The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (31 page)

Isabel swirled her finger in the fine hairs on his chest, taking comfort in his calm, quiet presence. “Bubbie was just getting started on the honey project when she got sick. I guess that’s why I’m so determined to keep bees. I want to do something she never had the chance to do.”

“She’d love everything you’ve done,” Mac said.

“I hope so. We had a long time to say goodbye to my grandmother,” said Isabel. “Sometimes we thought that was a blessing, and other times, a curse, because it’s just so horribly sad. When someone is ill and you know you’re losing her, you want to make sure you’ve said everything that needs saying. It’s a very long conversation. My grandmother and I didn’t leave much unsaid between us—or so I thought. We were both keeping secrets, though. We were both trying to protect each other from the truth. I never told her about Calvin Sharpe, and she never talked about losing Erik.” She paused, instantly wishing she hadn’t mentioned Calvin. “And that, by the way, is strictly off the record.”

“Whatever you say. But did you ever stop to consider that if the guy was a dick to you, he was a dick to others? I’m guessing you’re not the only one.”

Mac was right, of course. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with him anymore.”

“Not even when he finds out you poached the magazine cover he was counting on?”

She felt unapologetic as she leaned over to the bedside table for her glass of wine, holding it up to the light and then taking a sip. “She mentioned Erik the day before she died. She was drifting, then. Peaceful, in and out of consciousness. I recall that her final words to me were something mundane. I think she asked me to turn out the light or something. But our last conversation, that last big talk, was a good one. She made me write it down, because she wanted to make sure I’d never forget.” Isabel opened the drawer of her nightstand and found her journal. She had never been consistent about keeping it, but she did write down the things that were important to her, things she wanted to remember. And a few things she didn’t. In the back pocket of the journal was a newspaper clipping about her father’s accident. Bubbie’s obituary. And a small purple data card containing raw video from the teaching kitchen webcam that had recorded her final encounter with Calvin Sharpe.

She flipped to a page near the front of the journal, where she’d written down her grandmother’s words. “Here it is. It’s dated the day she passed away. ‘In this life, I had all I ever wanted. Losing Erik was a sadness that knit itself into my soul, but that sadness was balanced out by all that came after. The years with you, my little girl, and with your grandfather and all the people of Bella Vista. It has been a life of abundance and I will always be grateful for that.’” She set the book aside and drew her knees up to her chest, her eyes misting. “And I have no idea what that has to do with the article about the cooking school.”

“It has to do with you. I’m glad you told me,” he said. “I wish I’d known your grandmother.”

“She would have liked you.”

“Everyone likes me.”

I know.

“Tell me more about cooking. Why a cooking school? Why not a restaurant or catering service?”

“The idea hit me last year when Dominic’s kids went on strike. They couldn’t stand his cooking, and Tess’s skills in the kitchen were nonexistent, so I started giving them lessons. When I was teaching, something, I don’t know how to describe it...Something came alive in me, and I realized I’d found what I was supposed to be doing.”

She offered him the small dish of walnuts. “Eating is one of those things we all have in common,” she said. “We all do it, no matter who we are or where we come from. When we sit down together for a meal, we slow down, relax and talk with each other. It’s also nice to be quiet while we eat and just enjoy the comfort and companionship of a shared meal.” She smiled. “I bet your mom would describe it differently, with all those boys she raised.”

“God, yes. Mealtimes were loud and messy at our house. I don’t think relaxing applied in my family.”

The image of a table crowded with boys wolfing down their dinner made her smile. She found herself wanting to know more about them, more about Mac’s parents. More about his life. She wanted to know everything about him. “I knew when I dreamed up the cooking school that it wouldn’t be for everyone,” she said. “Personally, I feel a sense of abundance when I prepare a home cooked meal. I love the feeling that I’ve placed everything we need on the table. It’s different from a restaurant enterprise—that’s an act of commerce, a transaction. At home, no one worries about what to order from the menu or what the tab’s going to be, what wine to pair with the food.”

He lay back and folded his arms behind his head. She tried not to stare at his biceps. He grinned at her. “You make it sound very relaxing.”

“For me, it is. And I love to see the way people taste and enjoy what I’ve prepared. It’s a way of showing my care and regard for someone. When I create something delicious in my kitchen, it sends a clear message.”

“Like to Homer Kelly?”

She laughed. “I tried sending that message to him, but he didn’t get it. Homer Kelly was an idiot.”

“Agreed. If you made your butter croissants for me, you’d have to get a restraining order to keep me away from you.”

Getting involved with Mac was a bad idea for so many reasons. Even so, she didn’t want to keep him away from her. She wanted to keep him close.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Magnus pushed the old accident report across the desk to Mac. They were finishing their final talk together, and Mac knew this might be the most difficult conversation so far. Of all the ordeals that had befallen Magnus Johansen, this was the one wound that would never heal.

“It is a straightforward story,” Magnus said. “The tragedy occurred the way accidents befall people every day. My son had a quarrel with his hot-headed wife, who happened to be pregnant and more than a week past her due date. That, I imagine, would put any woman in a temper. At the time, I didn’t know what they quarreled about, though I do now, of course. He got into his car and drove to the city.”

Magnus took off his glasses and used a cloth to polish the lenses. Despite his age, his hands were steady and strong, brown from his years in the sun. Here in the office where he’d conducted the business of Bella Vista for decades, he still looked like a man in charge.

“Erik owned a red Mustang convertible, and he had a bad habit of driving too fast. That day is still vivid in my memory. I was up on a ladder, doing some spring pruning, and several of the workers scattered, all of a sudden, like startled birds. It happened. As a grower, I tried to use documented workers, but sometimes their family members were undocumented. So when I saw two lawmen arriving, my first thought was of a raid. Then I realized the visitors were with the highway department. Somehow I came down the rungs of the ladder without falling, because I knew before they said a word. You see, if he had been injured and taken to hospital, there would have been a phone call urging us to rush to the emergency room. But the fact that they came in person...”

Mac had scanned the report. “He was declared dead at the scene.”

“The longest walk I’ve ever taken was from the orchard back to the house that day, to tell his mother and his wife. Francesca became hysterical, her labor started, and so Eva and I had to take her directly to the hospital. There was no time for the horror to sink in. I was a man ripped in two that day, grieving the loss of my son, but at the same time, holding this beautiful new baby in my arms. Eva and I made a pact with one another for the sake of the baby. We would not allow ourselves to be broken by what happened. Instead, we would create a wonderful world for Isabel, and dedicate ourselves to her safety and happiness.”

They sat together in silence. Mac made a few notes. In his mind’s eye, he could clearly see the shape of the narrative he would write about this man. “It’s been my job to learn your story,” Mac said. “But it’s been my privilege to get to know you. Thank you for bringing me into your world.”

“I’ve enjoyed it as well, more than you know. Isabel has enjoyed it, too.” He gave Mac a measured look. “I can tell. She’s not an easy one to know. Like her grandmother, she holds her secrets close, but when she gives them up, she gives herself completely.”

Had she done that? Mac wondered. Had she given herself completely? He thought not. And then he thought, not
yet.

“She’s very inspired by you,” Mac said. “We all are. And when this is published, it will be a gift to anyone who reads it.”

“Thank you. I know you will do your job very well.” He offered a small smile, indicating the bookcase behind him. “I believe I’ve read all your books and some of the articles, as well. You started out in the area of true crime.”

He nodded. “Right out of journalism school, I lucked into an assignment about an unsolved murder in a small town called Avalon in the Catskills, and the book got a lot of attention, because of what happened afterward.”

“The crime was solved?”

He nodded. “Turns out the victim wasn’t murdered after all. She died by accident. Finding out the truth didn’t change what happened, but the family seemed to appreciate knowing.”

“And your next project is about a crime,” Magnus said.

Mac nodded. “I promised Ari Nejim that I would work with him to expose what happened to his daughter, Yasmin.”

“It’s going to put you in danger. You’ll have a target on your back,” Magnus pointed out. It wasn’t a question. Mac had leveled with him about the incident, the terrible loss and the guilt he felt over it.

“Maybe. I worry more about Ari.”

Magnus put his glasses back on and stood up with an air of finality. They walked out together into the brilliant sunshine. The boughs of the apple trees in their stately rows were heavy with fruit, and bees floated lazily through the lavender and milkweed. As the summer waned toward autumn, the light was deeper, the air heavy and rich with abundance.

“You’ve led an amazing life,” Mac said, “and it’s fantastic, this world you’ve built, this community.”

Magnus scanned the vast, rolling landscape. “I never wanted to write a book, nor did I want someone else to write it. Then I realized I have one story in me, and it’s a good story.”

“Yes,” said Mac. “And you can always add to it. There’s a certain lady who made it her business to catch the bouquet at the wedding, remember?”

“I would never forget that.” His eyes twinkled with a smile. “So the story is not over yet. Let it end when it ends.”

* * *

“I have a proposal for you,” Mac said, coming into the workshop where Isabel and Jamie were harvesting honey from racks that were capped and cured, bulging with ripe nectar.

Isabel’s heart skipped a beat as she looked up from the big stainless steel centrifuge. “A proposal.”

“Say yes,” Jamie advised her. “You know you want to.”

“I haven’t heard the proposal yet,” Isabel pointed out. Nevertheless, she felt an utterly silly thrill of false hope.

“A proposal’s a proposal,” Jamie stated.

“Out,” said Mac, holding the door for the girl.

“Hello. I’m in the middle of something here.” She gestured at the racks of sterilized jars, the scraping tools, the basins.

“Later,” he said.

“Okay, fine. I’m meeting someone in town, anyway. I’ve got a line on a singing gig at a restaurant.”

“Really? Jamie, that’s great,” said Isabel.

Jamie sent her a look, then hung up her apron and left the workroom.

“What is it?” Isabel asked.

He grabbed her and kissed her, long and slowly. “First of all, you look incredible in that apron.”

“That apron just got you all sticky.”

“Not a problem. I know where we can find an outdoor shower.”

He was so much fun. She’d had no idea falling in love could be this much fun. Before Mac, she’d regarded it as an angst-filled process fraught with uncertainty and stress. He’d shown her a different way. He’d shown her the joy. “So what’s your proposal?”

“Besides drizzling honey on you and licking it off?”

“Mac.”

“Okay, we can save that for later.” He took a printout from his pocket and handed it to her. “My itinerary.”

Her heart sank. She’d known this day was coming. “You’re leaving.”

“I have a weeklong meeting in Istanbul about my next project.”

The Yasmin project, Isabel recalled.
It still haunts me every day,
he’d told her, speaking of his wife and the way he’d lost her. She didn’t know what to say, so she folded the itinerary and set it aside.

“When I’m finished there, I want you to meet me in Italy,” he said. “Ravello. Week after next.”

The idea
whooshed
past her with the speed of sound. The speed of impossibility. “Mac, it sounds tempting, but you know I can’t leave.”

“Sure, you can. Take some time for yourself, Isabel. The wedding’s over, you did a great job. You’ve got a window of opportunity to get away.”

“The cooking school opens in a month. I don’t have a minute to spare.” She wished he would propose a compromise—a weekend away in Mendocino or San Francisco. But Mac wasn’t the kind of guy to compromise.

“Make time. Everything will be waiting for you when you get back.”

“I can’t.”

“You could.”

“But I won’t.”

“Seriously? Jesus, Isabel, you frustrate the hell out of me.”

She felt apologetic, but she refused to apologize. “Let’s say I agree to go. Then what?”

“Then we have a fantastic time. We ride around on a scooter, we go to the market and the gardens, we drink local wine and make love....”

Every word he spoke was a small seduction. She held up her hand. “You know what I’m asking. Then what?”

“Then...we’ll see,” he said simply.

Now Isabel was the one feeling frustrated. What she really wanted him to say was that love would be enough. That if you start with love, the rest will sort itself out. But it wouldn’t, would it? Real life didn’t work that way.

She knew her heart was in her eyes when she looked up at him. “Saying goodbye to you is going to be hard enough. Running off to Italy is only going to make it harder.”

“I get it,” Mac said. “Finally, I think I get
you.
Watching you creating your dream is beautiful, Isabel.”

She heard the “but,” although he didn’t say it.

And then he did. “I can’t ask you to leave all this,” said Mac. “And I can’t stay.”

She stared at the floor. “I know.” She wanted to keep him close, but she simply couldn’t see a way to do that without getting hurt, or without hurting him. She wondered if it was possible to give just a little of herself to someone instead of flinging herself into an impossible love. The scent of honey was ripe and sweet in the air.

He waited. Didn’t touch her. She could almost hear him thinking.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

“There’s one other thing...”

She felt a leap of hope. “Yes?”

“Before I go, we should talk about your father’s accident. Your grandfather showed me the police report.”

Her heart sank. She hadn’t been expecting the conversation to lead to
this.
But that was Mac; he never did the expected thing. “You never stop working,” she observed.

“I had some questions.”

Of course he did.

“Were you aware that no one checked the dental records?”

“No. Why would that matter?”

“There’s no proof that the accident victim was Erik Johansen.”

“There’s no
question
that it was Erik. Who else could it have been? It was him—his car, his wreck.”

“But maybe... It was sloppy police work. It should be looked into.”

“No,” she said decisively. “Stop it, Mac. There’s no point in stirring things up and upsetting Grandfather. I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing.”

He took a step back, holding his hands palms out. “If it were me, I’d want to know.”

“It’s my grandfather. My family. We don’t need to relive that pain,” she said. “My father died before I was born. Dredging up a tragedy is never going to change that.” Isabel saw clearly what was between them. Mac was on a mission to explore and examine everything, no matter how uncomfortable it made people. She believed in protecting herself and those she loved.

“I think you should go,” she whispered past the ache in her throat.

Mac nodded. “I’m going to miss you, more than you know,” he said, cupping her cheek in his hand. “I’ve never felt regret about leaving a place, but I do now. I’ll probably regret leaving you all my life.”

Then don’t,
she wanted to say, echoing his own words. But she understood all too well that geography was not the issue. She covered his hand with hers and then removed it from her cheek.