The Beekeeper's Ball

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.”

  * * * * *

  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.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE APPLE ORCHARD by Susan Wiggs.

  If you loved The Beekeeper’s Ball, don’t miss the first enchanting story in #1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs’s Bella Vista Chronicles series. Lose yourself amid the lush abundance of Sonoma County in The Apple Orchard, a story of sisters, friendship and the invisible bonds of history.

  “The most storied of fruits is done incredible justice here… The Apple Orchard is sweet, crisp and juicy.”

  —Elin Hilderbrand

  Order your copy today!

  Looking for more from Susan Wiggs? Be sure to catch up on The Lakeshore Chronicles today!

  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

  Starlight on Willow Lake (September 2015)

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  Prologue

  Archangel, California

  The air smelled of apples, and the orchard hummed with the sound of bees hovering over the bushels of harvested fruit. The trees were in prime condition, waiting for the harvest workers to arrive. The branches had been pruned in readiness for the ladders, the last pesky groundhog had been trapped and carted away; the roads between the trees had been graded smooth so the fruit wouldn’t be jostled in transport. The morning was cool with a mist hanging among the branches. The sun, ripe on the eastern horizon of the rolling hills, offered the promise of warmth later in the day. The pickers would be here soon.

  Magnus Johansen balanced on the picking ladder, feeling as steady as a man a quarter his age. Isabel would scold him if she saw; his granddaughter would call him an old fool for working alone instead of waiting for the pickers to arrive. But Magnus liked the early solitude; he liked having the whole orchard to himself in the muted hush of the warming morning. He was in his eighth decade of life; God only knew how many more harvests he would see.

  Isabel worried so much about him these days. She tended to hover, like a honeybee in the milkweed that surrounded the orchard. Magnus wished she wouldn’t fret. She should know he had already survived the best and worst life had to offer.

  Truth be told, he worried about Isabel far more than she worried about him. It was the things she didn’t know that weighed upon him this morning. He couldn’t keep her in the dark forever. The letter on the desk in his study confirmed his worst fear—unless a miracle occurred, all of Bella Vista would be lost.

  Magnus did his best to set aside the troubles for the moment. He had risen early to don his denim and boots, knowing today was the day. Over the years, he had learned to judge the moment of maturity for the fruit. Too early, and you had to deal with the inefficiencies of spot picking. Too late, and you risked having fruit that was senescent, breaking down from old age.

  Some mornings he felt his own kind of senescence deep in the marrow of his bones. Not today, though. Today, he felt a surge of energy, and his fruit was at the peak of perfection. He’d performed the starch iodine test, of course, but more importantly, he’d bitten into an apple, knowing by its firmness, sweetness and crunch that the time had come. Over the next few days, the orchard would be as busy as a beehive. He would send his fruit to market in the waiting boxes, each with a bright Bella Vista Orchards label.

  A trio cluster of glossy, crimson-striped Gravensteins hung several feet out on a branch above his head. Hard-to-reach limbs were usually pruned, but this one was productive. Carefully aware of the extent of his reach, he leaned forward to pick a trio of apples and add them to his basket. These days, most of the workers preferred the long bags, which made two-handed picking easier, but Magnus was old school. He was old, period. Yet even now, the land sustained him; there was something about the rhythm of the seasons, the yearly renewal, that kept him as vigorous as a much younger man. He had much to be thankful for.

  Much to regret, as well.

  As he captured the apples on the high limb, his ladder wobbled a bit. Chastened, he left the rest of the branch for the gleaners and climbed down.

  As he moved his picking ladder to another tree, he heard the frantic whir of a bee in distress in the milkweed. A honeybee, greedy for the abundant nectar of the tangled blossoms, was trapped in the flowers, a common occurrence. Magnus often found their desiccated bodies enmeshed by the sticky seedpods. Modern farmers tried to eradicate the milkweed, but Magnus allowed it to flourish along the borders of the orchard, a habitat for bees and monarch butterflies, finches and ladybugs.

  Feeling charitable, he liberated a trapped and furiously buzzing bee from the sticky down, releasing a flurry of seeds parachuted by feathery umbrellas. With no notion that the sweetness was deadly, the bee immediately dove back into the hedge and returned to sipping nectar, the risk of getting caught obliterated by its hunger.

  Magnus moved on with a philosophical shrug. When nature drew a creature to sweetness, there could be no stopping it. He moved his ladder to the next tree, positioning it for maximum efficiency, and climbed to a lofty perch. There, his head above the branches, he inhaled the glory of the morning—the redolence of the air, the quality of light filtering through the mist, the contours of the land and the distant haze of the ocean.

  A sense of nostalgia swept through him, borne along on a wave of memories. As though it were yesterday he could see the sun-flooded landscape, with Eva down at the collection bins, smiling up at him as she supervised the harvest—his war bride, starting a new life in America with him. They had built Bella Vista together. It was a terrible shame that the bank was about to take it away.

  Despite the successes and tragedies, the secrets and lies, Magnus had an abundance of blessings. He had made a life with a woman he loved, and that was more than many poor souls could count. They had created a world together, spending their days close to nature, eating crisp apples, fresh homemade bread slathered with honey from their own hives, sharing the bounty with workers and neighbors... Yet those blessings had come at a cost, one that would be reckoned by a power greater than himself.

  His pocket phone chirped, disturbing the quiet of the morning. Isabel insisted that he carry a phone in his pocket at all times; his was one of the simple ones that sent and received calls without all the other functions that would only confuse him.

  The ladder teetered again as he reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt. He didn’t recognize the number that came up.

  “This is Magnus,” he said, his customary greeting.

  “It’s Annelise.”

  His heart stumbled. Her voice sounded thin, older, but, oh, so familiar, despite the passage of decades. Beneath the thin, wavery tones, he recognized the sound of a far younger woman, one he had loved in a much different way than he’d loved Eva.

  His grip tightened on the phone. “How the devil did you get this number?”

  “I take it you received my letter,” she said, lapsing into their native Danish, probably without even realizing it.

  “I did, and you are absolutely right,” he said, though he felt his heart speed up at the admission. “It’s time to tell them everything.”

  “Have you done it?” she asked. “Magnus, it’s a simple enough conversation.”

  “Yes, but Isabel...she’s... I don’t like to upset her.” Isabel—beautiful and fragile, so damaged by life at such a young age.

  “And what about Theresa? She’s your granddaughter, too. Would you rather the news come from you, or from some undesignated stranger? We’re not getting any younger, you and I. If you don’t do something right away, I will.”

  “Fine, then.” He felt a flash of hatred for the phone, this little electronic intruder turning a bright day dark. “I will take care of it. I always do. And if by some miracle they forgive us—”

  “Of course they will. Don’t ever stop expecting a miracle, Magnus. You of all people should know better.”

  “Don’t call me again,” he said, his heart lurching in his chest. “Please don’t call me again.” He put away his cell phone. The wind swept through the trees, and the powerful scent of apples surrounded him. Wheeling hawks kettled overhead, and one of them loosed a plaintive cry. Magnus reached for one more apple, a lush beauty dangling at arm’s length, the shine on its cheek so bright he could see his reflection.

  The reach unbalanced the ladder. He grabbed at a branch but missed, and then there was nothing to hold on to but the misty air. Despite the brutal swiftness of the accident, Magnus felt eerily aware of every second, as though it was happening to someone else. Yet he was not afraid for himself—he was far too old for that, and life had taught him long ago that fear and happiness could not coexist.

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan Wiggs


  ISBN-13: 9781460346976

  The Beekeeper’s Ball

  Copyright © 2014 by Susan Wiggs

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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