Susan Wiggs - The Beekeeper's Ball

Wash away, she told herself. Let’s just wash the day away and hit the reset button. She used soap made from Bella Vista honey and lavender, inhaling the scent of the luxurious foam and wishing she could just stand here all day. Not possible. There was too much to do. She was not going to let a stranger named Cormac O’Neill rearrange the day’s plans for her, even though he’d already set back her schedule by two hours.

She dressed in a softly gathered skirt, sandals and a gauzy, loose-fitting blouse, light and comfortable in the warm weather. Her dark heavy curls—a legacy from the mother she’d never known—would dry in the sunshine today. Spring was in full bloom, and she had tons to do, starting with supervising the workers who were fixing a pergola over the new section of the patio, which had been expanded to make way for guests.

With its central fountain, wrought iron chairs and café tables with cobalt-blue majolica tile, the open-air space would be a gathering place—first for Tess and Dominic’s wedding guests, and later, starting in the fall, for people who came to attend the cooking school. Isabel wanted it to be as beautiful and inviting as a vintage California hacienda, and she’d planned the project down to the last golden limestone paver.

This had always been a private home, but this summer, it would be opened to the world. The estate had lain in slumber like an enchanted kingdom, and now it was finally waking up, opening its embrace to new energy. New life.

Yet despite all the details that needed attending to, her mind kept flitting to Cormac O’Neill. She reminded herself that his business was with her grandfather, not her. A biography. Why hadn’t Grandfather told her about this?

On her way down to the kitchen, she paused on the landing, which featured a wall-sized mirror. For some reason, she flashed on a bit from the article she’d seen in the waiting room—Wear something sexy. It just wasn’t her style. She favored clothes that were long, loose and drapey. Concealing. The most formfitting garment she owned was her chef’s apron. Sometimes she wished she had her sister’s natural eye for fashion, but when Isabel tried for that, she felt self-conscious, like a kid playing at dress up. She hadn’t even settled on her maid-of-honor dress.

Tess was at the kitchen counter, gazing out the window and eating a wedge of bee sting cake, cream filled and glossy with a crust of honeyed almonds. “If you don’t quit feeding me like this,” Tess scolded, “I’m never going to fit into my wedding dress.”

“That was for the workmen,” Isabel said. She’d quickly learned that construction guys needed baked goods to keep them at peak performance.

Tess shook back her glossy red hair. She had been growing it long in order to wear it up on her wedding day. “Couldn’t resist. Sorry. So where have you been all morning?”

“Dealing with your friend, Cormac O’Neill.”

Tess brightened. “Oh! He’s here?”

All glorious six-foot-something of him. “He got stung by bees and had an allergic reaction, so I took him to the clinic in town.”

“Oh, my gosh. Is he—”

“He’ll be fine. He says he’s here to work on Grandfather’s biography. Do you know anything about that?”

“Sure.” Tess paged through her wedding notebook, which was stuffed with lists and clippings of flowers, food and decor.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this project?” With a twinge of irritation, Isabel studied her sister. In one short year, they’d grown close, though at times there were moments of tension. Like now. In some areas, they were still finding their way.

“We just got word yesterday that Mac’s available.”

Mac. Like the truck.

“I would have told you, but it’s been a whirlwind around here, and you’ve had enough on your plate, helping me with the wedding and getting the place ready for the cooking school. The plan came together really fast. Mac wasn’t available, and suddenly he was, so I jumped at the chance. Magnus’s story begs to be written, and Cormac O’Neill is the perfect one to do it.”

“You should have checked with me.”

“You’re right. Look, if having him here is going to be a problem, we can find someplace else for him. He could stay at Dominic’s.”

“Your fiancé doesn’t need a houseguest. He’s already got half of Southern Italy coming for the wedding. It’s fine for this guy to stay for a while. Lord knows, we’ve got nothing but room.” She looked around the kitchen, a big bright space where she’d grown up learning to cook at her grandmother’s side. “That’s not what I’m worried about. Does Grandfather want his life story out there for all the world to know?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? But he wants it done right, and that’s where Mac comes in.” Tess unceremoniously licked the crumbs from her plate. “Holy cow, that’s delicious. The workmen are never going to leave. You keep feeding them like this, and they’ll perform miracles. Can we have this for the wedding breakfast? God, I’m obsessed, aren’t I?”

“You’re the bride. You are supposed to be obsessed with your wedding.”

“Okay, but you get to tell me if I’m unbearable.”

Isabel was excited for Tess and Dominic and his kids, but sometimes, when she lay awake at night, she felt an unbidden curl of envy. Tess made love look easy, while Isabel hadn’t had a date in years. She knew she needed to take down her walls, but how did someone do that?

She batted away the thought. “Don’t try to change the subject. Cormac O’Neill.”

“You’re going to be glad he’s the one to document Magnus’s life. Our grandfather has a unique story. An important one. It’s not just family pride, Iz. He was a key player in the Danish Resistance. There were eight thousand Jews in Denmark during the German occupation, and Magnus’s group helped rescue seventy-five hundred of them. It’s a rare bright spot in the middle of the darkest of times. Most of all, it’s something Magnus wants.”

Isabel tucked a damp stray curl behind her ear and looked out the window. From one side of the kitchen, she could see the rows of trees, some of the stock decades old. The blossoms of springtime were flurrying down as the new fruit emerged, a tangible sign of renewal. She loved Bella Vista, loved the rhythm of the seasons. She was lucky to be a part of it.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Grandfather did say that.” Neither sister stated the obvious—that their grandfather wasn’t getting any younger. “So tell me about this guy.”

“He’s written award-winning nonfiction,” Tess said. “He’s won all kinds of literary prizes. He already has a publisher on board—assuming the project gets done. Anyway, the important thing is, he’s here with us now, and I think he’ll be perfect for Magnus.”

“Where is he going to stay?” Isabel asked.

“I thought we’d put him in Erik’s room.”

Erik—their father. He had died before either of them was born, leaving their separate mothers both pregnant and alone, unaware of each other. Over the past year, Isabel and Tess had spent hours speculating about the situation, but frustratingly, had never been able to figure out what had driven Erik to do the things he’d done.

“Why Erik’s room?” asked Isabel.

“Because it’s available, and he doesn’t need anything fancy. I thought Erik’s room would be a good choice. The history, you know? If he’s going to do a thorough job, Mac needs to be wrapped into the family.”

The idea made Isabel distinctly uncomfortable. “Suppose we don’t want to wrap him into the family?”

“Our grandfather wants it. I swear, it’ll be fine. Just fine.” Tess put her dishes in the sink, then poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip. She never seemed to be completely still, physically or mentally. She was always thinking, planning, doing. She had the kind of energy that made caffeine jumpy. “I’m really sorry, Iz. Don’t be mad, okay?”