The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (20 page)

“Grandfather’s friend from the war years, yes. It was the Maldonado family who granted Bella Vista to Grandfather after the war,” she said. “Did he tell you how it all came about?”

“Not yet.”

“He will, I’m sure. They’ve been friends ever since.” She thought about the recent trouble with Lourdes, who was Ramon’s granddaughter, but that situation couldn’t be blamed on Ramon. “I can take you to see some incredible views. Do you think this thing will make it up a hill?”

“Yes, but it’ll be slow.”

“I don’t mind taking it slow,” she said.

They crossed the single lane arched bridge that spanned Angel Creek, a winding, stony waterway of worn rocks, flanked on both sides by farms and vineyards. The landscape turned wilder as the road narrowed and wound its way gradually up Angel Peak, the highest hill of the Archangel valley. She tipped up her chin to look at the sky, fringed by the boughs of eucalyptus trees along the roadside The air cooled, and a part of Isabel was amazed that she was actually riding on the back of a scooter, like a carefree teenager running off with some guy she barely knew.

She pointed out Elsinore Pond, where as a girl she used to play amid the reeds or crouch at the water’s edge, collecting frogs’ eggs and bringing them home to watch the tadpoles hatch. The pond had been named by her grandparents after they settled in at Bella Vista, and only now did Isabel understand the significance of the name. It had never occurred to her to wonder about it.

Through the stories Grandfather was telling Mac, the past was taking on a life of its own. It didn’t just sit frozen like an old photograph. She was finally getting a true sense of the drama her grandparents had survived. It was one thing to run her finger gently across the numbers tattooed on her grandmother’s inner forearm, as Isabel used to do, aching for the suffering Bubbie had endured; now she could picture little Eva, yelling out in pain and terror as the numbers were gouged into her tender flesh. Yet Isabel could also picture a girl who played in the garden and sang songs, and once had a friend named Annelise.

On the north slope of the peak was a redwood forest with branches arching over the roadway like the buttresses of a cathedral. The timeless sentinels added a curious hush to the coolness. The last thousand feet of the climb gave way to grassland and oak savannah, and the crest of the peak itself was covered in grass and wildflowers. There was a gravel parking area and then a final walk up a path to the highest point.

The scooter chugged along, emitting a backfire when Mac cut the engine.

She dismounted, stepping back while he set the kickstand. “Well. Honestly, I think it’s amazing that you found the scooter and actually got it to run.”

“Vespas are awesome,” he told her. “The word
vespa
is Italian for
wasp.
”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yep. The body is built like an aircraft, made of a single piece of metal. These scooters can run forever if you take care of them. Your granddad and I have big plans for this one. I’ll take it apart and polish up each little piece, and put it back together. It’s going to be better than new.”

Why?
she wanted to ask.
Why would you do something like that?

“Your grandfather and I will finish the restoration together,” he said. “Guys talk better when they’re busy doing something with their hands.”

She nodded. “It’s not just guys. I’m better talking in the kitchen, preparing food. That’s why the cooking school is such a good project for me. Cooking and talking are my two favorite things. I love everything about preparing food.”

“It’s in your blood,” he said. “Erik and his state fair pies. I found another folder of his recipes in his room.”

She frowned. “Really? I thought I’d found them all myself, years ago.”

“They were in an old travel book. I’ll show you when we get back.”

“All right. My grandmother said she used to cook with Erik when he was a boy. Could be that’s why I loved cooking with her, too. She was incredible in the kitchen. The things she could do with apples could make a grown man weep.”

“I have a feeling she’d approve of what you’re doing with Bella Vista.”

“She loved having people over, fixing food, laughing and talking. Knowing what I know about her now, what she survived and the life she made for herself afterward, I’m even more in awe of her. We’re going to call the herb garden ‘The Garden of Eva’ in her honor. Too hokey?”

“Not at all. I like it. Would Eva have liked it?”

“Sure. She loved growing fresh herbs, tended them as though they were her children. Bubbie did her gardening in the morning, wearing a floppy sun hat, with a fresh flower stuck in the brim.” Isabel smiled at the memory.

Mac inspected the gauges on the scooter, wiping the covering with a corner of his shirt. “Not bad for a test run.”

“You haven’t tested it before today?”

“Not with a passenger, and not uphill for...” He checked the odometer. “Five kilometers. She did great, eh?”

Isabel fluffed out the hem of her skirt. “I got a big grease stain on this.”

“Buy a new one. Girls like shopping for clothes.”

“Guilty as charged.” Isabel did love shopping—when she had the time. She was already planning a trip to Angelica Delica, her favorite boutique in town. She still hadn’t figured out what to wear for Tess’s wedding. Tess didn’t want the bridesmaids to wear matching dresses. Instead, she asked them all to find a dress they loved and shoes that made them want to dance.

“What’s that smile?” he asked her.

“What smile?”

“The one I don’t see enough of.”

“I smile all the time,” she objected. Didn’t she? Now she wasn’t so sure. Mac O’Neill noticed things. She wasn’t certain whether it was the journalist in him, or if he was simply observant. Or even if, for some reason, he was particularly interested in observing
her.

“I was thinking about all the dress shopping I get to do. I have to find a maid of honor dress for Tess’s wedding. And something to wear for the grand opening of the cooking school.” Feeling slightly discomfited, she walked over to a sign that read Angel Peak, Elev. 2212 Feet. “Come check out the view from here. We came on a good day. No coastal mist.”

“Wow,” he said, coming up behind her. “Damn, that’s awesome.”

She breathed deeply of the crisp, clear air. To the west, the Pacific Ocean was rimmed by rocky arches and rugged sea cliffs. To the east, the green-clad Archangel valley stretched toward the distant, even more dramatic Sonoma valley. The alluvial plains were flanked by forested hills and abundant farmlands. “Jack London country,” she said, gesturing to the north toward the state park that bore the writer’s name. “One of my favorite wilderness areas.”

“One of my favorite writers.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I’ve probably read most of his work. He was an incredible stylist and storyteller. How about you?”

“I was born and raised right here in the valley, so of course I’m a fan. Every high school student around here spends a semester reading Jack London. I read
The
Call of the Wild
at an impressionable age. After that, I never looked at a dog the same way. And then there was
Love of Life,
you know, the one about the guy whose partner abandoned him in the Yukon.”

“I read that one in high school, too.”

“I had to write an essay about the survival instinct, and I wrote about my grandmother. I asked her how she survived a concentration camp, and she had no answer. ‘You go on,’ she told me. ‘You just go on.’” Isabel looked at Mac. “I think I understood her better after reading the story.”

“There are lots of writers I like, but reading Jack London made me want to
be
a writer.”

“Seriously?”

“When I was a kid, I knew I wanted to write, but I didn’t want to
live
like a writer, buried in a library or chained to a computer. I wanted to be more like Jack London—traveling, having adventures, living and then writing, not the other way around.”

“And is that what you do?”

“When I can. Writing hasn’t always paid the bills. I’ve had a lot of other gigs.”

“Like what?”

“Scooter mechanic, for one.”

“Seriously?”

“Guiseppe’s Piaggio Works in Little Italy, all through college. The training has come in handy more than once.”

Isabel found herself wanting to hear about his college days at Columbia and all his other travels, as well. Why did he have to be so darned interesting? It was very distracting.

“Well,” she said, “you should definitely go check out Jack London State Historic Park while you’re here. Same goes for the beaches—they are not to be missed.”

“I never met a beach I didn’t like.”

She nodded, shading her eyes. “From here, it looks as if the coast is all rough headlands, but there are a lot of secluded coves, as well.”

“Do you have a favorite beach?”

“Definitely. It’s called Shell Beach.” That was where her favorite picture of Erik had been taken. Whenever she went there, she would stand in the same spot for a few minutes, thinking of him.

“You should take me there. And to the state park, too.”

“You’re a big boy. I’ll give you a map.”

“That’s no fun. It wouldn’t kill you to take a day off now and then and show me around.”

“I
am
showing you around. How is this not showing you around? Between the wedding and the cooking school, I can’t afford to take a whole day off. In fact, we should be getting back....”

“Not so fast. Trust me, the world won’t come to an end because you’re taking a couple of hours away from work.”

He had a point. And the idea of showing him around this beautiful, beloved place had a powerful appeal. She found herself wanting to see his face as he walked along the lake created by Jack London. She wanted Mac to stand on the shore with her and watch the glassy turquoise waves shattering on the rocks at some out-of-the-way beach, the sea thundering like a small tempest into the gouged-out caves along the shore. She could easily picture the two of them walking together, wrapped against the wind....

She cleared her throat and bent to pick up a stray gum wrapper, carrying it to the lone trash barrel in the parking area. “When I was in high school, my friends and I used to come up here.”

“And what did you do?” he asked.

“Kid stuff. We were always climbing trees, building forts, listening to music, drinking beer stolen from our parents’ fridges, smoking weed, making out....”

“Who’d you make out with?”

She flushed from the memories. “I was too bashful.”

“Even with the weed?”

“It wasn’t my thing. I never saw much action in the making-out department. But I dreamed.” She sighed, an old nostalgic feeling flowing through her. Those had been times of innocence, times when she put no limits on herself. “Sometimes I think that first storm you feel, that first real crush, is the greatest emotional rush there is. You spend the rest of your life trying to find that feeling again. And of course, you never do.”

“You find something better. If you’re lucky,” he added.

She wondered if that was how he felt about his wife. “Have you ever been that lucky?” she asked, hoping he’d enlighten her.

“Nope. Still waiting.”

The reply shocked her. He’d been
married.
Discomfited, she pivoted to face away from him.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Gosh, no. If I ever got that lucky, I wouldn’t be single.”

“So tell me about your first crush.”

Even now, fifteen years after the fact, the memory brought a blush to her cheeks. “Homer Kelly, ninth grade,” she admitted, turning back. “He had shaggy hair and soulful eyes of the lightest blue, and he played the drums with his shirt off. I was completely lost. I went to bed every night thinking of him and wishing he’d ask me out. I sat behind him in civics class, and I used to stare at his shoulders and write terrible poetry about him.” Even now, she could picture his slender torso, the curl of sandy hair at the nape of his neck. “And he didn’t know I was alive.”

“You never told him?”

“Not in words. I baked for him. Sometimes I think I owe all my culinary skills to that boy. I perfected my butter croissants and blueberry turnovers in the hopes of getting his attention.”

“Did it work? I know guys who would marry you for your croissants alone.”

“Not Homer Kelly. He wolfed down my baked goods, but he never asked me out.”

“What an idiot. He’s probably a loser now, stuck in a dead-end job with a wife who never makes dinner, and kids who give him sass.”

“He plays with Jam Session.”

“Oh. But I bet he’s an asshole. A fat one.”

“He still plays with his shirt off.” She shrugged. “It never would have worked out, anyway. He was way too cool for me. Almost as cool as you.”

“You think I’m cool?” He gave a little laugh. “I’m flattered. But what makes you think I’m cool?”

“I can just picture you as
that guy
in high school. The heartbreaker, the one with all the girls after him.” It was easy—and far too entertaining—to imagine a younger Cormac O’Neill, not as rough and muscular as he was now, but still with that boyish smile and those dancing eyes.

“Heartbreaker? Not in my wildest dreams,” he said. “My parents had a different assignment every few years, so I was always the new kid. Never really fit in. I’d just be getting comfortable in the new school, and we’d up and move again.”

“And your first crush?”

“Hell, yeah, I had crushes.”

“And? Come on, I told you about mine.”

“Okay, ninth grade. We had a summer in D.C., lived near Embassy Row in Georgetown. Her name was Linda Henselman, and she was the star player on the girls’ lacrosse team. I thought I was dreaming when she said she’d go out with me. I’d never even kissed a girl yet. I sweated bullets through the whole date—
Groundhog Day.
”

“I love that movie,” she said. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“I wouldn’t know. Can’t remember a single thing about it, because I kept trying to figure out how to get my arm around her. She had the biggest...uh, damn, she was cute. When I went to kiss her good-night on her front porch, it was a disaster.”