The Beekeeper's Ball. Susan Wiggs
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dilemma—you were never really free. You just moved from one assignment to the next. He deleted a few nonessential notes, then pocketed the phone and helped himself to another piece of coffee cake, feeling charitable now toward the bees that had produced the deep, rich honey that flavored the topping. Seriously, he couldn’t remember the last time food had tasted so good to him.
After the espresso machine spewed forth a cacophony of grinding, whistling and a deep-throated gurgling, Isabel set a frothy cappuccino in front of him. The rich aroma rose on a wisp of steam.
“Okay, that settles it.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’m never leaving.”
“Ha,” said Tess. “You never stay.”
She knew him better than he thought. The longest he’d ever lived in one place was during college. After that, his permanent address was his literary agent’s Manhattan office.
Here, he felt like a stranger in a strange—and extremely seductive—land. In contrast to the places of his past, Bella Vista seemed weighted by a sense of permanence—the old country house with its courtyard and patios, the rustic stone barn and machine shop, outbuildings and weathered work sheds, the acres of age-gnarled apple trees, now covered in springtime blooms. He wondered what it would be like to watch the seasons change all in one place, year after year.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he told Tess.
She gave a dismissive sniff, then turned to her beauteous sister. “He never stays. Mac is a rolling stone.”
Isabel offered a bowl full of raw sugar crystals. “Good to know,” she said.
“I’m wounded,” he said, adding sugar to his coffee. “Why is it good?”
“I like to understand who I’m dealing with. So do you prefer Mac or Cormac?”
“Either.” The piercing mechanical whine of a saw came from somewhere outside. “You’ve got a lot of work going on around here,” he said. “If this is a bad time—”
“It’s a perfect time,” Tess interrupted.
He sensed what she wasn’t saying. Magnus Johansen wasn’t getting any younger.
When the shrieking of the power saw stopped, Tess asked, “So what do you think about Isabel’s project?”
What the hell did he care? The whole idea of running a vast estate, regardless of how historic it was, felt like way too much of a commitment to him.
“She’s turning the place into a destination cooking school. Did she tell you?” Tess beamed with pride.
“She’s standing right here,” Isabel reminded them.
“Cool idea, huh?” Tess asked, ignoring her sister.
“If you’re into cooking,” said Mac. “And school.”
“I take it you’re not,” Isabel said.
“I’m here for Magnus,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
“Ernestina told me he’s out with the workers in the new section of the orchard.” She looked him up and down, her gaze hard to read. “It’s a few hundred yards away. Can you walk that far?”
He nodded, gripping his cane as he studiously ignored the twinge in his bad knee. “Sure, let me grab my camera.”
“You’re a photographer, too?” asked Isabel when he returned with his gear. “It looks like a bazooka gun.”
“I take a lot of my own pictures,” he said. He’d found, in his work, that putting the camera between himself and a subject sometimes created a necessary boundary. Or if that wasn’t needed, it was a way to capture a moment, a mood or nuance when words weren’t enough.
The three of them stepped through a set of French doors leading to the central patio, which was swarming with even more workmen. Isabel led the way, descending a set of yellow limestone steps. He couldn’t stop himself from checking her out from behind. He kind of wished she wasn’t wearing all that flowy stuff because he suspected there was something much more interesting underneath.
Pretty women were one of his several weaknesses. There was something about long hair, shapely legs, tanned skin, smooth and soft... He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a woman, inhaled the scent of her hair, pressed his lips to the pulse in her neck. He nearly stumbled over a tree root as he imagined what Isabel Johansen smelled and tasted like.
She turned back, scowling at him. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just taking in the atmosphere.”
They came upon a crew of workers with long-handled pruners. Speaking in Spanish that sounded smooth and natural, Isabel asked one of them where Magnus was.
One of the guys gestured at the end of a row of trees and waved. “He’s over by the new trees from the nursery beds.”
They headed down another row of trees. At the end of the row, Mac could see an old man silhouetted against the hillside, a ladder on one shoulder and a cane in his other hand. Tall and slender, in overalls and a work shirt, white hair sticking out from under a flat cap, Magnus Johansen moved with the ease of a much younger man.
Isabel called out to get his attention and he stopped, setting the ladder on the ground. He took off his cap and waved it at them.
Mac paused to take a candid picture while Isabel and Tess walked ahead, framed by the rows of arching trees in bloom. A timely breeze created a flurry of petals that filled the air like an unseasonable snowstorm. The camera lens captured the tableau of the old man and his two beautiful granddaughters, the moment gilded by sunshine filtering through the leaves. Nice.
Mac put the cap back on the lens and approached him. “Cormac O’Neill,” he said, shaking hands. “Good to meet you in person.”
Magnus’s grip was firm but brief. “I’m very glad you’re here, and on such short notice,” he said with a subtle lilt in his speech hinting at his Danish heritage. “Welcome to Bella Vista. I see you’ve met my granddaughters.” Though his face was pale, there was a glow of pride in him when he looked at Tess and Isabel. “I hope they gave you a proper welcome.”
Cutting a glance at Isabel, Mac thought about the knee to the groin and the attack of the killer bees. “Yep, she made me feel right at home.”
“You’ve come at a busy time. But the springtime is my favorite.”
“The scenery here is amazing,” Cormac said. He surveyed the area. The weather was almost unbearably perfect today, a stark contrast to the scorching deserts, barren tundras and steamy jungles he often had to visit on assignment. In addition to the construction crew at the house, there were people in every section of the orchard, some working alone, some in teams. Farming was as foreign to Mac as picking out draperies. “And your home is beautiful.”
“Yes. I have enjoyed much good fortune in my life.”
It was a startling statement, given what little Mac knew of the man. Magnus Johansen had lost his family in the war, and had outlived his only son and his wife. He had survived a head injury not so long ago. And yet here he stood, elderly but still proud, beaming at his granddaughters. Mac was suddenly more interested in Magnus, anxious to find out how the man had endured all that, yet could still call himself lucky.
“So,” said Magnus. “We must get to know one another.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I’ve read some of your books. I’m honored that you’re going to be writing about me. I warn you, though. I have a very long story to tell.”
Mac’s gaze kept straying to Isabel. She clearly didn’t like him, and despite what his libido was telling him, he didn’t like her, either. Still, there was something about her, not just the slender ankles and