Local Honey, Excerpt by Shawn P. McCarthy

Jim Yarrow, a wounded World War II vet, sees his luck change when he finds work as a police officer. He now thrives in his beloved hometown on the Merrimack River. Content with his job, his long-term friendships, and his wife and kids, he never expected the girl he loved in high school to reappear in his life.

Becky Bivens fled Riverbend, Massachusetts, in 1941, after her mother’s crimes were exposed. She’s lived a hardscrabble life ever since, and those struggles now help her understand her mother’s troubling choices.

In 1951, Becky returns, intent on building a simple produce stand on the land where she once lived. She intends to raise bees, sell honey, and restore her shattered life, while also helping other displaced women.

Riverbend, like many small towns, is entering a period of great economic expansion, while still recovering from a war that wreaked death and havoc on soldiers and families. However, the town’s growth comes with strict social rules and crippling class divisions. The war widows and homeless people who find refuge at Becky’s farm become social outcasts who face unsettling choices. Becky turns a blind eye to the “services” some of them offer as they squat on her property.

Local Honey is a story of America’s haves vs have-nots. It’s part love triangle, part class struggle, and part dreamy window into the lost New England of the 1950s. The backdrop includes seashore towns, rural farms, the gritty slums of Boston, and brief flashbacks of battlefields.

In a community that should be basking in the “winner’s aftermath” of a terrible war, all should be good for everyone. But it isn’t.

Excerpt

(Background: Officer Jim Yarrow, while on patrol, is called to investigate an “illegal farm stand.” He reluctantly drives to investigate, understanding that the complaint came from a woman who has strong objections to the family that used to run the farm.)

He knew the location. Dusty gravel lot, half a mile south of Route 110. It was little more than a wide spot near the old Coal Ferry Road.

In his high school days, Yarrow and his friends sometimes parked there and walked down a trail toward the river. Decades of sediment had pushed up against the bank, creating a small sandy beach on a curve of the Merrimack.

The place also held another attraction back then. They’d try to catch a glimpse of the Bivens girls. There seemed to be several of them, living in a shack near the water. One in particular always caught his eye. But that family was gone now, and so was their decrepit home.

As he drove, he tried to remember if they ever brought his brother along on their river visits.

Will.

Yarrow couldn’t help but think of him.

Will was the baby of the family. Just nineteen when the big road took him. After that, Yarrow watched as his Ma grew somber and empty. Losing Will made him examine his own life. Prices paid. Paths chosen. Even months after the death, Yarrow still felt the heavy weight.

So, Yarrow retreated too. Into family. Then into himself.

Endless patrolling became his escape. He requested reassignment to the rural side of town where he could just cruise the low knolls and shallow valleys near the river. It gave him time to think.

As he drove toward the old Bivens place, he thought about the woman whose complaint prompted this visit.

Mary Jane.

Jesus.

He had a strained history with Mary Jane Danforth. He’d known her since childhood and they were in the same class in high school. Back then, she was the boisterous head of the student body. A few years later, she became the founder and president of the Riverbend Improvement Society. In that role, she produced a steady string of suggestions and complaints, supposedly in the interest of civic improvement.

As he reached his destination, Yarrow downshifted and let the Ford Super Deluxe roll into the parking area. The gravel lot was just as he remembered. At the far end, he saw a card table topped with yellow gingham. Amber jars stood in neat lines and a hand-painted sign leaned against the table. It read Local Honey, with a hastily sketched bee.

That was it. No other produce. No other tables or crates or anything. Just honey.

Wow, he thought. This is what bothers you, Mary Jane? This little table?

But he knew the farm’s history all too well and he had his suspicions about what might be driving the complaint.

As Yarrow exited his cruiser, he spotted the proprietor talking to a customer. Her back was turned. But as he walked closer, he recognized her. That triggered a strange elation, tempered by a sobering trepidation.

It had been ten years, but he knew that hair and the delicate curve of her waist. For a moment, he considered retreating back to his black-and-white. He could ask Tina to send a different officer. But, he steeled himself and called out.

“Well, my goodness, is that Rebecca Bivens?”

She handed a bag to her customer, slid some money into her pocket, then slowly turned in his direction. She wore a white dress with dark blue polka dots. A blue belt was cinched tightly around her waist. The outfit made her look wonderful, but she also looked quite thin—to the point where it startled him. He told himself it was just the light.

A puff of wind blew a lock of hair from beneath her red scarf. Then her eyes brightened, and a smile spread over her lips.

“Jim Yarrow!” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe it. It’s so good to see you again.”

She stepped forward and hugged him. He accepted it awkwardly. The curious elation bubbled up again, and the feeling bewildered him.

“Good to see you … too,” he stammered. “Wow. How long has it been, Becky?”

She adjusted her scarf. “Well, my family left town in July of forty-one. Quite hastily, you may remember.”

“I do remember.” He tried to smile, but that summer and that memory were tough for him. The weight of it tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Wow. Ten years. So, welcome back, I guess?”

“Thank you.”

He walked with her toward the tiny table. “You know, Becky, we never had a chance to talk after everything happened. A lot of us felt bad about it. I was only eighteen then, but I should have—”

Becky held up a finger. “No more mention of it. Okay, Jim? That was a long time ago. I was young too. None of what happened was our fault.”

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Meet Shawn P. McCarthy

Shawn P. McCarthy has been a writer for nearly 40 years and he claims that he’s enjoyed every minute of it. Local Honey is his tenth book. His other books include a well-received six-book historical fiction series called The Puzzle Box Chronicles, a book of short stories called The Sea Glass Empire, and two nonfiction books, including one to John Wiley and Sons. His has written articles for The Washington Post, Associated Press, United Press International, and publications produced by The Smithsonian Institution, the National Geographic Society and Time-Life books. Shawn has a bachelor’s degree in journalism/mass communication from Saint Bonaventure University and a master’s degree in education from the George Washington University.