Susan Wiggs - The Beekeeper's Ball

“Um, could I use the restroom?” asked Jamie.

“Yes, of course. It’s just there, down that hallway.” Isabel pointed. “Take your time. I’ll go get the lemonade.”

As she went to the kitchen and poured the drinks, Isabel readjusted her mind around the beekeeper. She’d been expecting a guy with a battered pickup truck plastered with Ag Extension stickers. Not a teenage pregnant girl.

Setting out some honey shortbread cookies to go with the lemonade, she flashed on memories of her grandmother, offering refreshments to anyone who was lucky enough to come through the kitchen door. As a working farm, Bella Vista was always busy with workers, some seasonal and others permanent. In my kitchen, everyone is family, Bubbie used to say, beaming as the orchard workers, mechanics or gardeners gladly wolfed down her baked goods.

Knowing now what she did about her grandmother, Isabel wondered if there was a broader meaning to Bubbie’s pronouncement.

Jamie came into the kitchen and set down her frayed army-surplus messenger bag. She looked scrubbed now, the hair framing her face damp. “It’s really beautiful here,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “What a nice place.”

“Thanks. I’ve lived at Bella Vista all my life. I went away briefly for school, but...I had to cut it short, and ended up right back here.” Isabel often felt awkward, explaining that she’d never been anywhere. It made her feel incomplete, somehow. She handed Jamie a glass of lemonade. “Should we go take a look at the hives?”

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