The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (14 page)

“We won’t take no for an answer,” said Annelise.

Tess nodded. She seemed to be having trouble speaking. “I will, and I can’t thank you enough. But on one condition.”

“What is that?” asked Annelise.

“Isabel has to wear it on
her
wedding day, too.”

Isabel flushed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Swear,” said Tess. “For god’s sake, it’s a genuine Fabergé. I authenticated it myself.”

“Fine, I swear, but it’s premature to talk about my wedding day when I’m not even dating anyone.”

“That’s very silly,” said Annelise. “A pretty girl like you should be enjoying the company of suitors.”

“We could say the same of you,” Tess pointed out. “Why didn’t you ever get married?”

Annelise pursed her lips, and a darkness shifted into her eyes as though she’d just stepped under a cloud. “That is a story for another time.”

As if sensing she’d trod on delicate ground, Tess said, “The lavaliere is precious to us all, and I’d be honored to wear it on my wedding day. Could I try it on?”

“Of course.”

Isabel helped her fasten it. The gorgeous, ornate pendant lay upon her throat, a perfect match for her Irish redhead coloring. “It’s wonderful,” she told Tess.

“My mother always loved the color pink,” said Annelise. “She wore this often, and I used to love the way the stone seemed to absorb the warmth of her skin.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Tess gently touched the cabochon stone.

“Say you’ll wear pale pink nail polish to match.”

Tess laughed. “Done. Let’s go show the girls.”

Her sister’s joy swept Isabel’s melancholy away. In this moment, there was no room for anything in her heart but hope and happiness. Weddings had a way of doing that to a person.

* * *

The weekend was filled with silly games, gossip, copious amounts of food and drink, and plenty of laughter. Annelise and Jamie Westfall had taken a liking to each other, and even the two of them joined in the fun. The single bridesmaids fawned over Mac, no surprise given his looks and affable personality. Yes, despite his gruffness with Isabel, he did know how to turn on the charm.

“You look like something that should be jumping out of the cake, not serving it,” said Neelie, accepting a thick slice of Italian cream cake from him after dinner.

“Tempting,” he said with a grin. “I’ve been thinking about a career change.”

“I work in HR at Sheffield Auction House,” said Oksana. “You should send me your resume.”

Isabel tried to seem amused by the flirting. Instead, she found it irritating.

“The invitations came today,” Tess said. “Wait until you see.”

The women gathered around a fancy box filled with paper goods. At the top of each invitation was a stylized logo of a traditional bee skep.

“‘The Beekeeper’s Ball,’” said Jamie, studying one of the letter pressed cards.

“I didn’t want the traditional wording, you know?” Tess explained. “Mr. And Mrs. So-and-So request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter, blah, blah, blah... It doesn’t apply in our case. Dominic and I came up with the Beekeeper’s Ball because everything we’re serving has honey in it.”

Jamie offered a tentative smile. “That’s really cool.”

“You’re invited, you know,” Tess added, handing her a card. “Everyone at Bella Vista is, of course.”

“Oh.” The girl looked a bit flustered. “I’m not...I don’t—”

“Just say yes,” Lydia advised her. “Tess is super bossy. She won’t take no for an answer.”

“True,” said Tess. “And I’d love it if you brought your guitar.”

The night ended with Jamie performing a few songs. She really had a lovely voice, soulful and sincere, and she played guitar with simple clarity. The next day the bridesmaids headed back to the city, and Tess was the proud owner of quirky gifts—an absinthe spoon, an aebleskiver pan, silk and lace underthings, a pizza stone, asparagus tongs and several honey wands.

Annelise stayed on at Bella Vista. She and Magnus spent quiet hours together, taking slow walks in the gardens, browsing through the farmer’s market in the town square of Archangel, sipping coffee or playing bocce ball in the small city park. She had agreed to contribute to the book Mac was working on, and both Isabel and Tess were eager to hear her input. She was part of Grandfather’s story, but more importantly, she was family.

Isabel was not about to judge either her or Grandfather for what had happened. Still, she did want to understand.

They all got together one evening as Tess was closing up Things Remembered, the antiques shop she had founded after moving to Archangel. The shop was situated in a vintage building at the junction where Bella Vista Drive joined the main road leading to town. Years ago, Eva Johansen had run a farm stand on the shady corner. Now refurbished and painted bright white, it had the feel of an old-time general store, but it had an exquisitely modern flair, thanks to Tess. Tourists and locals could stop and browse through the treasures, or pick up fresh produce from Bella Vista and the surrounding farms.

In one corner of the shop, there was a seating area by an old iron stove. Nearby was a special collection housed in vintage glass cases marked
Not for sale. For display only.
The exhibit featured a collection of old papers and artifacts Tess had found over the past year while sorting through Magnus’s affairs. Most of the objects were related to farming and country life in the past century, old photos and mementos of Bella Vista, and some even went back to Magnus’s war years and his Danish boyhood.

“Wow, looks like a gold mine,” said Mac, checking out the lighted display.

“I’d forgotten about most of these old things, but we now have a wonderful curator.” Magnus beamed at Tess.

“Thanks,” said Tess, finishing up the day’s till at her desk. “It’s still a work in progress. The local historical society is helping. Eventually it will become a community project. I’m hoping one day to give the exhibit its own space next to the shop.”

“Magnus told me about this,” said Annelise. “I’ve brought you a number of items to donate to the collection.”

Isabel set down a tray with a Belleek china teapot and a batch of buttery madeleines she’d baked that afternoon. She had a cut crystal decanter of vintage sherry as well, and tiny colored glass goblets.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” Magnus said. “When I told Annelise that Mr. O’Neill is writing my story, I gave her the option to kill the project.”

The two of them shared a long look. Isabel could only imagine the memories that passed between them in those drawn-out seconds. Magnus held his goblet up to the light, then took a sip. Annelise folded her hands in her lap. “I will tell you what I told Magnus. I would never stand in the way of someone telling the truth about his life.”

He patted her hand. “You are part of the story. I shouldn’t like to force this on you.”

A succession of emotions shone in her face. Isabel could practically feel the old woman hovering on the edge of a decision. Mac waited, unmoving.

Annelise reached forward and took a glass of sherry. She drank it all in one gulp. Finally, she said, “Of course you must pursue this.” Turning to Mac, she added, “You understand, I assume, that my own contribution will not be easy for any of you to hear, nor will the telling be easy for me. But the past matters greatly, and I want to help if I can.”

“Ma’am, if you prefer, I won’t include any references to you in the book.”

“I appreciate that.” She said something to Grandfather in Danish in a rapid murmur.

Isabel caught his reply:
“Jeg har ingen anelse.” I have no idea.

The old lady set her glass back on the tray. She held herself stiff and straight with the posture of a much younger woman. “My story and the story of Magnus are intertwined. If you tell one without the other, it would not be complete.”

“I understand,” said Mac. “But your participation is entirely optional. If you’d like to take some time to think about it—”

“I have already done so,” she said quickly. “The things that happened...they are important. I’m glad you’re doing this.” Her gaze softened as she looked around at her listeners.

“He will write the story with honesty and respect,” Magnus said, his voice sharp and clear, somewhat commanding. “Won’t you, Cormac?”

“You have my word,” said Mac. He was being very low key, yet Isabel got the sense that he was not missing a single nuance of the oddly tense conversation.

“Mac’s a wonderful writer,” Tess said. She closed the old brass register and helped herself to a madeleine. Then she touched Annelise’s shoulder. “You’re very important to our family.”

Annelise nodded and patted Tess’s hand.

“More than you know,” Magnus murmured.

The silence was weighted by unanswered questions. The deep connection between Grandfather and Annelise was almost palpable. How had their lives become so entwined? How had a secret passion turned into infidelity, and then back to love again? How did they live with the past they carried in their hearts?

Magnus stood and used a tarnished key to open the display cases. He took something out and turned it over in his hands. “The handle of this pocketknife is made of ivory. The illustration was done by my grandfather. Etching was a hobby of his.” He held it out for everyone to see. The yellowed ivory had a delicate folk art design of bears on both sides. “I carried it with me all the way from Denmark, and it was lost for a number of years. The girls found it in Erik’s room.”

“I remember that knife,” Annelise said. “You carved puzzle boxes with it when we were at sea, on our way to America.”

“You came to America together?” Tess’s eyebrows shot up.

“We came with a number of people,” said Annelise. “We sailed aboard a Norwegian ship called the SS
Stavangerfjord,
packed full of people needing to make a new start. It had been taken over by the German authorities as a troopship during the war, but returned to the Norwegian America Line soon afterward.”

“I had no idea you came together,” said Isabel, watching her grandfather’s face. He smiled briefly, then took a seat next to Annelise.

“I shared a bunk with your grandmother Eva,” she said. “And Magnus shared one with Ramon Maldonado, as I recall.”

Magnus nodded, turning to Mac. “You’ve not met Ramon. He isn’t well, but perhaps we can visit him on a good day.” He stacked his hands atop the head of his cane. “The two of us have been friends since we were boys in the underground.”

“Friends?” Annelise shook her head. “I have a different recollection.”

“I’m sure Mr. O’Neill would like to hear it,” Magnus said, a twinkle in his eye.

Mac spread his hands, palms out. “That’s why I’m here. It would be great to hear both your perspectives.”

Annelise clasped her hands in her lap, then unclasped them. She patted the carpetbag. “I brought some things for your exhibit.” She turned to Mac. “This is a wonderful opportunity after all.”

“We’re here to listen,” he said quietly.

Isabel watched his manner with her grandfather and Annelise. He had a gift for being neutral, yet compassionate. It seemed to put people at ease. It put
her
at ease, which was not the way she was accustomed to feeling around guys.

“When I was a girl,” Annelise told him, “the Nazis arrested my parents. My father was a hospital administrator in Copenhagen, and Mother worked as a volunteer nurse there. The Nazis discovered they were part of an organization affiliated with the resistance. From the hospital where they worked, people would be smuggled out of the country by way of the hospital’s body bags, or disguised as victims of illness on stretchers. They were betrayed and taken away, perhaps the same way Magnus’s parents were—without warning, and then sent to die in work camps without any due process at all. It’s likely I would have been taken, too, but Magnus helped me run away.” She paused, and shared a solemn look with Grandfather. “He put me on a boat to my grandmother’s house in Helsingør. She was a widow who gave music lessons to the village children.” She took a breath, turned to Tess and then Isabel. “That is where I met Eva. We became best friends.”

“You and Eva were friends in Denmark, too?” Isabel interjected. “I didn’t realize you even knew each other.”
Friends.
Bubbie and Annelise had known each other, had shared a berth while coming to America.

“If not for the upheaval of war, we would not have met at all. She and her father had gone to Helsingør to keep from being found and deported. It was a little fishing town on a narrow strait. People needing to disappear quickly would sometimes take a boat, even a small dory, across the strait to Sweden. Eva and I met in the autumn at the Wednesday market. She was selling apples, and I made a sketch of her.”

Rummaging in the carpetbag, she took out a faded cardboard portfolio bound with string. “This is a sketchbook I managed to keep with me all these years.” She unwound the string and paged through the thick, yellowed paper. Then she held out a simple pencil sketch of a girl with large eyes and pigtails, holding a basket of apples.

“That’s lovely,” said Isabel. It was rendered well, though she didn’t recognize her grandmother in the smiling girl.

“Annelise has always been a fine artist,” Magnus said.

“A hobby,” she corrected him.

“She was an art teacher in San Francisco for many years,” he added.

“Forty-five, to be precise, all at the Sherman School.” She smiled, her eyes misty with memories. “I think now that I retired too soon. I miss those children every day, even with their noise and their messes. My life is much too quiet these days.” She set aside the portfolio. “Now, where was I?”

“Eva, the girl in the picture,” Mac said quietly. “You were telling us about your friendship with Eva Solomon.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” The old lady blinked slowly, her pale face soft with vulnerability.

Isabel exchanged a glance with Tess. Grandfather and Annelise were both sturdy for their age, but moments like this were a reminder of their great age and their fragility.

“We became fast friends the day I sketched the portrait, and I adored her. But as you surely understand by now, ours was a long and complicated relationship. She was a wonderful person who rose above the things she suffered. Isabel, you were privileged to be raised by her, as I’m certain you know.”