh air . . . intoxicated by the smell of wild honeysuckle . . . clouded by the flashes of the mountain fireworks. And then it hit me – if you don’t like what people are saying,” Thessaly says.

“Change the conversation,” Meg and Seth finish in unison.

“Exactly.” Thessaly’s eyes expand in excitement as she opens a digital sketch on her laptop. “We need to reinvent artisan honey. Look around us, we’re surrounded by six restaurants serving only locally-farmed ingredients, and ten stores claiming to have hand-crafted inventory.” Animated and hyper, she continues. “Artisanal coffee? What do those words even mean if everyone uses them?”

“Usually it just means homemade – which means a shitload of hands touched my food.” Seth growls.

“Right?” Thessaly concurs.

“What about all-natural or raw honey?” Meg suggests. “The Hive is keepin’ it real.”

Thessaly stands from the island and grabs a jar of Sinclair honey from the nearest shelf. “Basic marketing principle, Meg, people want a fantasy, or sex, or a fantasy including sex. They don’t want to visualize a hippie-chick with armpit hair pouring all-natural, raw honey into BPA-free bottles and then driving across the country with a truckload of crates to sell at farmer’s markets.” Positioning the jar in the palm of her hand like the forbidden fruit, Thessaly declares with carnal precision, “We’re not selling raw honey. We’re selling a confection of anarchy.” Her voice lowers to a rasp as she stresses each word. “Primitive. Uncultivated. Luxuriant. Nectarous. Sensual.” Pausing for effect, Thessaly watches as her friends’ faces flicker with excitement. “And starting in a few weeks, The Hive will be Lower Manhattan’s supplier of wild honey.”

Mouth open and eyes sparkling, Meg adds, “We’re like honey dealers!”

Placing the jar on the island, Thessaly spins her laptop around in order to reveal the new template for the upcoming brand.

“It’s brilliant – are these new labels?” Seth asks.

Thessaly nods while maximizing the screen.