The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (8 page)

“I get that,” he said. “But I still don’t see why it’s a problem for you. Nothing you’ve told me is going to reflect badly on you. Or your grandfather. Your dad...maybe.”

The tension she’d been holding inside unspooled just a little. Sometimes, when people heard about the unorthodox situation, they acted as if Tess and Isabel were somehow defective, having a rogue of a father who’d been careless enough to get two women pregnant, and then get himself killed in a mysterious car wreck.

Mac studied Erik’s name, carved on the headstone, with a phrase:

Erik Karl Johansen, beloved son. Measure his life not by its length but by the depth of the joy he brought us. He jumped into life and never touched bottom. We will never laugh the same again.

“Our father was a bit of a rogue,” Isabel said. “More than a bit. Sometimes I wonder what he might say in his defense. ‘He jumped into life and never touched bottom,’” she read from the headstone. “I once asked Grandfather what he meant by that, but all he ever said was that Erik had a huge appetite for life.”

“He gave the world two daughters. I can’t imagine your grandfather would have any regrets about you and Tess. And after all this time, the fact that your dad was banging two women doesn’t seem like much of an issue.”

Had he really said
banging?
How very refined of him. “Has Tess told you anything else about Erik?”

“Nope. Something tells me your sister is preoccupied with other things these days.”

“The wedding. I love that she’s having so much fun with it.”

“I never took her for the marrying type.”

“Really?”

“She was such a go-getter. Always seemed married to her career.”

“That was what she was like when I first met her, too,” Isabel agreed. “Now she’s going to be a wife and a stepmother, and probably a mother one day. I suppose it just goes to show you—love can change everything.”

“Very nice,” he said. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“No, just a keen observer.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “So about Erik—our father. One thing you’re bound to find out from Magnus is that my grandmother, Eva—Bubbie—was not Erik’s birth mother.”

“He was adopted?”

“Yes. Grandfather is very open about it—lately. But for the longest time, no one knew.” Isabel took a breath, then said in a rush, “Grandfather was his birth father.”

“Oh. So he was—”

“Please don’t say ‘banging’ again,” she said. “He will have to be the one to explain, and you’ll have to figure out how it fits into the story you’re writing. Erik’s birth mother was a woman named Annelise Winther.”

Mac said nothing, just stood there, his arms still crossed. She couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in a white T-shirt and jeans, his coloring deepened by the sunset. Finally, he asked, “Is she still living?”

“Yes. She lives in San Francisco.”

“Do you know her?”

“Thanks to Tess, I do now. Annelise is another survivor from the war years in Denmark,” Isabel explained. “She and my grandfather knew each other during the war. She’s actually...kind of wonderful. I’m hoping to get to know her better.”

“So you’re saying this woman had a baby, and Magnus and Eva raised him.”

“They did. We figured it out last year as we were going through old records and learned Bubbie could never have children. It was all a huge secret at the time.”

“That sort of thing was a bigger deal back then.”

“True. Now Grandfather wants it all out on the table, for my sake, and for Tess. You’re going to have to ask him what sort of arrangements they made in order to pull it off, because it seems they were very careful. Even the Navarros—they’ve lived and worked at Bella Vista for decades—claim they never knew.”

“And let me guess. Tess had a hand in figuring all this out.”

She nodded, feeling a flicker of surprise—at herself. She was giving up information like a singing canary. There was something about the intent way he listened that made her want to talk. Another reporter’s trick? Or was he actually a good listener? A rare trait in a guy.

“Tess is very good at research,” she continued. “In all the mountains of old family papers and records, she came across a medical file from the 1960s. From that, we figured out that Eva could never have children.” Isabel’s heart filled with sympathy for her lost grandmother. She could too-easily picture Bubbie as a hopeful young wife, getting the news that she had uterine cancer and needed a hysterectomy. In one cruel moment, the news would have taken away any dreams she’d had of having babies of her own.

“How much is it going to bug your grandfather when the subject comes up?” asked Mac.

She thought about it for a moment. “Ever since his accident last year, he’s been adamant about telling us everything. He seemed almost relieved when Tess and I asked about Erik’s birth mother.”

“Ah. Then you’re thinking it’s going to bug
you.
”

Ouch.
“Bubbie was the only mother I ever knew. To find out, after all this time...I’m still getting used to the idea. And now it feels very strange that you plan to publish this whole story about my family. I keep trying to convince myself it’s not disrespectful.” She stared down at Bubbie’s headstone, wishing she could feel her presence once again, hear her voice, listen to her sing the cherry song one more time.

“In my experience, people are more comfortable with the truth than any lie,” said Mac. “Eventually.”

She leaned down and plucked a dockweed from the base of one of the stones, and then started down the hill toward the house. “I realize that. The fact that my grandfather had a baby out of wedlock is a key part of his story. I don’t understand why he did what he did.”

“Have you ever asked him?”

“No.”

“You should. It’s remarkable how much you can learn simply by asking.”

“Good point, but try asking
your
grandfather to explain something like that.”

“No, thanks. My granddad was a Freudian analyst. He probably would have liked the topic way too much. I never really knew my other grandfather. He owned a pub in Ireland, died when I was a little kid.”

“And the Freudian grandfather?”

“Total nut job, but he was a good listener.”

So are you.
The thought crossed Isabel’s mind, taking her by surprise. “My grandfather has always been big on loyalty,” she said. “You’ll see that as you get to know him. When I found out about him and Annelise, it totally threw me off. It was hard to imagine Grandfather betraying his wife. He was—he’s always been—my moral compass.”

“Whoa. That’s a lot to ask of someone.”

“True. I’d hate to be someone’s moral compass,” she admitted.

He held open the wrought iron gate leading to the courtyard. A visceral hip-hop tune was playing on the workers’ radio. “I bet you’d be pretty good at it, Isabel.”

Her head snapped up as she passed through the gate in front of him. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said, his voice like the breeze, a soft caress. “But I want to.”

P
ART
T
HREE

One week after she emerges from her cell, the queen bee leaves the hive to mate with several drones in flight. To avoid inbreeding, she must fly a certain distance away from her home colony. Therefore, she makes several circles around the hive for orientation, so she can find her way back.

She leaves by herself and stays away for thirteen minutes. In the afternoon, hovering twenty feet above the earth, she will mate with anywhere from seven to fifteen drones. If foul weather delays this crucial mating flight for more than three weeks, her ability to mate will be destroyed. Her unfertilized eggs then result in drones.

Honey Lavender Lemonade

The best honey comes from a source you know, and is processed without heat. Raw, unfiltered honey retains its royal jelly, bee pollen and propolis—three major sources of antioxidants, vitamins and minerals.

1 cup of locally produced, raw organic honey

2½ cups water

1 tablespoon dried culinary lavender

1 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice

Additional water, about 2 cups

Ice cubes or crushed ice

Combine honey and 2-½ cups of water in a saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the honey. When the mixture reaches a boil, stir in the lavender and remove from heat. Let the mixture steep for 20 minutes.

Strain the lavender from the liquid, then add the fresh lemon juice and an additional 2 cups of water. Use sparkling water if you wish. Pour into glasses full of ice and serve, garnished with a sprig of lavender or mint.

[Source: Original]

Chapter Eight

“Isabel? Someone’s here to see you.” Ernestina Navarro stepped into Isabel’s study, a small space tucked into an alcove near the main kitchen. One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases crammed with cookbooks, which she’d been collecting ever since she was a little girl. The other walls were pinned with pictures she’d collected as inspiration for the renovation, and with lists and ideas for the upcoming wedding. There was a needlepoint sampler from an old family friend with the phrase “Live This Day” embroidered in the middle.

Isabel looked up from the mood board she’d been studying for far too long. The day after her uncomfortable conversation with Cormac O’Neill, she had escaped into work. But she couldn’t escape her own thoughts. He had a way of saying things that stuck with her, turned over and over in her mind as she speculated on the meaning.

You don’t know me.

No, but I want to.

Focus,
she commanded herself. There was plenty to be done, anyway. The task in front of her was to study the mood board in order to pick colors and finishes for the two guest suites at the end of the second-floor hallway. Only a year ago, she’d had no idea what a mood board was. Now she was intimately familiar with the device, used by designers to present options for colors, textures and patterns. Isabel discovered that she could look at mood boards all day, and still not make a decision.

The designer in charge of the guest rooms at Bella Vista offered far too many choices. Should the upholstery be navy graphic or ecru abstract? Sandy-brown or celery-green on the walls? Wrought iron or glass sconces? And that was just for one of the suites. Isabel found it all bewildering, though she knew the details were important.

“Thanks,” she said to Ernestina, and swiveled to face her computer screen. She typed a quick note to the designer, telling him to go with the navy, the sandy-brown and the wrought iron.
There,
she thought, pushing back from the desk.
Done.
“Who is it?”

“Jamie Westfall.”

“Oh, good. The beekeeper.” Sliding her feet into sandals, she made her way down the hall to the main entryway. It was too bad he hadn’t shown up in time for the whole swarm drama. But it was springtime and there was still plenty of work to be done.

She stopped in the foyer, startled by the sight of her visitor.

Jamie Westfall was a woman. A very young woman. With tattoos, short, razor-cut, purple streaked hair...and what was almost assuredly a baby bump. The girl was long-legged and thin, wearing tight shorts and a Queensrÿche T-shirt stretched over her protruding tummy.

“Hi, I’m Isabel,” she said, mentally regrouping. “I sent you a message the other morning.”

“Yes.” The girl offered a fleeting smile and ducked her head. “Sorry, I didn’t see it in time to help you out.”

“That’s all right. The swarm got away. But I’ve still got some overcrowded hives that need to be divided, and I’m quickly finding out that I’m in over my head. I’d love to get your advice about my hives.”

“Sure, I can try to help you out.” She seemed soft-spoken, almost bashful in contrast to her hair and tattoos.

“Let me get you something to drink, and then we’ll head out to the hives. I’ve got a pitcher of lavender lemonade made with Bella Vista honey.”

“Sounds great. Thanks.” The girl looked around, wide-eyed, her gaze skimming over the surroundings of the foyer—a rustic table set against the wall, where eventually a guest book would go. Above that hung a large mirror Tess had found at a flea market, and on the opposite wall hung the main focus of the space—a stunning, mission-era scene painted by Arthur Frank Mathews. It was an original. Isabel didn’t even dare ask Tess about its value. She was certain the number would stress her out.

“Um, could I use the restroom?” asked Jamie.

“Yes, of course. It’s just there, down that hallway.” Isabel pointed. “Take your time. I’ll go get the lemonade.”

As she went to the kitchen and poured the drinks, Isabel readjusted her mind around the beekeeper. She’d been expecting a guy with a battered pickup truck plastered with Ag Extension stickers. Not a teenage pregnant girl.

Setting out some honey shortbread cookies to go with the lemonade, she flashed on memories of her grandmother, offering refreshments to anyone who was lucky enough to come through the kitchen door. As a working farm, Bella Vista was always busy with workers, some seasonal and others permanent.
In my kitchen, everyone is family,
Bubbie used to say, beaming as the orchard workers, mechanics or gardeners gladly wolfed down her baked goods.

Knowing now what she did about her grandmother, Isabel wondered if there was a broader meaning to Bubbie’s pronouncement.

Jamie came into the kitchen and set down her frayed army-surplus messenger bag. She looked scrubbed now, the hair framing her face damp. “It’s really beautiful here,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “What a nice place.”

“Thanks. I’ve lived at Bella Vista all my life. I went away briefly for school, but...I had to cut it short, and ended up right back here.” Isabel often felt awkward, explaining that she’d never been anywhere. It made her feel incomplete, somehow. She handed Jamie a glass of lemonade. “Should we go take a look at the hives?”

“Sure.”

The girl’s car was parked in a graveled side lot next to Cormac O’Neill’s Jeep. Jamie’s old hatchback had definitely seen better days. The passenger door was marred by dents like unhealed bruises, the spots primed with putty-colored Bondo. The front seat held a battered guitar case secured in place with a seat belt. The back dash was crammed with clothing and a couple of rumpled pillows. Overflowing cardboard boxes covered the back and passenger seats. One large crate was filled with empty canning jars.

“I’m, uh, kind of in transition,” Jamie said. “Haven’t really settled in yet.”

“Oh!” Isabel flushed, knowing she’d been caught staring. “Settled...you mean you’re just moving to town?”

“That’s right. I’m hoping there’s enough work locally to keep me busy.”

“Well, I think you’re going to love Archangel. And I can keep you as busy as you want to be, because I’ve got big plans for Bella Vista honey. The hives are over there, on that east-facing slope by the milkweed.”

“Great,” said Jamie. “Milkweed’s the best.”

“I was thinking it might be too windy and exposed over there.”

Jamie slowly turned to study the area, shading her eyes as she surveyed the orchards and gardens, the stone-built outbuildings, the patios and arbors. “This is really nice,” she said. “I don’t think wind will be a problem here.”

Isabel felt a welling of pride. Bella Vista really was that beautiful, and the renovations were designed to enhance the setting to create an irresistible destination.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s been a busy year for me, but I don’t want to give up on my bees, so I’m hoping you’ll take on the project.”

“That’s why I came,” said Jamie, surveying the view.

“I’m launching a farm-to-table cooking school, and honey will be one of our key ingredients. Over there—” she indicated the long green meadow with a pathway connecting the patio to the stone and timber barn “—that’s the event space. The barn’s been converted into a hall for banquets and dancing. My sister’s getting married this summer. Our first event.”

“Cool,” said Jamie.

“Needless to say, there’s honey on the menu. That’s Tess’s theme for the whole affair. All the planning is fun, but tons of work.”

She saw Jamie’s attention turn to an oak tree in the meadow, its branches spread as wide as it was tall. There, Magnus sat in the shade with his new constant companion. Mac was seated backward on the chair, his arms folded over the back as the old man talked. After getting together just a few days before, the two of them were already inseparable. It was gratifying, and maybe a little unsettling, to observe the fast-growing intimacy between the two men. “My grandfather. And our houseguest, Mac. A guy who’s working with him on a project.”

She wondered what they were talking about. Mac seemed so easy and affable in Grandfather’s company. Yet judging by her conversation with him yesterday morning, she had concluded that he was not a morning person. Come to think of it, he wasn’t particularly an afternoon or evening person. Maybe he was cranky all the time. She’d already resolved to keep her distance and let him get on with the Magnus project. She had enough on her plate. But she couldn’t deny that Mac was distracting. Very distracting.

“My grandfather’s always been really good about letting the milkweed grow,” she said. “He’s never considered it a blight like some growers do.”

This time of year, the purple blooms were busy with life—not just the bees, but butterflies and ladybugs, skippers and emerald-toned beetles, flitting hummingbirds and sapphire dragonflies. The sun-warmed sweet haze of the blossoms filled the air.

“When I was a kid,” said Isabel, “I used to capture butterflies, but I was afraid of the bees. I’m getting over that, though.” The bees softly rose and hovered over the flowers, their steady hum oddly soothing. The quiet buzzing was the soundtrack of her girlhood summers. Even now, she could close her eyes and remember her walks with Bubbie, and how they would net a monarch or swallowtail butterfly, studying the creature in a big clear jar before setting it free again. They always set them free.

As she watched the activity in the hedge, a memory floated up from the past—Bubbie, gently explaining to Isabel why they needed to open the jar. “No creature should ever be trapped against its will,” she used to say. “It will ruin itself, just trying to escape.” As a survivor of a concentration camp, Bubbie only ever spoke of the experience in the most oblique of terms.

A dragonfly hovered in front of Jamie. She put out a hand and it alighted, gently fanning its wings.

“My grandmother used to warn me that a dragonfly would sew up your lips if you said a swear word,” Isabel remarked.

Jamie offered a fleeting smile. “Did it stop you from swearing?”

“Gosh, yes, are you kidding? I still watch my mouth.”

“I don’t. I probably should.” The dragonfly on the back of her hand darted off. “Is there water nearby?”

“Angel Creek. It flows across our property and the neighbor’s—Dominic Rossi. He’s going to become my brother-in-law this summer. He’s great—a grower and winemaker.”

The girl squinted at Isabel. “You married?”

“No. Happily single.” Her standard answer. “You?”

“Oh, hell, no.” She smoothed a hand down over her belly. “It’s just the two of us.”

The girl hardly looked old enough to be having a baby. “That’s exciting. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Needless to say, this wasn’t planned. I’m still trying to get used to the idea.” She watched a bee struggling in the blossoms, buzzing furiously as it tried to extricate itself. “I used to try to free them,” she said, watching the weathered bee’s tattered wings. “But they always dive right back into the stickiness and get stuck again. They can’t resist.”

The girl moved from hive to hive, lifting the occasional lid, seemingly lost in thought. “Judging by that swarm you described, you have some overpopulated hives. I can split them for you.”

“I would love that. I’ve been reading up on how to do it. The process seems complicated.”

“It’s not, but you need to know what to look for. You have to pick the right frames to move to the new hive, and you have to find the queen to move with them. And then you can’t put a new queen in too soon. I like to wait three days. Sooner than that, and the other bees might kill her.”

“Yikes, really?”

“It happens. But after a few days of being queenless, they’ll accept a new one. It’s all about the timing.”

“Great. I’d love to get your help with this. What’s your schedule like? Do you have time to work here?”

“I have tons of time,” Jamie said. “I haven’t gotten many calls for my services and I’ve been thinking I might have to move on.” She watched a small cluster of bees as if mesmerized. “I’d love to help you.”

“Do you think I should move that row of hives closer?” Isabel gestured at the row of pastel-painted hives in the distance.

Jamie lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring slightly as she seemed to sniff the air. Isabel noticed a slight shadow on the underside of her jaw. A smudge of dirt? A bruise? Maybe just a shadow. “You’re good right here,” Jamie said. “I like where the hives are.” She tipped back her head and took a long drink of her lemonade. Isabel studied the spot on her jaw again, but this time, Jamie caught her. “Something wrong?” she asked, wiping her wrist across her mouth.

She hesitated, not wanting to pry. Sometimes, though, prying was called for, she decided, thinking about her own experience. Back when she was Jamie’s age—the girl looked to be nineteen or twenty—having someone ask the right questions might have changed everything for her. “Looks like you hurt yourself.”

Jamie’s fingers—the nails embedded with dirt—gently skimmed the spot on her jaw; obviously she knew just what Isabel was referring to. “Nope,” she said, and rattled the ice cubes in her glass.

Then who did?
But Isabel didn’t ask that. They’d only just met. She had a feeling about Jamie Westfall. She wanted to get to know her better. “Let’s go back to the house.” As they started walking, she asked, “So why bees?”

“I grew up near Chico. I worked on a berry farm when I was in high school, and there were hives. I started working them and never looked back. It was kind of like falling in love, even though I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. All I know is I would wake up every day, and I couldn’t wait to check the hives. Then I got into harvesting and processing the honey. I started selling organic honey at farmer’s markets, and that’s been it for me ever since.”

Isabel could relate to the light she saw in Jamie’s eyes. Passion for a pursuit was the best feeling. “Kind of like falling in love” was a good way to put it. Although, like Jamie, Isabel had never been in love before, even though she had once deceived herself into thinking she had been.

“And now you’re looking to make a go of it in Archangel.”