The Beekeeper's Ball. Susan Wiggs
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at the orchards and fields, he felt a million miles away from the war-torn places of the world, the airports and grimy cities, the long barren stretches of scorched earth in the foreign lands he’d visited. During his career, he had lived in mud huts and tents, in hovels and out in the open, being eaten alive by bugs or shivering in an unheated room. He could do worse than a luxurious villa in Archangel, that was for sure.
Staggering off an overseas flight at SFO this morning, he’d borrowed a buddy’s Jeep, gulped a double shot of espresso and had driven straight from San Francisco to Archangel, hoping to relax and sleep off the jet lag. Instead, he’d encountered the skittish and suspicious Isabel, who had kneed him in the groin. Next came the swarm of bees and the trip to the urgent care place. He wondered what the next disaster would be.
When Tess had told him about the book project, she hadn’t mentioned hostile women and swarms of bees. In fact, she’d characterized it as a working vacation of sorts, a way for him to recover from his bum knee by soaking up the charms of Sonoma County.
In contrast, Bella Vista was lush and seductive, the landscape filled with colors from deep green to sunburned-gold. Gardeners, construction workers and farm workers swarmed the property. Isabel Johansen was in charge; that had been clear from the start. Yet when she’d shown him to Erik’s room, she’d seemed vulnerable, uncertain. Some might regard the room as a mausoleum, filled with the depressing weight of things left behind by the departed. To Mac, it was a treasure trove. He was here to learn the story of this place, this family, and every detail, from the baseball card collection to the dog-eared books about far-off places, would turn into clues for him.
And holy crap, had Isabel looked different when she’d given him the nickel tour. Unlike the virago in the beekeeper’s getup, the cleaned-up Isabel was a Roman goddess in a flowy outfit, sandals and curly dark hair.
Mac reminded himself that meeting Magnus Johansen was the whole point of this trip. At the moment, he didn’t feel like meeting anyone. The meds he’d been given, combined with the letdown after the shot of epinephrine, made his brain feel like cotton candy.
Rummaging through his duffel bag, he broke out the cream from the pharmacy and dabbed some on the itchy welts covering his arms, legs and hands. There were bites on his back he couldn’t reach, so he scratched himself on the bedpost, seeking relief.
He hoped the bees were not an omen of mishaps to come. He could always hope this morning’s disasters were an anomaly. His plan was simple. He would gather information about Magnus Johansen, a war hero turned orchardist, then settle in and write the story. It was what he did, what he was good at—telling other people’s stories.
The PR people who worked for his publisher liked to make much of his background. He’d been raised with five brothers by parents who worked in the diplomatic corps, traveling to the far corners of the world, their mission to spread peace and understanding. It all sounded exotic and glamorous, although for a kid, the reality had been far different—an endless succession of airports and foreign hotels, stifling tropical heat and painful immunizations and a new school every other year. The upbringing had taught him much about the world; he’d learned a few languages and had figured out how to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. But his way of life had never taught him how to stay in one place. The concept of home was foreign to him.
He went into the immaculate bathroom and took a quick shower in the old-fashioned claw-foot tub. There were perfumed soaps and fancy shampoo and lotions. Damn, it felt good to shower off the travel and the jet lag. He wanted to stand there all day, but he was here for a job. He put on clean shorts and a shirt, then put the knee brace back in place. The zipperlike surgical scar wasn’t pretty, but at least his knee didn’t feel as though it was on fire anymore.
He was supposed to be taking care of himself after his injury. The doc said his knee would never heal if he didn’t follow a program of physical therapy and exercise.
There was a knock at the door. “Hey, Mac,” said a voice. “It’s me, Tess.”
Leaning on his cane, he hobbled over and let her in.
She was as pretty as ever, red hair, tall and willowy. Actually, she was even prettier than he remembered. He didn’t recall the brightness of that smile. “Tess Delaney. Fancy meeting you here.”
“It’s great to see you,” she said. “We didn’t know when you’d get here.”
“I caught a flight from Taipei on standby. Borrowed a set of wheels in San Francisco and here I am.”
“Wow, that was quick. Oh, my gosh, it’s been too long.” With that, she gave him a brief hug. “I’m really glad we stayed in touch, Mac. Thanks for coming.” Her eyes sparkled as she grinned at him. “What?” she asked. “You’re looking at me funny.”
“You look really good, Tess. Glowing. Hey, are you—”
“About to marry the love of my life, yes. And no, I’m not pregnant. Just...in a different place than I was last time I saw you. A much better place, literally and figuratively.”
He sensed a mellowness about her he didn’t recall from before, as if her sharp edges had been softened. Maybe it was this place—Bella Vista. Maybe it would soften him, too. Except he didn’t need softening.
She stepped back and regarded him from head to toe. “You don’t look so hot. Isabel said you got stung.”
“Stung’s the word for it,” he murmured. “I’ll be okay. She was nice enough to take me to a clinic.”
“Good. My sister’s super nice.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
She set her hands on her hips. Tess had put on a little weight, and the curves looked good on her. She’d been really skinny in Krakow, skinny and stressed out. “She said you got off on the wrong foot this morning.”
“Ha-ha.”
She checked out his knee brace. “What happened?”
“Torn ligaments. I’ll heal.”
“Are you hungry?”
“You know me. I can always eat.”
“You came to the right place. Let’s grab something for you from the kitchen, and then we’ll go find Magnus.”
The “something” turned out to be a wedge of the most amazing cake he’d ever tasted. It had cream in the middle, a crust of honey and almonds on top. He crammed half a wedge into his mouth and moaned aloud. “Damn, that’s good,” he said around the mouthful. “Damn.”
“I already ordered it for my wedding breakfast,” said Tess.
“It’s called Bienenstich—bee sting cake,” said Isabel, coming into the kitchen. “Appropriate, under the circumstances.”
He turned to face her, his cheeks stuffed with food like a chipmunk’s. Then he swallowed the bite of food. “It’s delicious. Did you make it?” he asked, not taking his eyes off her. She didn’t look much like her sister. While Tess had red hair and freckles, Isabel had olive-toned skin, dark eyes and full lips, like a flamenco dancer or maybe an Italian film star swathed in veils.
“I did,” she said. “It’s a German tradition. You should have coffee with it.” She went over to an espresso machine that resembled the chrome front of a Maserati, and got to work.
Coffee. Oh, God.
He took out his phone, which was also his work computer, voice recorder and general organizer of his life. “I’m not getting a good signal here. Is there a wi-fi password?”
“I should remember that,” said Tess, “because we just upgraded. When I first got here, you couldn’t even get a signal. Isabel, do you remember the password?”
“‘CATSEX!!’ all in caps, with two exclamation points.” She shrugged. “I didn’t pick it.”
“Isabel’s the best cook in the world,”