The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2

by Susan Wiggs

  Isabel fluffed out the hem of her skirt. “I got a big grease stain on this.”

  “Buy a new one. Girls like shopping for clothes.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Isabel did love shopping—when she had the time. She was already planning a trip to Angelica Delica, her favorite boutique in town. She still hadn’t figured out what to wear for Tess’s wedding. Tess didn’t want the bridesmaids to wear matching dresses. Instead, she asked them all to find a dress they loved and shoes that made them want to dance.

  “What’s that smile?” he asked her.

  “What smile?”

  “The one I don’t see enough of.”

  “I smile all the time,” she objected. Didn’t she? Now she wasn’t so sure. Mac O’Neill noticed things. She wasn’t certain whether it was the journalist in him, or if he was simply observant. Or even if, for some reason, he was particularly interested in observing her.

  “I was thinking about all the dress shopping I get to do. I have to find a maid of honor dress for Tess’s wedding. And something to wear for the grand opening of the cooking school.” Feeling slightly discomfited, she walked over to a sign that read Angel Peak, Elev. 2212 Feet. “Come check out the view from here. We came on a good day. No coastal mist.”

  “Wow,” he said, coming up behind her. “Damn, that’s awesome.”

  She breathed deeply of the crisp, clear air. To the west, the Pacific Ocean was rimmed by rocky arches and rugged sea cliffs. To the east, the green-clad Archangel valley stretched toward the distant, even more dramatic Sonoma valley. The alluvial plains were flanked by forested hills and abundant farmlands. “Jack London country,” she said, gesturing to the north toward the state park that bore the writer’s name. “One of my favorite wilderness areas.”

  “One of my favorite writers.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ve probably read most of his work. He was an incredible stylist and storyteller. How about you?”

  “I was born and raised right here in the valley, so of course I’m a fan. Every high school student around here spends a semester reading Jack London. I read The Call of the Wild at an impressionable age. After that, I never looked at a dog the same way. And then there was Love of Life, you know, the one about the guy whose partner abandoned him in the Yukon.”

  “I read that one in high school, too.”

  “I had to write an essay about the survival instinct, and I wrote about my grandmother. I asked her how she survived a concentration camp, and she had no answer. ‘You go on,’ she told me. ‘You just go on.’” Isabel looked at Mac. “I think I understood her better after reading the story.”

  “There are lots of writers I like, but reading Jack London made me want to be a writer.”

  “Seriously?”

  “When I was a kid, I knew I wanted to write, but I didn’t want to live like a writer, buried in a library or chained to a computer. I wanted to be more like Jack London—traveling, having adventures, living and then writing, not the other way around.”

  “And is that what you do?”

  “When I can. Writing hasn’t always paid the bills. I’ve had a lot of other gigs.”

  “Like what?”

  “Scooter mechanic, for one.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Guiseppe’s Piaggio Works in Little Italy, all through college. The training has come in handy more than once.”

  Isabel found herself wanting to hear about his college days at Columbia and all his other travels, as well. Why did he have to be so darned interesting? It was very distracting.

  “Well,” she said, “you should definitely go check out Jack London State Historic Park while you’re here. Same goes for the beaches—they are not to be missed.”

  “I never met a beach I didn’t like.”

  She nodded, shading her eyes. “From here, it looks as if the coast is all rough headlands, but there are a lot of secluded coves, as well.”

  “Do you have a favorite beach?”

  “Definitely. It’s called Shell Beach.” That was where her favorite picture of Erik had been taken. Whenever she went there, she would stand in the same spot for a few minutes, thinking of him.

  “You should take me there. And to the state park, too.”

  “You’re a big boy. I’ll give you a map.”

  “That’s no fun. It wouldn’t kill you to take a day off now and then and show me around.”

  “I am showing you around. How is this not showing you around? Between the wedding and the cooking school, I can’t afford to take a whole day off. In fact, we should be getting back....”

  “Not so fast. Trust me, the world won’t come to an end because you’re taking a couple of hours away from work.”

  He had a point. And the idea of showing him around this beautiful, beloved place had a powerful appeal. She found herself wanting to see his face as he walked along the lake created by Jack London. She wanted Mac to stand on the shore with her and watch the glassy turquoise waves shattering on the rocks at some out-of-the-way beach, the sea thundering like a small tempest into the gouged-out caves along the shore. She could easily picture the two of them walking together, wrapped against the wind....

  She cleared her throat and bent to pick up a stray gum wrapper, carrying it to the lone trash barrel in the parking area. “When I was in high school, my friends and I used to come up here.”

  “And what did you do?” he asked.

  “Kid stuff. We were always climbing trees, building forts, listening to music, drinking beer stolen from our parents’ fridges, smoking weed, making out....”

  “Who’d you make out with?”

  She flushed from the memories. “I was too bashful.”

  “Even with the weed?”

  “It wasn’t my thing. I never saw much action in the making-out department. But I dreamed.” She sighed, an old nostalgic feeling flowing through her. Those had been times of innocence, times when she put no limits on herself. “Sometimes I think that first storm you feel, that first real crush, is the greatest emotional rush there is. You spend the rest of your life trying to find that feeling again. And of course, you never do.”

  “You find something better. If you’re lucky,” he added.

  She wondered if that was how he felt about his wife. “Have you ever been that lucky?” she asked, hoping he’d enlighten her.

  “Nope. Still waiting.”

  The reply shocked her. He’d been married. Discomfited, she pivoted to face away from him.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “Gosh, no. If I ever got that lucky, I wouldn’t be single.”

  “So tell me about your first crush.”

  Even now, fifteen years after the fact, the memory brought a blush to her cheeks. “Homer Kelly, ninth grade,” she admitted, turning back. “He had shaggy hair and soulful eyes of the lightest blue, and he played the drums with his shirt off. I was completely lost. I went to bed every night thinking of him and wishing he’d ask me out. I sat behind him in civics class, and I used to stare at his shoulders and write terrible poetry about him.” Even now, she could picture his slender torso, the curl of sandy hair at the nape of his neck. “And he didn’t know I was alive.”

  “You never told him?”

  “Not in words. I baked for him. Sometimes I think I owe all my culinary skills to that boy. I perfected my butter croissants and blueberry turnovers in the hopes of getting his attention.”

  “Did it work? I know guys who would marry you for your croissants alone.”

  “Not Homer Kelly. He wolfed down my baked goods, but he never asked me out.”

  “What an idiot. He’s probably a loser now, stuck in a dead-end job with a wife who never makes dinner, and kids who give him sass.”

  “He plays with J
am Session.”

  “Oh. But I bet he’s an asshole. A fat one.”

  “He still plays with his shirt off.” She shrugged. “It never would have worked out, anyway. He was way too cool for me. Almost as cool as you.”

  “You think I’m cool?” He gave a little laugh. “I’m flattered. But what makes you think I’m cool?”

  “I can just picture you as that guy in high school. The heartbreaker, the one with all the girls after him.” It was easy—and far too entertaining—to imagine a younger Cormac O’Neill, not as rough and muscular as he was now, but still with that boyish smile and those dancing eyes.

  “Heartbreaker? Not in my wildest dreams,” he said. “My parents had a different assignment every few years, so I was always the new kid. Never really fit in. I’d just be getting comfortable in the new school, and we’d up and move again.”

  “And your first crush?”

  “Hell, yeah, I had crushes.”

  “And? Come on, I told you about mine.”

  “Okay, ninth grade. We had a summer in D.C., lived near Embassy Row in Georgetown. Her name was Linda Henselman, and she was the star player on the girls’ lacrosse team. I thought I was dreaming when she said she’d go out with me. I’d never even kissed a girl yet. I sweated bullets through the whole date—Groundhog Day.”

  “I love that movie,” she said. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Can’t remember a single thing about it, because I kept trying to figure out how to get my arm around her. She had the biggest...uh, damn, she was cute. When I went to kiss her good-night on her front porch, it was a disaster.”

  “Your first kiss was a disaster?” Isabel pictured entangled braces, bumping noses, the usual awkwardness.

  “Yeah, I was so blown away that I stepped back...right off the porch into a hawthorn bush.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Ouch is right. Don’t worry, though. I’ve been practicing.”

  “Practicing what?”

  “Kissing. Wanna check it out?” He made a smooching sound.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Obnoxious, she thought. He really was the most obnoxious guy. She had no business wanting to check it out, as he so gracefully put it. Despite his long list of professional credentials, he had the maturity level of a seventh grader. “That’s the most personal thing you’ve ever said about yourself.”

  “This from a woman who watched me whip off my pants the first time we met.”

  “Something else I’ve noticed about you is that you make a joke or sarcastic remark when things get too personal. I wonder why that is.”

  “Oh, so now you’re psychoanalyzing me.”

  “No, just making an observation. You’re free to tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Look, I’m just not that interesting. I’m no Jack London, that’s for sure.”

  She had an urge to confess that everything about him was interesting to her, that she wanted to hear more about kissing Linda Henselman and being a scooter mechanic. That when she was with him, she didn’t feel afraid—yes, she wanted to tell him that, but then he’d wonder why she didn’t like being alone with guys, why she was so guarded. At Andaluz, she had come close to explaining herself to him. Perhaps she would one day.

  “Why not let me be the judge of how interesting you are?” she asked.

  “Fine. I’m an open book.” He spread his arms wide.

  “Very funny.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Tess told me you were married, and that your wife passed away.” She got it all out in a rush, as if the words had been waiting to escape.

  His expression was completely neutral. The mountain breeze lifted his dark blond hair. “That’s not a question.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” She watched his face. Square-jawed, impassive. He gave away nothing.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’d like to hear more about her. That is, if it’s not too painful to speak of it.”

  “No more painful than not speaking of it.”

  “All right, then...?” She waited.

  “Why, Miss Johansen, are you taking a personal interest in me?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, I am, so sue me.” She softened her tone. “Seriously, I want to know.”

  His jaw tightened visibly. He kept silent, staring at the ground, holding his arms crossed.

  “Would this have anything to do with your nightmares?”

  He dropped his arms to his sides. “It is my nightmare. Her name was Yasmin Nejem. I met her on assignment in Turkmenistan—heard of it?”

  “Barely,” she admitted. “Something about the Gates of Hell?”

  “That’s all most westerners know about Turkmenistan. It’s famous for having a crater of burning natural gas. The fire started when the Soviets caused a drilling accident fifty years ago, and it’s been burning ever since.” He rested his hands on his hips and looked at her. “I used to like telling people I met my wife at the Gates of Hell. After she was killed, it wasn’t funny anymore.”

  “Mac, if you really don’t want to talk about it—”

  “I can talk, or I can keep silent—it won’t change what happened.”

  Isabel nodded, hearing the echo of Annelise’s wisdom in his words.

  “Her father was a petroleum engineer and the subject of the article I was writing, and she was working for an NGO. There was a radical uprising, and we had to get the hell out. I, uh...okay, I married her because it was the only way I could think of to get both her and her father out. We had to be family. I figured there wouldn’t be a problem with the evacuation since we were married, but she and her father were detained and I was deported. I never saw her again. So when you say my wife passed away, it sounds like she went on some gentle voyage. The truth is, she had her throat slit while trying to bribe her way out of detention.”

  Isabel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. “I’m sorry, Mac. So sorry.”

  He stuck his thumbs in the back pockets of his shorts and turned to look out at the long blue horizon. “It was a long time ago. But it still haunts me, every day.”

  “You must have really loved her.”

  “News flash. I failed her.”

  No wonder he suffered from night panics. No wonder he didn’t seem eager to give his heart to anyone else. His heart was frozen in time, irrevocably bound to a person he could never be with again. Isabel wondered what he really wanted with her, why he kept coming on to her. Typical guy, she told herself, with a guy’s urges. And a frozen heart.

  “Things that happened long ago make their mark, don’t they?” she said. When he didn’t answer, she added, “Thank you for telling me.”

  “All you had to do was ask.” He flashed an ironic smile. “And here I thought I was going to cheer you up with a scooter ride.”

  “You did,” she said. “I mean, you are. Oh, my gosh, I don’t mean that. It’s horrible, what happened to your wife and it didn’t cheer me up one bit. I would never think—”

  “Shh.” He pressed his thumb softly against her lips. “I get it, Isabel. I do.”

  His gentle touch both surprised and tantalized her. Flustered by her reaction, she moved away from him.

  “Listen,” he said, “I was living a different life back then. I was a different person. It’s true that I’ll carry that with me forever, but I moved ahead with my life.”

  “Did you? Honestly?”

  “It wasn’t as easy as I’m making it sound, but, yeah. Isabel, we’re here now, and that’s all we have, and just because these shitty things happened in the past... It’s no reason to ignore what’s right in front of us.”

  “And that is...?” She felt the color flare in her cheeks.

  He grinned, his gaze touching
her like a physical caress. “You know. We both know.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Why should we? We’re single, we’re attracted to each other—”

  “And we’ll end up making a mess of things, and what’s the point of that?” she demanded.

  He looked as if he wanted to say more, but then he simply turned away. He took a few pictures of the area, then slid the phone into his pocket. “We’ve still got half a tank in this thing. Show me something else.”

  “We should get back. We’ve both got work to do.”

  “This is work,” he said. “It’s research.”

  “That’s all I am to you,” she said. “Research.”

  “Yep, that’s all. One thing’s for sure, after finding this scooter, I want to know more about your mother.”

  “For my grandfather’s story?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe for you.”

  Something passed between them, a fleeting feeling, undeniably intense. For a crazy moment, she felt like touching him, perhaps giving him a hug. Then she smiled as an idea entered her mind. “There’s something on the way back down the mountain. It’s a little side trip off the main road. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Great,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  She felt more natural with him now, and less self-conscious as she circled her arms around his waist. About halfway down the mountain, where the oak forest grew thick, she pointed out an unmarked turn-off that led to a rugged trail. “We’ll have to hike in, but it’ll only take about five minutes.” As she led the way along the wooded path, she tried to remember the last time she’d come here. Or the last time she’d done anything but devote her day to the cooking school and to Tess’s wedding. She couldn’t remember.

  The path intersected with a rushing stream and then connected with a rock-rimmed spring. “It’s called Mystic Creek Springs. Not many people know about it,” she said. “Only the locals.”

  “Pretty,” he said. “I like the natural pool.”

  “You’re going to like it even more when you try the water.”

  He bent and scooped his hand into the crystal clear water, and when he looked up at her, his grin was wreathed in wonder. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”