by Susan Wiggs
Ahead of her was all she wanted—the cooking school. Jamie, Grandfather and Annelise. The sun-drenched acres of Bella Vista, which had sustained her all her life. And Mac, who said he wanted forever. The whole world was there for her, just waiting for her to begin.
Epilogue
The swarm of honeybees clung to a low-hanging branch, making that distinctive flying-monkey hum Isabel always found unsettling.
She still found it unsettling in a visceral way, but she’d learned a lot about beekeeping in the past year, and she knew this time she wouldn’t fail.
“Are you getting this?” she called over her shoulder to Mac.
He was a safe distance away with a video camera, its telephoto lens aimed in her direction. “Yep,” he said, “we’re rolling.”
“Okay,” she said, eyeing the swarm through the veil of her bonnet. “Here goes.”
“Looks like a nightmare,” he called. “Be careful.”
“Bees gorge on honey before they swarm,” she reminded him. “Makes them docile.”
“Oh, yeah, docile like the bees that sent me into shock last year?”
She’d been so annoyed at him that day, so certain he was bringing disaster into her world. How could she have known he was bringing love and joy, and a future she never could have envisioned for herself?
He never failed to surprise her, and she loved that about him. After Ravello, they had returned to Archangel together for the launch of the cooking school. Mac’s article had been picked up by the international press, and the place was booked solid for the next year.
There were other surprises and unanticipated blessings. Last autumn, her grandfather and Annelise had married in a quiet, family only ceremony. At Christmas, Tess and Dominic announced they were expecting a baby.
And on New Year’s Eve, braving the cold to be the first to jump into the newly finished swimming pool, Mac had surprised her once again. Taking a ring from the pocket of his trunks, he had slipped it on her finger, saying, “When I said I wanted forever, I meant it.”
The memory of that day nearly made her forget where she was, but the throaty hum of the bees intruded.
Don’t think about flying monkeys, she reminded herself, carefully positioning the collection box under the swarm. Before she lost her nerve, she lopped off the branch, and the swarm dropped into the box. Working quickly, she carefully scooped up a few stray bees and covered the top with mesh. Then she loaded the box into the back of the pickup and took a bow for the camera.
“That’s a wrap,” Mac said. “Is the coast clear?”
“It’s fine. I want to wait until sunset to introduce them to the hive. They’ll be okay here in the shade until then.”
With a feeling of triumph, she took off the bonnet and veil and unzipped the white suit, throwing it into the back of the truck. Mac gave a wolf whistle, eyeing her shorts and tank top. “What do you say we go for a swim, and then I’ll take you to bed and make long, sweet love to you?”
She laughed.
“Is that funny?”
“What’s funny is that before you came along, I couldn’t even imagine someone saying that to me.”
“I’m serious,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I seriously love you.”
“I know, Mac. I love you, too.”
“So listen, before we go, I’ve got something to show you.”
Another surprise? “I love it when you say that,” she said, remembering their scooter rides and the trunk of her mother’s dresses. “It’s always worked out really well for me.”
“I can’t promise you’re going to love this.” He grabbed something from a stack of mail on the dashboard of the truck.
She frowned. “Try me.”
Unsmiling, he took out a plain legal-size envelope with a metal clasp. “I’ve been doing some research into Erik’s disappearance. I’ve got a lot of friends in the business, and I traded a few favors to dig into this.”
“Mac. I told you before—”
“Just take a look at this. You get to decide what to do about it, but you need to see what I found.” He opened the envelope and took out an enlarged photoprint.
Isabel stared at the image. It showed a man on a beach, wearing shorts and a red baseball cap turned backward. It was strangely similar to the photo she had of young Erik at Shell Beach, the picture she’d always liked so well. This wasn’t young Erik.
“It was taken last week,” said Mac.
“That’s impossible,” said Isabel.
The man in the photo looked the same, yet not the same. There was no mistaking Erik’s features and the way he held himself. But the person in the photo was decades older. Just looking at it gave her a chill.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“It was taken by a guy I know from journalism school. The date, time and GPS coordinates are on the back. That beach is near Tangier.”
“What? Tangier? As in Tangier, Morocco?”
“That’s right.”
“How did he get there? What’s he doing?”
“That’ll take more digging. Or not. You just need to tell me what you want to do.”
She set the picture aside, feeling a mixture of excitement and confusion. “I don’t know....” She melted against him, grateful for the solid feel of his chest beneath her cheek. “Maybe we should leave this alone,” she said, feeling a curl of the old fear inside her. Then she stepped away and gazed up at Mac—her world, her love, her future. “Or maybe it’ll be our next adventure.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE APPLE ORCHARD by Susan Wiggs.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and to my editor, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, along with Lauren Smulski, Tara Parsons and the amazing team at MIRA books. Kudos to Cindy Peters for keeping the social network humming.
Many thanks to the very talented Kerrie Sanson, whose insights into cooking and recipes inspired some of the culinary art in this book.
The United States Holocaust Museum, the Virtual Jewish Library, The Museum of Danish Resistance and the National Archives in Copenhagen provided a wealth of historical facts. Beekeeping information was generously offered by Little Milkweed Farm.
Special thanks goes to Suzanne Kelly, Lilac and Chips for their generous support of PAWS.
And finally, I owe a huge thank-you to Lindsey Bonfiglio for all the promotion efforts. Lindsey, you’ve helped me in more ways than words can say.
“Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.”
—Jodi Picoult
If you loved The Beekeeper’s Ball by #1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs, return to sun-drenched Bella Vista to read the title that started it all, The Apple Orchard, where the land’s bounty yields a rich harvest of secrets that have long been buried. Download your copy HERE or visit Amazon.com.
For more tales of family and love, don’t miss Susan Wiggs’s #1 New York Times bestselling Lakeshore Chronicles series, available now in ebook format:
Summer at Willow Lake
The Winter Lodge
Dockside
Snowfall at Willow Lake
Fireside
Lakeshore Christmas
The Summer Hideaway
Marrying Daisy Bellamy
Return to Willow Lake
Candlelight Christmas
Order your copies today!
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin ebook. Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
Ha
rlequinBlog.com
One
San Francisco
Tess Delaney’s to-do list was stacked invisibly over her head like the air traffic over O’Hare. She had clients waiting to hear from her, associates hounding her for reports and a make-or-break meeting with the owner of the firm. She pushed back at the pressing anxiety and focused on the task at hand—restoring a treasure to its rightful owner.
The current mission brought her to an overfurnished apartment in Alamo Square. Miss Annelise Winther, still spry at eighty, ushered her into a cozy place with thready lace curtains, dust-ruffled chairs and a glorious scent of something baking. Tess wasted no time in presenting the treasure.
Miss Winther’s hands, freckled by age, the joints knotted with arthritis, shook as she held the antique lavaliere. Beneath a pink knitted shawl, her bony shoulders trembled.
“This necklace belonged to my mother,” she said, her voice breaking over the word. “I haven’t seen it since the spring of 1941.” She lifted her gaze to Tess, who sat across the scrubbed pine kitchen table from her. There were stories in the woman’s eyes, winking like the facets of a jewel. “I have no words to thank you for bringing this to me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Tess. “Moments like this—they’re the best part of my job.” The sense of pride and accomplishment helped her ignore the insistent buzz of her phone, signaling yet another incoming message.
Annelise Winther was Tess’s favorite kind of client. She was unassuming, a woman of modest means, judging by the decrepit condition of her apartment, in one of the city’s rambling Victorians that had seen better days. Two cats, whom the woman had introduced as Golden and Prince, lazed in the late-afternoon autumn sunshine spilling through a bumped-out bay window. A homey-looking needlepoint piece hung on the wall, bearing the slogan Live This Day.
Miss Winther took off her glasses, polished them and put them back on. Glancing again at Tess’s business card, she said, “Tess Delaney, Provenance Specialist, Sheffield Auction House. Well, Ms. Delaney. I’m extremely glad you found me, too. You’ve done well for yourself.”
Her voice had a subtle tinge of an accent. “I saw that History Channel special about the Kraków Museum. You won an award last month in Poland.”
“You saw that?” Tess asked, startled to know the woman had recognized her.
“Indeed I did. You were given a citation for restoring the rosary of Queen Maria Leszczynska. It had been stolen by Nazi looters and was missing for decades.”
“It was...a moment.” Tess had felt so proud that night. The only trouble was, she’d been in a room full of strangers. No one was present to witness her triumph. Her mother had promised to come but had to cancel at the last minute, so Tess had accepted the accolades in front of a small camera crew and a cultural minister with sweaty hands.
“The very second I saw your face, I knew you would be the one to find my treasure.” Miss Winther’s words were slightly startling. “And I’m so pleased that it’s you. I specifically requested you.”
“Why?”
A pause. Miss Winther’s face softened. Perhaps she’d lost her train of thought. Then she said, “Because you’re the best. Aren’t you?”
“I try my best,” Tess assured her. She thought the conversation odd, but in this business, she was accustomed to quirky clients. “This piece was with a group of recovered objects from World War II.” Tess fell quiet as she thought of the other pieces—jewelry and art and collectibles. The majority of objects remained in limbo, their original owners long gone. She tried not to imagine the terrible sense of violation so many families had suffered, with Nazis invading their homes, plundering their treasures and probably sending many of the family members off to die. Restoring lost treasures seemed a small thing, but the look on Miss Winther’s face was its own reward.
“You’ve made a miracle happen,” she declared. “I was just telling a friend on the phone that we’re never too old to appreciate a true miracle.”
For a miracle, Tess reflected, the task had entailed a lot of hard work. But the expression on the woman’s face made all the research, travel and red tape worthwhile. At her own expense, Tess had paid an expert to meticulously clean every link, baguette and facet of the lavaliere. “This is a copy of the provenance report.” She slid the document across the table. “It’s basically a history of the piece from its creation to the present, as near as I could trace it to its origins in Russia.”
“It’s amazing that you were able to find this. When I first contacted your firm, I thought...” Her voice trailed off. “How on earth did you do it?”
Working backward through the provenance report, Tess explained the progress of her research. “This piece was found with a collection of treasures seized in Copenhagen. The lavaliere is pink topaz, with gold filigree embellishments. The chain and clasp are original. It was made by a Finnish designer by the name of August Holmstrom. He was the principal jeweler for the house of Fabergé.”
Miss Winther’s eyebrows lifted. “The Fabergé?”
“The very one.” Taking out her loupe, Tess pointed out a tiny spot on the piece. “This is Holmstrom’s hallmark, right here, his initials between a double-headed Imperial eagle. He designed it specifically to foil counterfeiters. This particular piece was first mentioned in his design catalog of 1916 and produced for a fashionable shop in St. Petersburg. It was bought by a member of the Danish diplomatic corps.”
“My father. He brought the necklace home from a business trip to Russia, and my mother was seldom without it. Besides her wedding ring, it was her favorite piece of jewelry. He gave it to her to celebrate my birth. Though she never said so, I suspect she couldn’t have more children after me.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, and Tess wondered what she was seeing—her handsome father? Her mother, wearing the jewel against her heart?
The stories behind the treasures were always so intriguing, though often bittersweet. The sad ones were particularly hard to bear. There were some cruelties that were simply inconceivable to normal people, some injustices too big to grasp. Miss Winther must have been tiny when her world was ripped apart. How scared she must have been, how confused.
“I wish I could do more than simply restore this object,” said Tess. “It wound up with a number of other pieces in a repository in the basement of an abandoned government building. I spent the past year researching the archives. The Gestapo claimed they kept objects for safekeeping. It was a common ploy. The one helpful thing they did was to keep meticulous records of the things they seized.”
Here was where things got dicey. How much information did Miss Winther really need? Did she have to know what had likely happened to her parents?
There were facts Tess had no intention of sharing, such as the evidence that Hilde Winther had been seized without authority by a corrupt officer, and probably treated like a sex slave for months before she was put to death. This was the trouble with uncovering the mysteries of the past. Sometimes you ended up discovering things better left buried. Was it preferable to expose the truth at any cost or to protect someone from troubling matters they had no power to change?
“This piece was taken from your mother after she was arrested on suspicion of hiding spies, saboteurs and resistance fighters at Bispebjerg Hospital. According to the arrest report, she was accused of pretending her patients were extremely ill, and she would tend to them until they conveniently disappeared.”
Miss Winther caught her breath, then nodded. “That sounds like Mama. She was so very brave. She told me she was a hospital volunteer, but I always knew she was doing something important.” Behind her spectacles, the old lady’s eyes took on a cold glaze of anger. “My mother was dragged away on a beautiful spring afternoon while I watched.”
Tess felt an unbidden shudder of sympathy for the little girl Miss Winther had once been. “I’m so sorry. No child should have to witness that
.”
Miss Winther held out the necklace, the facets of the large pink topaz catching the light. “Could you...put it on me?” she asked.
“Of course.” Tess came around behind her and fastened the clasp of the necklace, feeling the old woman’s delicate bone structure. Her hair smelled of lavender, and her dress under the pink shawl was threadbare and faded. Tess felt a surge of emotion. This find was going to change Miss Winther’s life. In a single transaction, the old woman could find herself living in the lap of luxury.
Miss Winther reached up, cradling the jewel between her palms. “She was wearing it that day. Even as they were taking her away, she ordered me to run for my life, and that is just what I did. I was very lucky in that moment, or perhaps there had been a tip-off. A boy who was with the Holger Danske—the Danish resistance—spirited me to safety. Such a hero he was, like the Scarlet Pimpernel in the French Revolution, only he was quite real. I wouldn’t be here today if not for him. None of us would.”
None of us...? Tess wondered who she was referring to. Ghosts from the woman’s sad past, probably. She didn’t ask, though; she had other appointments on her schedule and couldn’t spare the time. And knowing the human cost of the tragedy made Tess feel vulnerable. Still, she was taken by the old lady’s sweetness and the air of nostalgia that softened her features when she touched the reclaimed treasure around her neck.
We’re both all alone, we two, thought Tess. Had Miss Winther always been alone? Will I always be?
“Well, I’m certainly glad you’re here.” The old lady’s smile was soft and strangely intimate.
“This is the appraisal on the piece. I think you’ll be very pleased.”
The old lady stared at the document. “It says my mother’s lavaliere is worth $800,000.”
“It’s an estimate. Depending on how the bidding goes, it could vary by about ten percent up or down.”
Miss Winther fanned herself. “That’s a fortune,” she said. “It’s more money than I ever dreamed of having.”