by Susan Wiggs
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.”
“That’s the plan. I, uh, I sing a little, too, and play guitar.”
Isabel led the way back into the kitchen. “I’d love to hear you one of these days. I’m sure we can work something out. Where do you live, Jamie?”
There was a beat of hesitation. Two beats.
It took only that long for Isabel to connect the dots—the crammed car, the rumpled clothes, the exhausted, unwashed look of her. The girl was homeless.
“I haven’t actually found a place yet.” Jamie put her glass in the sink and washed her hands, slowly and luxuriously, as though savoring the warm water and lavender soap.
“Yes,” Isabel said, not allowing herself to pick apart the decision. Her gut was telling her what to do. “You have.”
* * *
Mac sat straight up in bed, chased by a nightmare. “We had a deal,” he heard himself saying, “a deal, motherf—” He stopped talking to the nightmare and slammed himself back down on the pillow. He was drenched in sweat, the cold clammy residue of panic.
His head was foggy with images he wished he couldn’t see. People often said they envied him, having a job that gave him the freedom to travel the world, taking pictures and writing articles and books, taking pictures of things most people would never get to see. But freedom had its price. In pursuit of a story, sometimes he was forced to look into the face of hell, to see and hear things that made nightmares seem like fairy tales—like watching his wife murdered in cold blood.
He took another breath, reminding himself to concentrate on the here and now—a sunny room in a beautiful house, rich smells emanating from somewhere downstairs, the sound of...singing?
Yeah, someone was singing. And making breakfast. He was definitely not in hell anymore. He tugged on a pair of shorts and brushed his teeth, then grabbed his cane and wandered down to the kitchen to find the source of the singing.
The kid on the barstool, strumming a guitar, was a ringer for a younger, more tattooed Alanis, with a raspy, soulful voice and an unhurried touch on the strings of a battered acoustic guitar. Magnus was seated in a flood of morning sunlight at the end of the kitchen bar. Nearby, Isabel was creating something with grilled bread and a pan of eggs poaching in tomato sauce. It smelled incredible.
“This could turn me into a morning person,” Mac said, walking across the kitchen. The saltillo tile floor felt cool and smooth under his bare feet. “I’m Cormac O’Neill. Mac.”
The girl put aside the guitar. Despite the hair and the tats, she had a timid look about her. “Jamie Westfall,” she said.
He recognized the name. “The beekeeper.”
“I thought Mac was you when he first showed up,” Isabel said, placing a slice of grilled bread in a shallow dish, and serving up the eggs and tomatoes. She had an artless, graceful way in the kitchen. Mac could watch her all day, a woman in her element. “The name Jamie threw me off,” she explained to the girl. “One egg or two?”
“Two,” Mac spoke right up.
Isabel shot him a look. “Ladies first.”
“None for me,” Jamie said apologetically. “Maybe a piece of toast with honey. I...don’t have much of an appetite in the morning.”
“I’ll have hers,” Mac volunteered.
“It smells delicious, Isabel,” said Magnus.
“Can I help?” Mac asked.
Isabel’s look softened. “Set the table?”
“Sure.” He found the silverware and a supply of napkins.
“Jamie has agreed to stay at Bella Vista and work here,” Magnus said. “We officially have our own beekeeper.”
“Jamie’s going to oversee the honey production, too,” Isabel said. “She thinks we’ll have plenty for the cooking school, and a surplus for Tess’s shop.”
“An on-site beekeeper and resident musician,” Mac said. “I like it here more every day.”
“Bella Vista has always housed its workers,” Magnus continued as if he’d sensed the question Mac didn’t ask. “Los piscadores are vital to the orchard’s success, and we make sure the housing for guest workers is top-notch.”
Jamie offered him a bashful smile. “I appreciate it. I love my little cottage.”
“It’s yours for as long as you care to stay,” Magnus said. He tucked a napkin under his chin. “Isabel, thank you for this delicious breakfast. Eat up, Mr. O’Neill. We have a lot of matters to discuss today.”
* * *
“I’ve enjoyed our rambles so far,” Magnus said, leading the way through a long section of the orchard. “It appears I have more to say than I originally thought.”
“Most people do,” Mac said. “Memories are like a series of locked doors, and once you manage to get one open, it leads to another, and then another and so on. The hard part is finding the key to that first lock and getting through it.”
“You’re rather wise for a young man,” Magnus said.
“I’ve done my share of dumb things.” He felt a twinge, thinking about his next assignment after this one. He had made a promise to explore and investigate his worst mistake, and there was no getting out of it.
“As we all must, I suppose,” said Magnus. “How else does one learn wisdom?” He pointed out a row of painted shotgun-style cottages set shoulder to shoulder down one side of the orchard. A couple of them had cars parked behind them and laundry pegged out on clotheslines. “The guest worker hou
sing is down there. When I first came here, there was no electricity or indoor plumbing. These days, they’re quite comfortable.”
“Isabel gave me a bit of history about her father.”
“Did she now?” Magnus picked up his pace, his cane thumping on the ground. “I wish she’d had a chance to know Erik. He was my heart, right up until the moment he shattered it. I miss my son every day, but then I see glimpses of him in his two daughters. It’s a sadness, yet this has only made me look deeper to find the joy.” He paused to watch a bird circling the meadow. “Some days, it’s hard to find.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“He came to Eva and me after we had given up the dream of having a child,” Magnus said. “I gather Isabel explained that Erik was adopted.”
“She did.”
“His birth mother, Annelise Winther, is a wonderful woman, her generosity beyond comprehension. Our arrangement was...unorthodox, to say the least.”
Mac would like the old man to say more, but he didn’t push. Often, the most important part of a conversation was the waiting.
Magnus flexed his hand on the head of the cane, the fingertips gripping its rounded head. It was a working man’s hand, strong and rough, now spotted with a patina of age. “Sometimes I wonder if losing Erik was a punishment. And then, of course, I must dismiss this thought. Things happen as they are meant to happen. There is no grand plan, just flawed human beings bumbling through life.”
He turned abruptly and led the way along a gravel track to a humble-looking stone and timber building with several bays and rolling doors. Flowering vines climbed up the crumbling stone walls. Inside, the sweetish smell of motor oil and old rubber hung in the air. The sunlight through the windows illuminated several work bays and an impressive array of equipment and vehicles. Somewhere, a radio was playing classic rock, and swallows nested in the high rafters. There were a couple of cluttered desks, a long wall and bench of tools that could make a grown man cry.
“Fantastic. It’s every guy’s dream to have a place like this,” Mac commented.