The Beekeeper's Ball. Сьюзен Виггс
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manage to raise such a worrier? I forbid you to hover. You stay here and entertain Mr. O’Neill. Theresa, you can help me inside. We will talk some more tomorrow, perhaps.”
She stood and watched him go, with Tess walking slowly by his side. Though shrinking with age, he still had a proud bearing as he moved. Her heart was filled with love for her grandfather, yet there were questions, too. She knew the conversation was only one of many he would be sharing in the weeks to come.
Turning back to Mac, she said, “Just so you know, I’m not going to entertain you.”
He grinned and pocketed his phone. “And I was so looking forward to that.” He gathered up the photos and papers, tucking them into a clear green envelope with a string closure. “Your grandfather has quite a story to tell.”
“I always knew it, but he never spoke of it in such detail, like the story he told about the basement. I worry, though. He’s going to relive the loss of his family and lord knows what else.”
“He’ll let me know if it’s too much for him.”
Mac sounded very sure of himself. Isabel studied him in the rich golden sunshine, watching the play of light on his face, the breeze in his hair, his big hands as he gathered up his notes and gear. His dog-eared spiral-bound notebook was already filled with several pages of notes in his squarish, precise handwriting. She’d watched him writing as Grandfather talked; he seemed to have the ability to listen and compose simultaneously.
“Everyone knows people suffered during the war, but hearing him talk about things as he lived them really drove that home.”
“He’ll be okay. People process trauma in their own ways.”
She thought about the few things Tess had told her about Mac’s past, and wondered how he’d dealt with his own trauma. He was a widower. It was shocking to contemplate the idea that he’d been married, that his wife had died. In her mind, she’d always pictured a widower as someone like her grandfather, not a young, vital man who exuded sex appeal. Mac looked older than Isabel, but not much older. Maybe thirty-five to her thirty.
She wondered what had happened to his wife. Tess hadn’t been able to answer that question, saying she’d never met the woman, but judging by her name—Yasmin—assumed she was foreign, perhaps Middle Eastern.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
She realized she’d been staring at him. Though tempted to ask him about his past, she felt the need to keep her distance. She barely knew the guy. “I’m... You seem pretty sure of yourself. Pretty sure he’s going to be able to talk about these things.”
He flashed a half grin. “Trust me, I’m a professional.”
“That’s what Tess says.”
“Then trust her. She’s your sister.”
Isabel nodded. “Yes, but we haven’t grown up as sisters. It’s...complicated.”
“I don’t have a sister myself, but I’ve heard it’s always complicated.”
“Tess and I met only recently. Did she explain that to you?”
“She said neither of you knew about the other when you were growing up.”
“We connected with each other when she came here a year ago, and she changed everyone’s lives.”
“Seems like Bella Vista—and you and your granddad—changed her life.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What a nice thing to say.”
“Sometimes the truth is nice. A lot of the time, actually.” He moved the wooden chairs out of the pathway. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for losing your colony of bees?”
“Never,” she said.
“That’s harsh.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s me. A harsh woman.”
“My favorite kind.”
“Really?”
He gave her a long, considering look. Then he said, “We’ll see.”
“How’s your knee?” she asked suddenly. “Are you up for a short walk?”
“With you? Hell, yes.”
She turned away quickly, pretending not to be flattered by his enthusiasm. “We can go to the top of that hill with the big oak tree. There’s something up there that might give you some insights about my grandfather...and me. You might find it kind of grim, but it’s part of the story.”
“I can handle grim,” he said simply.
Though tempted to ask him about the grim things he could handle, she’d save those questions for another day. She led the way up the slope, stepping over the ankle-high grass in the meadow, covered in budding lupine.
“It’s the family plot,” she said when they arrived. The rectangular area was west-facing, bathed in afternoon light and surrounded by a wrought iron fence. There were three simple headstones of weathered rock. Oscar Navarro, the caretaker, kept the grass mowed, though wildflowers were left to bloom around the stones—egg-yolk-yellow California poppy, purple sage and tiny delicate wild iris. Not far away was a spreading California oak, its long branches creating a broad shaded area. “See what I mean?” she asked. “Grim.”
“It feels peaceful here,” he said. “A resting place. And it’s sad, yeah.” He regarded the carved stones. “Your grandmother Eva, your mother, Francesca, and your father, Erik.”
“The family plot,” she said. “It doesn’t really make me sad anymore. I don’t associate this spot with the people I’ve lost.”
“Still...Isabel, I’m sorry. Real sorry.”
“Thank you. I never knew either of my parents, but my grandmother, Bubbie...” Even now she couldn’t find the words to express how much she missed her. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could still feel Bubbie’s hand expertly brushing and braiding her hair while singing a soft song in Yiddish about a cherry tree.
“You want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know. When Tess first told me about this project, just yesterday, in fact, I didn’t want to talk about anything.”
“But now...?”
“It seems like something my grandfather wants. But his story is entwined with my own...” She bent and picked a sprig of sage, inhaling the savory scent of it.
“Then how about you tell me. Make me understand why you don’t want me here, asking personal questions about your grandfather, your family.”
His frank request startled her, yet oddly enough, she didn’t feel defensive. She chewed her lip, wondering if she could possibly trust him.
He regarded her thoughtfully, then lifted a hand, palm out. “Go ahead. I’m not here to pass judgment. Swear.”
She couldn’t tell if his reassuring manner was genuine, or a journalist’s trick. Please be genuine, she thought. “As I said, it’s a bit complicated. Tess and I are half sisters. We were born on the same day.”
“That’s cool. But how is sharing a birthday a complication for the two of you?”
“Not just the same day.” She took a breath, cut her gaze away from him. “The same year. To different mothers who had no idea the other one existed. That’s why we grew up apart. My grandparents raised me here at Bella Vista, and Tess and her mother lived all over the place, in big cities, mostly.”
He folded his arms across his chest, and she watched him process the information. “Oh. Well. Unusual circumstances make for a good story, anyway.”
“We’re not just a ‘story,’” she said, bridling.
“I get that,” he said. “But