The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2

by Susan Wiggs

  “What CNN interview?” asked Isabel in a low hiss.

  “That thing I told you about in Turkmenistan,” he said.

  “Oh....”

  “Here’s the thing. Yasmin’s father is with a permit to settle in Turkey. I plan to meet him there so we can work on an article about the murder.”

  She caught her breath. “And you were going to tell me about this...when?”

  He said nothing.

  “What was it like, to have a wife one moment, and then to be told she had died?” Isabel asked. “I mean, do I have to Google that interview in order to find out?”

  “Jesus, don’t Google me.”

  “Then try telling me things. Don’t wait until I trip over something you haven’t told me.”

  “Yeah, I know. It was... I need to explain something. I married Yasmin to save her, not because I loved her.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I failed. Twice. I failed at loving her and I failed to save her.”

  “You tried.”

  “And look how that worked out.”

  “Does that mean you shouldn’t try at anything else, ever again?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Listen, Isabel. I like you. We can be good together. Can we be good forever? Who knows? Just because we don’t know shouldn’t hold us back.”

  “But what if—”

  “Here you go,” said the bookseller. “Just a few more copies. I always say a signed book is a sold book.”

  He scrawled his signature in each of the books. “Here you go. Thanks. Isabel and I are looking for travel books today.”

  She directed him to a shelf along one wall.

  “I love travel books,” Isabel said. “I’m a great armchair traveler.”

  He perused a collection on Italy and pulled a book from the shelf, an oversize tome with glossy colored photos.

  “Ravishing Ravello?” she asked.

  “Okay, so it’s not the best title, but let’s check out where your mother came from.”

  She paged through the volume, which showed stunning views from the Villa Cimbrone and Ruffalo overlooking the deep blue Mediterranean, glorious gardens hung with color, quaint plazas lined with restaurants and shops, trees heavy with lemons, and the grand Duomo silhouetted against a blue sky. “It’s lovely, like a dream.”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  She gave a short laugh. “You’re crazy. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got the wedding, the cooking school....”

  “After the wedding’s over, you can take a couple of weeks.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  He bought the book and they went outside. “What’s stopping you?”

  “A hundred things.”

  “Then we’ll deal with those later.” He took her to the next stop—a photo and copy shop. “She needs a passport photo,” he said to the guy behind the counter.

  “I can do that instantly. I’ve got the forms from the post office right here.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “For chrissake, Isabel, have a seat.”

  All right, a passport photo. It couldn’t hurt to humor him. She took a seat and finger combed her hair.

  “Look at the camera straight on, chin forward,” said the photographer. “Neutral expression.”

  A few minutes later, she had a pair of regulation photos. Mac stood over her, making her fill out the form. There was something curiously intimate about having him watch her write down all that personal information.

  “I don’t carry my birth certificate around with me,” she said when she got to that section.

  “Your grandfather gave me a certified copy.” He took an envelope from his pocket.

  “He’s in on this?”

  “It’s not a conspiracy, Isabel.”

  “I don’t like being manipulated.”

  “You’re doing this of your own free will.”

  “No, I’m doing this so you’ll stop bugging me.”

  They dropped the forms at the post office, and then he said, “Time for lunch. Take me somewhere good. Somewhere Italian.”

  She chose Vine, one of the cafés on the main plaza, and ordered a burrata and squash blossom pizza. The fluffy soft cheese, drizzled with fruity olive oil, paired beautifully with the crisp blossoms and homemade crust. Eaten with chilled elderflower soda, it was exactly what she’d been craving.

  Mac, too, apparently. He made a sound of gratification. “Pizza. Nature’s perfect food. Are you going to teach pizza making at your cooking school?”

  “Sure. That’s what the wood-fire oven is for.”

  “All the more reason to make a trip to Italy. See where the technique was invented.”

  “I don’t get you,” she said. “Why are you being so pushy?”

  He shrugged and helped himself to another slice of pizza. “Born that way, I guess.”

  “Makes me suspicious of your motives.”

  “Yeah? You shouldn’t be. I’m completely transparent.”

  She frowned and sat back in her chair, arms crossed. “Not to me.”

  “Look, do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Yes, maybe you do.”

  He finished his soda and set the glass on the table with exaggerated care. Then he took off his sunglasses and regarded her intently. She noticed in that moment how beautiful his eyes were, that whiskey color and fringe of dark lashes. “I’m falling for you, Isabel,” he stated.

  She felt all the blood rush to her cheeks.

  “I’m falling for you, and it feels good. Remember I told you about Linda Henselman?”

  “Umm...you kissed her and fell off the porch into a bush.”

  “Well, yeah, that, but it’s the same dizzy feeling now, only it’s the adult version of that. A huge rush, something I haven’t felt since I was a kid.”

  “Mac—”

  “Hey, you asked. Let me finish. I’m not a kid anymore. I know what I’m feeling, and I know it’s the kind of thing that doesn’t come along every day.”

  She felt a pulse of attraction, and had to physically restrain herself from reaching across the table, touching him. For some reason, she couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. She’d spent far too much time thinking about the night he’d kissed her, and the memory came rushing back now. “You’re here for grandfather,” she reminded him.

  “I was. This sure as hell wasn’t in my plans when I came here for your grandfather, but I’m good with changing plans.” He leaned back in his chair and put his sunglasses back on. “Anyway, that might not be the answer you wanted to hear, but you asked.” Then he went back to eating his pizza as if nothing had happened.

  As if he hadn’t just blown her mind. She suddenly wished her glass contained something stronger than elderflower soda. “So...um...what’s next?” she asked, then took a nervous sip and held her breath, wondering what his plan was.

  He took out a couple bills to cover the tab, plus a generous tip, and laid them on the table. “Next, we go to...what’s that shop you said you liked? Angelica Delica.”

  That wasn’t exactly what she’d meant by the question. “I can’t believe you remembered the name of that boutique.”

  “You’d be surprised what I remember about you.” He stood and offered his hand, and when she took it, the world felt different.

  “It’s a women’s boutique,” she pointed out. “What are you shopping for?”

  He shrugged. “Surprise me.”

  Five minutes later, they were in the superbly eclectic boutique, filled with romantic, whimsical dresses and accessories, mostly by local designers and artists. The decor was shabby chic, with funky candelabras and antique cabinets. Women were browsing through the racks, and Mac was the only guy in the pla
ce.

  “She needs a dress for the wedding,” he said to Angelica, the shop owner.

  “My specialty. Let’s try some things on you.”

  Isabel felt a little flustered, but they had a point. She still hadn’t settled on her maid of honor dress. “Sounds good to me.”

  “Perfect,” said Angelica. “Long or short?”

  “Tea length,” Isabel said.

  “Short,” Mac said.

  She glared at him. “I’ll keep an open mind.”

  A few minutes later, she was in the dressing room with Angelica bustling around her, offering a variety of options—chic minimalist, flowing chiffon, strapless and fitted, dancing skirts. Isabel dutifully modeled each look for Mac, who waited on a vanity bench outside the curtained area. He turned out to be vocally opinionated.

  “You’re going to a wedding, not a church social,” he said when she came out wearing a drop-waist silk sheath.

  “I think it’s very stylish,” she said.

  “Let’s try something more fitted,” Angelica suggested. She zipped Isabel into a strapless silk jersey sheath dress that outlined every curve. She felt exposed, not just by the revealing dresses but by Mac’s scrutiny. Yet his attention didn’t threaten her. Instead, it transformed her. She didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

  “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 a
fter 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.