The Beekeeper's Ball

by Susan Wiggs

  “I knew you’d like my machine shop. In my younger days, I would be banished here for my nightly pipe.”

  “These days, it’s called a man cave.”

  “It was once a barn, which accounts for the height of the rafters. My foreman runs the place. We don’t do as much work here as we used to. When I came here right after the war, the nearest mechanic was in Petaluma. We learned to fix everything on our own or do without. Back in Denmark, I developed an aptitude for mechanical things.”

  Mac made a mental note to ask about that later.

  “I’ve been accused of hoarding by my late wife, and lately by my granddaughters,” Magnus said. “The habit is hard to break. During the war, I had little more than a knapsack filled with a few keepsakes and scavenged possessions. Once I settled here, I found it hard to let anything go. The habit has served me well enough. I’ve always got the right tool for the job.”

  Mac spent a long time poking through the dusty, oily wonders in the shop. There were tree shakers, catchalls and trailers, tractors and mowers in different sizes, conveyer carts and bin carriers, parts and supplies old and new.

  Then, in an out-of-the-way, cluttered corner that looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in a long time, he spotted a big shape shrouded in a dusty padded canvas tarp. “What’s that back there?”

  Magnus hesitated. He removed his glasses and polished the lenses on his shirttail, then put them back on. “Something I haven’t thought about in decades. If you can make your way back to that corner, you’re welcome to take a look.”

  Mac cleared a path between the crammed shelves and repairs-in-progress. A wall calendar from 1984 gave him a clue that Magnus hadn’t exaggerated about the decades. He lifted a corner of the tarp, folding it back to reveal an ancient scooter. “This is a Vespa,” he said, intrigued.

  “Indeed, it is. The scooter belonged to Francesca—my son Erik’s wife.”

  “Isabel’s mother, right?”

  “Yes. Francesca was the loveliest girl you can imagine.”

  Mac was silent, checking out the scooter from stem to stern. Judging by the shape, the placement of the headlamp and some other details, it was a model from the fifties. “This is cool. I worked at a Piaggio shop in New York when I was in school, so I know a bit about them. Do you know where it came from?”

  “She had it shipped from Italy. She was born and raised in a little hill town there, and when she met Erik, she came to America to marry him—against her family’s wishes.”

  “Why against their wishes?”

  He shrugged. “They must have been old-fashioned, very traditional Catholics. Erik’s mother—my Eva—was a Jew. Francesca spoke very little of the break with her family. She never received letters or calls from anyone, so we didn’t pry. But she did say the scooter had belonged to her father. That would account for it being so old. It ran quite well, though, and Francesca kept it in good repair. She used to drive it to the farmer’s market and come home with the wicker panniers filled with produce.”

  An appealing mental picture popped into Mac’s head—a young woman with bare suntanned legs and long hair, puttering into town on the scooter. In his mind’s eye, the woman looked just like Isabel.

  “And you’ve kept it all this time,” he said to Magnus.

  “I always intended to keep it running, and to eventually give it to Isabel. Eva wouldn’t allow it, though. She claimed it was too dangerous.”

  In light of what had happened to Erik, that was understandable, Mac thought.

  “Eva and I never would have survived the loss of Erik and then his wife, two days after his death, if it hadn’t been for Isabel. She became our reason for living.” Magnus touched the handlebar of the scooter, pressing the button, which of course made no sound. “These days, I find myself wondering if I protected Isabel from too much.”

  Mac reflected on his rough-and-tumble childhood with his brothers, being moved all over the globe as their parents’ assignments changed. He’d enjoyed a decided lack of supervision, which sometimes led to trouble.

  “I brought her up as best I could,” Magnus said. “I gave her love, but did I teach her to live? No, she will have to discover how to do that on her own. She has found a measure of happiness here at Bella Vista. But she is not at home in the world. I was too preoccupied with protecting her from it.”

  Mac brushed the dust off the leather seat of the scooter. “I’m sure you did a great job,” he said. “The rest is up to her. It’s never too late to make a change.”

  * * *

  As evening gathered in a lavish orange sweep across the orchard, Mac spread his handwritten and typed notes on one of the long tables in the central courtyard. It was impossible to stay inside in weather like this. He wasn’t used to the almost unreal perfection of the climate here, the palpable sweetness of the air, the utter quiet disturbed only by the songbirds and sighing breezes. He was more accustomed to the grit and smog of cities, the hot air filled with the sounds of chugging engines, honking horns, shouts and sirens. Even the rural areas he’d seen lacked the special silence of Bella Vista. The places he’d visited, many of them in developing nations, were filled with the grind of generators, the sounds of squabbling families and barking dogs—day and night.

  In the initial stages of any project, he always reminded himself to approach the story with a beginner’s mind. Despite the insistence of English teachers through the ages, he never came up with a theme first. Who the hell knew what the theme was until you did the work? Instead, he organized his thoughts around a timeline, knowing that if he did the hard, honest work of getting the narrative down, word by word, the real story would emerge.

  He was already seeing glimmers and flashes of Magnus Johansen’s theme—endurance and commitment, a habit of holding on to things, like that scooter, which was a classic diamond in the rough if Mac had ever seen one. The more he talked with the old man, the closer he would come to the essence of all that had transpired.

  “This is the contractor’s work table,” said Isabel, crossing the patio toward him. Charlie, the German shepherd, trotted at her side, and the two cats slipped along in her shadow.

  “Uh-huh,” said Mac. “Everyone’s gone for the day. I didn’t figure they’d mind.”

  She pursed her lips in that way she had, making annoyance look sexy. “If you need more space to work, there’s a foreman’s office down there.” She gestured at a distant building down by the main road.

  “I don’t. I just like being outside. Look where you live. Jesus, it’s a piece of heaven.” The wildflowers in the surrounding fields had closed their petals for the night, and an owl swooped across the meadow, already on the hunt.

  “You think so?”

  “Hell, yeah. You’ve got apple orchards and fresh air, a doting grandfather, a smart dog and two unusual cats that follow you around. Oh, and honeybees, let’s not forget that. If you suddenly burst into song, then I’ll know I’m watching a Disney movie.”

  Her pursed lips softened into a smile that became a small laugh. “No danger of that. I never sing where someone might hear me. But thank you for thinking my dog is smart and that Chips and Lilac are unusual. I’m sure they’d take that as a high compliment.”

  “You’re lucky to live here.”

  “I think so.” She stood looking out at the landscape and buildings silhouetted against the sky. “That barn over there—when I was about eight years old, I made a pair of wings out of cardboard and duct tape and jumped from the hayloft, convinced I could fly.”

  “Bet that didn’t end well.”

  “I landed in a pile of loose straw. Once they figured out I wasn’t hurt, there was hell to pay. That barn is now called the Ballroom. It’s our event space for weddings, gatherings, farm-to-table dinners, reunions.... Tess’s wedding is the first event.”

  “You think big,” he sai
d. “I like that.”

  Her smile widened, and she approached the table. “When the project is finished, I think this part of the garden might be a favorite gathering place for the guests. At the bottom of the stone stairway, we’re building an outdoor shower.”

  “Everybody loves an outdoor shower. But you’re missing a key item.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she scanned the area again, and then scowled at him. “Missing what?”

  “The swimming pool.”

  “But there’s not—”

  “I noticed. A glaring omission. You need one.”

  Her frown turned to worry. “A pool? That wasn’t in the plan...”

  “Kidding,” he said. “Sort of. Who doesn’t like a swimming pool?”

  “Darn it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Now I totally want one.”

  “Then you should have one.”

  “I like the way you think. A swimming pool. Sure, what’s another hundred grand?”

  “Wouldn’t know. I never saw the first hundred grand.” What would he do with a sudden fortune? Probably what she was doing, building a dream. Except his dream looked a lot different from hers. She was dug in here for good. He couldn’t imagine staying in one place for more than five minutes, let alone his whole life.

  “I feel very fortunate, being able to create the cooking school. I imagine Grandfather told you Bella Vista was on the brink of foreclosure, until Tess came along and worked her magic. Except it wasn’t magic. It was just knowing what to look for, and where to look.”

  “Yeah, your granddad says it’s his favorite part of the story.”

  “It was amazing to suddenly find myself without any financial worries,” she said. “Sometimes I can’t believe it’s true.”

  “It must have changed your life.”

  “Well, yes and no. I’ve never wanted more than I have—friends and family, Bella Vista, my cooking.”

  “You didn’t run out and buy a fancy car or boat?”

  “Is that what you’d do?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, probably.”

  “You would not.”

  “Hard to say. I’ve never found myself in your position. Come on, tell me how you spoiled yourself.”

  “I had a brief flirtation with a pair of Hey Lady shoes, but I’m much too practical for four-inch heels. Besides, I’ve always been focused on practical matters. Something...respectful, to honor my grandparents’ heritage.”

  “That’s cool. I still think you should get the shoes, though. Not to mention the pool.”

  She took out her smartphone and tapped the screen. “A swimming pool. I can’t believe no one suggested it.”

  “The landscape designer didn’t propose it?”

  “No, and it’s a wonderful idea. I’m adding one to my wish list.”

  “You have a wish list?”

  She glanced up, and the soft smile on her face did funny things to his insides. “Sure. Doesn’t everybody? Don’t you?”

  “No. Not on my phone, anyway.”

  “But you wish for things, right? You hope and plan?”

  “Things? You mean like a Leica camera, or my favorite nail clippers the TSA confiscated at the airport?”

  “Very funny. Anything.”

  “Lady, the things I wish for can’t be provided by a contractor with hairy armpits.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

  Bingo. “What else is on your list?” He took the phone from her hand.

  “Hey, give that back.” She grabbed for it, but he held it out of the way, teasing.

  “You really do have a list,” he said, glancing at the screen. “That’s cool.”

  “It’s none of your business. Give it back.”

  “Let’s see—swimming pool, wood-fire pizza oven, solar panels for charging the electric Tesla, endowment for the nonprofit foundation? For what?”

  “That’s also none of your business, but it’s no secret. I’m setting up a scholarship program so aspiring culinary students can study here at no cost.”

  “Nice. I like that.” He scrolled down the screen, all the way to the bottom. “Everything on here is for the cooking school. Don’t you want, like, Botox or designer earrings?”

  “Thank you for trivializing me. Are you saying I need Botox?”

  “I heard it works on frowns.”

  “Hey—”

  “Ravello,” he read from the screen. “As in Ravello, Italy?”

  She put her hands on her hips and looked into the distance. “It’s where my mother was born.”

  “How come it’s the last thing on your list?”

  “Because in case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy getting the cooking school ready and planning my sister’s wedding. I barely have time to get a haircut, let alone travel to Italy.”

  “Why would you need a haircut? Your hair is gorgeous.” She was rooted firmly in the soil of Bella Vista. The wedding, the cooking school, creating a vibrant community at the estate—this was her future, and it was all happening right here.

  She blushed—blushed—and touched her long, thick braid. “Bees tend to get tangled in long hair.”

  “You just hired a beekeeper. So you don’t need to worry about the bees anymore.”

  “I like dealing with bees.”

  His welts still itched, days later. “Then what is she here for?” He gestured at the distant slope where the hives were set amid the grass and milkweed. It was twilight, the sky a rainbow arch of deep pink and purple, the beekeeper a slender black silhouette as she moved among the hives. “She didn’t have much to say to me this morning. In fact, she seems to have that raging-tattooed-chick thing going on.”

  “Do raging tattooed chicks scare you?”

  “No more than angry bees.”

  The girl was using a smoker to calm the bees, and against the sky, the puffs of smoke from the funnel turned to pink wisps. “She’s splitting the hives. Mine are overpopulated, and that causes swarming. I’d take you over and show you, but I suspect you want to keep your distance from the bees.”

  “Good guess.”

  “Even though I just met Jamie, I have a good feeling about her. She needed a place to stay, and I offered her room and board at Bella Vista for as long as she needs it. I’m hoping she’s the perfect person to work the hives and take over the honey production.”

  “You’ve taken in two strays in the same week,” he commented. “Not to mention those cats of yours. Is this a regular habit with you?”

  She made a lingering study of him, and he liked the touch of her gaze. “Depends on the stray,” she said.

  “Got it. So, back to this list.” He consulted her phone again. “If Italy was on my list, you can bet it wouldn’t be at the bottom.”

  “You said you didn’t have a list.”

  “I don’t write stuff down. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a list,” he said, then deflected the topic back to her. “What’s Ravello like? I’ve been to the Amalfi coast, but haven’t made it up the cliffs to Ravello. I’ve heard good things.” All of a sudden, it was incredibly easy to picture the famous hill town with its cobblestone plazas, old men smoking in front of the farmacia, the pottery shops hanging out their wares, the smell of lemons everywhere. It was even easier to picture himself on a Vespa like the one Magnus had shown him in the machine shop, with Isabel behind him, that long hair streaming in the breeze. Yeah, he had a list. He carried it around in his head everywhere he went. Maybe he’d tell her about it one day.

  She set her hands on her hips and looked out at the distance. “I couldn’t tell you what it’s like. I’ve never been to Italy.”

  He was sure he hadn’t heard right. “Wait,
what? You’ve never been...?” Impossible. Italy was one of those places in the world everyone should visit. “Well, that’s just wrong. I have no idea how you can keep yourself from going, especially since there’s a family connection.”

  “Not much of one. It’s just a place my mother left, a long time ago. My grandmother told me she came to Archangel with my father after knowing him only six weeks. Her family rejected her because Erik wasn’t Catholic. No one from the Italian side of the family came to the wedding.” She sighed, and he had a crazy urge to kiss the sadness from her eyes.

  Her story was consistent with what Magnus had told him. “No accounting for the way people can be,” he said.

  She nodded. “Bubbie liked to think they would have reconciled after I was born, but with Francesca gone, I suppose it must have been too painful for them. When I was a girl, I used to wonder if my Italian relatives ever thought about me, if they might want to meet me one day. Maybe if my mother had lived, she might have reached out to them and reconnected.” She absently twirled a finger in a lock of her hair. “The answer to that is just...lost.”

  “You could reach out,” he suggested. “Nothing should stop you from going there whether you go in search of your family or not. Italy’s awesome. My God, the food, the people, the wine, the landscape... Damn. It’s magic. You have to go.”

  She led the way back to the house, walking quickly and purposefully. “I’m not much of a traveler. I don’t even have a passport.”

  “Seriously? Okay, now that needs to be on your list.” He quickly typed it into her phone.

  Pausing on the patio, she looked up at him with a scowl. “Since when are you in charge of my wish list?”

  “Since you said you wanted to go to Italy and you don’t have a freaking passport.”

  “Let’s let that be my problem, shall we?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a problem at all. Just get a damned passport.”

  She tossed her head, showing off that long, pretty braid. “You’re very exasperating.”

  “And you—”

  “What are you two bickering about?” Magnus walked over to them with a tray of small glasses. “Bickering is not a good pairing with port wine. This is an old vintage. Appropriate for our project, no?” He set down the tray and lifted one of the small, stemmed glasses. “Cheers. To a beautiful evening in springtime. To a remembrance of the past, and to a dream of the future.”