The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (28 page)

“That’s more like it,” Mac said, his gaze lingering appreciatively.

“I can’t even breathe, let alone move,” Isabel said. “I need to be able to dance.”

She tried on a half dozen more, but nothing felt like the perfect dress. “These three are ‘maybes,’” she told Angelica, setting aside her favorites. “Maybe I’ll come in with Tess later in the week.”

Mac was at the counter, where another clerk was wrapping a few things in tissue paper. He caught her eye and said, “I don’t know much about dresses, but I like the stuff that goes
under
the dress.” He held out a small shopping bag.

She blushed again. He kept making her blush. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

“Yep,” he said cheerfully, and led the way back to the scooter. He stowed the parcels and they rode home together. She felt like a different person as they returned to Bella Vista. He had changed everything with what he’d told her. It was a giddy, soaring sensation, the way she imagined she might feel if she’d stepped off a cliff into thin air.

Chapter Twenty

Having a crush on a guy was very distracting. Tasks that used to consume Isabel—picking out finishes for the teaching kitchen, dreaming up fresh ways to prepare summer vegetables, pruning the herb garden, tending the bees—all of these things fell by the wayside. She would catch herself in the middle of something and discover that she’d completely forgotten what she was supposed to be doing, because she was picturing the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, or reliving something he’d said to her, or the sweaty smell of him which she shouldn’t find the least bit sexy, but she did.

“Snap out of it,” she muttered under her breath, and tried to apply herself diligently to making a final review of the catering menu for the wedding feast. It was just a silly crush, she reminded herself. A flirtation. She should just have fun with it, and then forget about him once he was gone.

He’d be gone soon. He and Grandfather were discussing more recent history—the very delicate topic of Erik’s birth, and the horrific tragedy of his death. Once Mac gathered the information he needed, he would head to New York City to finish the manuscript, and then he’d be off to his next assignment—the one about his late wife.

All the more reason not to let her heart get in a tangle over him. But, oh, it was hard when he looked at her the way he did, the way he laughed and tried to steal kisses when no one else was around.

“Focus,” she muttered, reminding herself that the hallmark of a successful chef was self-discipline. She had a whole talk prepared on just this topic, intending to present it to the first guests of the Bella Vista Cooking School. She would tell them that self-discipline was not some magical trait possessed by a lucky few. It was a tool a chef needed to use, the same way she might use her favorite knife in the kitchen—a tool to help you accomplish a goal.

She had dreamed up that talk before Mac O’Neill had entered the picture. With a mighty effort of will, she returned her attention to the menu to make sure the caterer they’d hired to work the event had everything necessary for an unforgettable feast. She had one sister, and this was her chance to give Tess the wedding of her dreams.

She and Tess had designed the menu together. Every recipe was something they both loved. Isabel’s task was to check her sources to make sure all the fresh ingredients would be available for the caterer on the day of the wedding.

Normally, she enjoyed this process, the way she enjoyed everything that had to do with preparing food, but at the moment, she found herself gazing out the window, watching the sun filtering through the trees and wondering what Mac was up to.

At dinner this evening, Annelise and Grandfather had regaled everyone with stories of their crossing from Denmark to America aboard a Norwegian ship. They had cut loose their moorings, severing ties to everything they knew, embarking for America. Isabel had felt their exhilaration. What would it be like to simply walk away from one world, into the unknown?

The breeze through the window ruffled the pages of the open book on her desk.
Ravishing Ravello,
her new constant companion. She felt transported by the images of the ancient town, with its secret stairways and grand villas, houses where families lived for generations, the place her mother had left, as deliberately as her grandfather had left his homeland.

A certain yearning tugged at Isabel’s heart as she gazed at the pictures. If this book was even marginally accurate, Ravello was so beautiful it made her heart ache. Had Francesca believed that? Perhaps she had, but the promise of a new love had been more powerful.

“Knock, knock.” Mac barged into her study.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she flipped the book shut as if he’d caught her doing something illicit.

“I’m glad you’re reading the Ravello book. Are you feeling ravished?”

“Totally.”

He shook his head. “You need to get out more. Being ravished by a book? Come on.”

“Hey, you bought it for me.”

“Do you have a minute?”

“No.”

“Too bad. There’s something I want you to see.”

She frowned at her littered desk, but he was hard to resist. “What’s up?”

“We found something up in the room that used to belong to your mother and father. Come check it out.”

He turned on the lights of the honeymoon suite, which had been finished at last. The designer had used most of the original furniture, updating the finishes and fabrics to create a light-filled space that had the charm of a boutique inn. The bedding was over-the-top luxurious, a fantasy made of four posters and a carved headboard, covered in linens imported from Italy.

It was one of her favorite rooms, because it paid homage to the historic nature of Bella Vista, but had a cool modern edge in the crisp fabrics and an incredible Delia Snow original painting, an oversize and imaginative portrait of a dog rendered in luscious apple-green. Tess had acquired it at an auction, and Isabel had fallen in love with the image.

Now, though, her attention was drawn to a vintage steamer trunk in the middle of the room.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“The electricians who’ve been working on the wiring found it in the attic, through that access panel there.” Mac indicated a small half door in the wall.

Before the renovation of the room, a bookcase had stood in front of the access panel. Isabel hadn’t realized it opened to the attic.

“Magnus said it’s been stowed in there and forgotten for decades. He thinks it was put away after you were born, and probably forgotten.”

Isabel could well understand the urge to stow things away after someone died. After Bubbie was gone, she had forced herself to go through the mournful process of sorting out clothing and accessories, keepsakes and jewelry. She recalled feeling overwhelmed, wishing everything would simply disappear. “What’s in it?” she asked.

“Nothing earth-shattering. I don’t think so, anyway. Just the ordinary things of an ordinary life. But since they belonged to your mother, I knew you’d want to see everything.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, of course.” She stopped a few feet away from the trunk, which stood on end. The top had a plaque with the initials
F.L.C.
engraved on it. “My mother’s initials. Francesca Cioffi. I’m not sure what the
L
stands for.” She turned to Mac. “Is it weird that I don’t know my mother’s middle name?”

“Not to me.”

She went back to inspecting the trunk. The outside was scuffed and stickered with peeling customs and cargo labels. A tag from the San Francisco Transfer Company hung from one of the handles.

“Your grandfather said it was shipped along with the scooter. Check out the inside.” He tipped back the trunk and opened it like a huge book. The inside was organized like a small wardrobe, with garments on hangers on one side and drawers on the other, covered in fading blue fabric. It smelled faintly of dry age and old perfume or powder. She pulled back a wispy drape on the hanging side to reveal a few dresses and blouses in ethereal fabrics with delicate stitching. In the drawers were the ordinary things Mac had mentioned—a tortoiseshell comb, a pair of gloves, an old customs form, a few pieces of vintage jewelry. But to Isabel, it was a trove of secrets, a time capsule that had belonged to the mother she’d never known.

Carefully she lifted out a very small white-bound volume marked with a gold dove and a flame—a missal or prayer book of some sort. On the inside cover, “Francesca” was written in painstaking childish script. There was also a tiny figure of some saint or other and a rosary made of alabaster beads.

Tucked in the back of the prayer book were a couple of old photos, the square kind with rounded corners. One showed a little girl with a lovely smile and eyes Isabel recognized from later photos of her mother—dressed like a tiny bride in a lace dress and veil. Her expression was one of pride and joy. She held the white leather missal in one hand, an ornate quill pen in the other, wielding it with an air of importance.

We all start out that way, Isabel reflected. The girl in the picture had no idea she would grow up and ride a scooter, and snare the attention of an American student. She didn’t know her future held a tragic love affair and a painful death. Isabel realized then there was so much she had not asked her grandparents for fear of upsetting them. Had Francesca ever actually seen her, held her, spoken her name? Who had picked the name Isabel, anyway?

Blinking away tears, she turned the picture over. On the back were the words
prima comunione.

“First communion,” Mac translated. “She was probably about seven years old there. That’s the traditional age for first communion.”

“You speak Italian?”

“Solo un po’,”
he said.

“Show-off.” She studied the other snapshot, this one showing the girl kneeling at a cushioned prie-dieu, her hands sweetly folded and braided with the rosary beads, a beatific smile on her face, her rosy cheeks shining. “Wow. I looked a lot like her when I was little. I would have killed for that communion get-up.”

“I don’t think they had to kill for it,” he pointed out. “Just attend catechism.”

“You know what I mean. Dressing like a bride is every little girl’s dream.”

“Is it every big girl’s dream?”

She shook her head. “That would be dressing like Jennifer Lawrence.”

Further inspection of the drawers yielded a collection of handwritten cards and notes in a small portfolio bound with string. “Recipes,” she said with a rush of pleasure. “I’m going to draft you to help me translate these.”

“Of course. Cool that your mother collected recipes.”

There were a few postcards in Italian and English, which she set aside for later inspection. At the bottom was a crisp color photo taken with a good camera, perhaps a professional shot. The image took her breath away. It was a glossy eight-by-ten depicting a young woman in sunglasses, espadrille sandals and a skirt and top. She sat sidesaddle on the back of a scooter, her sun-browned arms looped around a handsome man wearing shorts and flip-flops, his head thrown back with laughter.

“It’s my parents on the scooter,” she said softly. “They look so young. So happy.”

“I don’t blame them. Riding around like that is a kick.” In the background was a row of cypress trees and a stone railing against a misty blue sky.

She nodded. The caption on the back of the photo read “Ravello, 1981.”
She looked up at Mac, who was watching her intently. This has been lost for decades.”

“It never would have been found if you hadn’t decided to create the cooking school,” he said.

“That’s true. I feel closer to them, somehow.” She felt her heart stumble then, finally getting a glimpse into the spirit of the woman who had died giving birth to her, and the man who had fathered her. They were vibrant, carefree, filled with joy.

Isabel realized that she could finally
feel
her mother. She imagined the sound of Francesca’s laughter on the breeze. The picture gave her a glimpse into the hearts of her parents, and the feelings overwhelmed her. She couldn’t control the rush of tears then, though she gulped air to try to get a grip on herself.

A tide of long-suppressed emotion rose through her, poignant and bittersweet. Mac put his arms around her and she melted against him, grateful for his solid strength and for his silence. He simply held her while she let it all out, and then he offered her a box of tissues from the nightstand.

“Oh, my gosh,” she said. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re fine,” he said, then peered at her while she blotted her face. “Right?”

“Yes. I...it’s hard to put into words. I’ve always wished I could know my mother better, what she was like in person. And of course this isn’t the same, but it’s just incredible, seeing this picture, knowing my parents were together and that they loved each other, at least in this moment, they did.”

“It’s easy to be in love when you’re riding around on a scooter in Italy,” he said.

“Do you mean it’s hard, otherwise?”

He regarded her steadily, then smiled. “Not when you find the right person.”

It suddenly felt too warm in the room, and she went and turned down the thermostat. The air-conditioning sighed through the vents. “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Meltdown over. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. My Irish grandmother used to say a woman’s tears are the quenching of the soul.”

She was surprised to hear such sentiment from him. “Really?”

“No, but it sounds like something an Irish granny would say, right? Do you feel quenched?”

“Smart aleck.” She took a deep breath and went back to inspecting the contents of the trunk. “The clothes are beautiful,” she said, holding up a chic sundress in a graphic print on textured cotton. “They look handmade, but very professional. I wonder if she was a seamstress. I should ask Grandfather if she sewed.” She took out a sleeveless blouse in butter-yellow, its details highlighted with hand stitching. “This is really nice,” she said, holding it up against her and turning to the old-fashioned cheval-glass dressing mirror in the corner. “I think this is the top she’s wearing in the scooter photo.”

He held it next to her. “You’re right.”

“And this skirt,” she added, taking out an A-line skirt in a small plaid print. “Very cool.”

The last dress in the wardrobe was loosely wrapped in thin tissue paper that tore away at the slightest touch. Isabel was intrigued by this one, a cocktail dress in peach-colored silk, embellished with a line of crystal bugle beads around the neckline, a fitted bodice and flaring skirt. In the glow of the bedside lamp, the dress was luminous and shimmering with a life of its own. “Wow,” she said. “This is gorgeous. Seriously,
gorgeous.
”

“I’m no expert, but yeah, it’s real pretty.”

She laid it on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and inspected the tag. “Valentino Garavani. Oh, my gosh. Mac, that’s the designer Valentino.”

“A big name in fashion?”

“The biggest,” she said. “How on earth did my mother score a Valentino?” She held it up again, letting the luxurious silk slide through her fingers. The lining felt smooth and watery, the back zipper nearly invisible. “It’s amazing. A real couture dress. I should show this to Tess. She’s so smart about figuring out the value of treasures.”