Susan Wiggs - The Beekeeper's Ball

“How much is it going to bug your grandfather when the subject comes up?” asked Mac.

She thought about it for a moment. “Ever since his accident last year, he’s been adamant about telling us everything. He seemed almost relieved when Tess and I asked about Erik’s birth mother.”

“Ah. Then you’re thinking it’s going to bug you.”

Ouch. “Bubbie was the only mother I ever knew. To find out, after all this time...I’m still getting used to the idea. And now it feels very strange that you plan to publish this whole story about my family. I keep trying to convince myself it’s not disrespectful.” She stared down at Bubbie’s headstone, wishing she could feel her presence once again, hear her voice, listen to her sing the cherry song one more time.

“In my experience, people are more comfortable with the truth than any lie,” said Mac. “Eventually.”

She leaned down and plucked a dockweed from the base of one of the stones, and then started down the hill toward the house. “I realize that. The fact that my grandfather had a baby out of wedlock is a key part of his story. I don’t understand why he did what he did.”

“Have you ever asked him?”

“No.”

“You should. It’s remarkable how much you can learn simply by asking.”

“Good point, but try asking your grandfather to explain something like that.”

“No, thanks. My granddad was a Freudian analyst. He probably would have liked the topic way too much. I never really knew my other grandfather. He owned a pub in Ireland, died when I was a little kid.”

“And the Freudian grandfather?”

“Total nut job, but he was a good listener.”

So are you. The thought crossed Isabel’s mind, taking her by surprise. “My grandfather has always been big on loyalty,” she said. “You’ll see that as you get to know him. When I found out about him and Annelise, it totally threw me off. It was hard to imagine Grandfather betraying his wife. He was—he’s always been—my moral compass.”

“Whoa. That’s a lot to ask of someone.”

“True. I’d hate to be someone’s moral compass,” she admitted.

He held open the wrought iron gate leading to the courtyard. A visceral hip-hop tune was playing on the workers’ radio. “I bet you’d be pretty good at it, Isabel.”

Her head snapped up as she passed through the gate in front of him. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said, his voice like the breeze, a soft caress. “But I want to.”

PART THREE

One week after she emerges from her cell, the queen bee leaves the hive to mate with several drones in flight. To avoid inbreeding, she must fly a certain distance away from her home colony. Therefore, she makes several circles around the hive for orientation, so she can find her way back.

She leaves by herself and stays away for thirteen minutes. In the afternoon, hovering twenty feet above the earth, she will mate with anywhere from seven to fifteen drones. If foul weather delays this crucial mating flight for more than three weeks, her ability to mate will be destroyed. Her unfertilized eggs then result in drones.

Honey Lavender Lemonade

The best honey comes from a source you know, and is processed without heat. Raw, unfiltered honey retains its royal jelly, bee pollen and propolis—three major sources of antioxidants, vitamins and minerals.

1 cup of locally produced, raw organic honey

2½ cups water

1 tablespoon dried culinary lavender

1 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice

Additional water, about 2 cups

Ice cubes or crushed ice

Combine honey and 2-½ cups of water in a saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the honey. When the mixture reaches a boil, stir in the lavender and remove from heat. Let the mixture steep for 20 minutes.

Strain the lavender from the liquid, then add the fresh lemon juice and an additional 2 cups of water. Use sparkling water if you wish. Pour into glasses full of ice and serve, garnished with a sprig of lavender or mint.

[Source: Original]

Chapter Eight

“Isabel? Someone’s here to see you.” Ernestina Navarro stepped into Isabel’s study, a small space tucked into an alcove near the main kitchen. One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases crammed with cookbooks, which she’d been collecting ever since she was a little girl. The other walls were pinned with pictures she’d collected as inspiration for the renovation, and with lists and ideas for the upcoming wedding. There was a needlepoint sampler from an old family friend with the phrase “Live This Day” embroidered in the middle.

Isabel looked up from the mood board she’d been studying for far too long. The day after her uncomfortable conversation with Cormac O’Neill, she had escaped into work. But she couldn’t escape her own thoughts. He had a way of saying things that stuck with her, turned over and over in her mind as she speculated on the meaning.

You don’t know me.

No, but I want to.

Focus, she commanded herself. There was plenty to be done, anyway. The task in front of her was to study the mood board in order to pick colors and finishes for the two guest suites at the end of the second-floor hallway. Only a year ago, she’d had no idea what a mood board was. Now she was intimately familiar with the device, used by designers to present options for colors, textures and patterns. Isabel discovered that she could look at mood boards all day, and still not make a decision.

The designer in charge of the guest rooms at Bella Vista offered far too many choices. Should the upholstery be navy graphic or ecru abstract? Sandy-brown or celery-green on the walls? Wrought iron or glass sconces? And that was just for one of the suites. Isabel found it all bewildering, though she knew the details were important.

“Thanks,” she said to Ernestina, and swiveled to face her computer screen. She typed a quick note to the designer, telling him to go with the navy, the sandy-brown and the wrought iron. There, she thought, pushing back from the desk. Done. “Who is it?”

“Jamie Westfall.”

“Oh, good. The beekeeper.” Sliding her feet into sandals, she made her way down the hall to the main entryway. It was too bad he hadn’t shown up in time for the whole swarm drama. But it was springtime and there was still plenty of work to be done.

She stopped in the foyer, startled by the sight of her visitor.

Jamie Westfall was a woman. A very young woman. With tattoos, short, razor-cut, purple streaked hair...and what was almost assuredly a baby bump. The girl was long-legged and thin, wearing tight shorts and a Queensrÿche T-shirt stretched over her protruding tummy.

“Hi, I’m Isabel,” she said, mentally regrouping. “I sent you a message the other morning.”

“Yes.” The girl offered a fleeting smile and ducked her head. “Sorry, I didn’t see it in time to help you out.”

“That’s all right. The swarm got away. But I’ve still got some overcrowded hives that need to be divided, and I’m quickly finding out that I’m in over my head. I’d love to get your advice about my hives.”

“Sure, I can try to help you out.” She seemed soft-spoken, almost bashful in contrast to her hair and tattoos.

“Let me get you something to drink, and then we’ll head out to the hives. I’ve got a pitcher of lavender lemonade made with Bella Vista honey.”

“Sounds great. Thanks.” The girl looked around, wide-eyed, her gaze skimming over the surroundings of the foyer—a rustic table set against the wall, where eventually a guest book would go. Above that hung a large mirror Tess had found at a flea market, and on the opposite wall hung the main focus of the space—a stunning, mission-era scene painted by Arthur Frank Mathews. It was an original. Isabel didn’t even dare ask Tess about its value. She was certain the number would stress her out.