by Susan Wiggs
“Tess and I met only recently. Did she explain that to you?”
“She said neither of you knew about the other when you were growing up.”
“We connected with each other when she came here a year ago, and she changed everyone’s lives.”
“Seems like Bella Vista—and you and your granddad—changed her life.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What a nice thing to say.”
“Sometimes the truth is nice. A lot of the time, actually.” He moved the wooden chairs out of the pathway. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for losing your colony of bees?”
“Never,” she said.
“That’s harsh.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s me. A harsh woman.”
“My favorite kind.”
“Really?”
He gave her a long, considering look. Then he said, “We’ll see.”
“How’s your knee?” she asked suddenly. “Are you up for a short walk?”
“With you? Hell, yes.”
She turned away quickly, pretending not to be flattered by his enthusiasm. “We can go to the top of that hill with the big oak tree. There’s something up there that might give you some insights about my grandfather...and me. You might find it kind of grim, but it’s part of the story.”
“I can handle grim,” he said simply.
Though tempted to ask him about the grim things he could handle, she’d save those questions for another day. She led the way up the slope, stepping over the ankle-high grass in the meadow, covered in budding lupine.
“It’s the family plot,” she said when they arrived. The rectangular area was west-facing, bathed in afternoon light and surrounded by a wrought iron fence. There were three simple headstones of weathered rock. Oscar Navarro, the caretaker, kept the grass mowed, though wildflowers were left to bloom around the stones—egg-yolk-yellow California poppy, purple sage and tiny delicate wild iris. Not far away was a spreading California oak, its long branches creating a broad shaded area. “See what I mean?” she asked. “Grim.”
“It feels peaceful here,” he said. “A resting place. And it’s sad, yeah.” He regarded the carved stones. “Your grandmother Eva, your mother, Francesca, and your father, Erik.”
“The family plot,” she said. “It doesn’t really make me sad anymore. I don’t associate this spot with the people I’ve lost.”
“Still...Isabel, I’m sorry. Real sorry.”
“Thank you. I never knew either of my parents, but my grandmother, Bubbie...” Even now she couldn’t find the words to express how much she missed her. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could still feel Bubbie’s hand expertly brushing and braiding her hair while singing a soft song in Yiddish about a cherry tree.
“You want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know. When Tess first told me about this project, just yesterday, in fact, I didn’t want to talk about anything.”
“But now...?”
“It seems like something my grandfather wants. But his story is entwined with my own...” She bent and picked a sprig of sage, inhaling the savory scent of it.
“Then how about you tell me. Make me understand why you don’t want me here, asking personal questions about your grandfather, your family.”
His frank request startled her, yet oddly enough, she didn’t feel defensive. She chewed her lip, wondering if she could possibly trust him.
He regarded her thoughtfully, then lifted a hand, palm out. “Go ahead. I’m not here to pass judgment. Swear.”
She couldn’t tell if his reassuring manner was genuine, or a journalist’s trick. Please be genuine, she thought. “As I said, it’s a bit complicated. Tess and I are half sisters. We were born on the same day.”
“That’s cool. But how is sharing a birthday a complication for the two of you?”
“Not just the same day.” She took a breath, cut her gaze away from him. “The same year. To different mothers who had no idea the other one existed. That’s why we grew up apart. My grandparents raised me here at Bella Vista, and Tess and her mother lived all over the place, in big cities, mostly.”
He folded his arms across his chest, and she watched him process the information. “Oh. Well. Unusual circumstances make for a good story, anyway.”
“We’re not just a ‘story,’” she said, bridling.
“I get that,” he said. “But I still don’t see why it’s a problem for you. Nothing you’ve told me is going to reflect badly on you. Or your grandfather. Your dad...maybe.”
The tension she’d been holding inside unspooled just a little. Sometimes, when people heard about the unorthodox situation, they acted as if Tess and Isabel were somehow defective, having a rogue of a father who’d been careless enough to get two women pregnant, and then get himself killed in a mysterious car wreck.
Mac studied Erik’s name, carved on the headstone, with a phrase:
Erik Karl Johansen, beloved son. Measure his life not by its length but by the depth of the joy he brought us. He jumped into life and never touched bottom. We will never laugh the same again.
“Our father was a bit of a rogue,” Isabel said. “More than a bit. Sometimes I wonder what he might say in his defense. ‘He jumped into life and never touched bottom,’” she read from the headstone. “I once asked Grandfather what he meant by that, but all he ever said was that Erik had a huge appetite for life.”
“He gave the world two daughters. I can’t imagine your grandfather would have any regrets about you and Tess. And after all this time, the fact that your dad was banging two women doesn’t seem like much of an issue.”
Had he really said banging? How very refined of him. “Has Tess told you anything else about Erik?”
“Nope. Something tells me your sister is preoccupied with other things these days.”
“The wedding. I love that she’s having so much fun with it.”
“I never took her for the marrying type.”
“Really?”
“She was such a go-getter. Always seemed married to her career.”
“That was what she was like when I first met her, too,” Isabel agreed. “Now she’s going to be a wife and a stepmother, and probably a mother one day. I suppose it just goes to show you—love can change everything.”
“Very nice,” he said. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”
“No, just a keen observer.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “So about Erik—our father. One thing you’re bound to find out from Magnus is that my grandmother, Eva—Bubbie—was not Erik’s birth mother.”
“He was adopted?”
“Yes. Grandfather is very open about it—lately. But for the longest time, no one knew.” Isabel took a breath, then said in a rush, “Grandfather was his birth father.”
“Oh. So he was—”
“Please don’t say ‘banging’ again,” she said. “He will have to be the one to explain, and you’ll have to figure out how it fits into the story you’re writing. Erik’s birth mother was a woman named Annelise Winther.”
Mac said nothing, just stood there, his arms still crossed. She couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in a white T-shirt and jeans, his coloring deepened by the sunset. Finally, he asked, “Is she still living?”
“Yes. She lives in San Francisco.”
“Do you know her?”
“Thanks to Tess, I do now. Annelise is another survivor from the war years in Denmark,” Isabel explained. “She and my grandfather knew each other during the war. She’s actually...kind of wonderful. I’m hoping to get to know her better.”
“So you’re saying this woman had a baby, and Magnus and Eva raised him.”
“They did. We figured it out last year as we were going through old records and learned Bubbie could never have
children. It was all a huge secret at the time.”
“That sort of thing was a bigger deal back then.”
“True. Now Grandfather wants it all out on the table, for my sake, and for Tess. You’re going to have to ask him what sort of arrangements they made in order to pull it off, because it seems they were very careful. Even the Navarros—they’ve lived and worked at Bella Vista for decades—claim they never knew.”
“And let me guess. Tess had a hand in figuring all this out.”
She nodded, feeling a flicker of surprise—at herself. She was giving up information like a singing canary. There was something about the intent way he listened that made her want to talk. Another reporter’s trick? Or was he actually a good listener? A rare trait in a guy.
“Tess is very good at research,” she continued. “In all the mountains of old family papers and records, she came across a medical file from the 1960s. From that, we figured out that Eva could never have children.” Isabel’s heart filled with sympathy for her lost grandmother. She could too-easily picture Bubbie as a hopeful young wife, getting the news that she had uterine cancer and needed a hysterectomy. In one cruel moment, the news would have taken away any dreams she’d had of having babies of her own.
“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 bu
mp. 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.
“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.
