The Beekeeper's Ball

by Susan Wiggs

  Tucked in the back of the prayer book were a couple of old photos, the square kind with rounded corners. One showed a little girl with a lovely smile and eyes Isabel recognized from later photos of her mother—dressed like a tiny bride in a lace dress and veil. Her expression was one of pride and joy. She held the white leather missal in one hand, an ornate quill pen in the other, wielding it with an air of importance.

  We all start out that way, Isabel reflected. The girl in the picture had no idea she would grow up and ride a scooter, and snare the attention of an American student. She didn’t know her future held a tragic love affair and a painful death. Isabel realized then there was so much she had not asked her grandparents for fear of upsetting them. Had Francesca ever actually seen her, held her, spoken her name? Who had picked the name Isabel, anyway?

  Blinking away tears, she turned the picture over. On the back were the words prima comunione.

  “First communion,” Mac translated. “She was probably about seven years old there. That’s the traditional age for first communion.”

  “You speak Italian?”

  “Solo un po’,” he said.

  “Show-off.” She studied the other snapshot, this one showing the girl kneeling at a cushioned prie-dieu, her hands sweetly folded and braided with the rosary beads, a beatific smile on her face, her rosy cheeks shining. “Wow. I looked a lot like her when I was little. I would have killed for that communion get-up.”

  “I don’t think they had to kill for it,” he pointed out. “Just attend catechism.”

  “You know what I mean. Dressing like a bride is every little girl’s dream.”

  “Is it every big girl’s dream?”

  She shook her head. “That would be dressing like Jennifer Lawrence.”

  Further inspection of the drawers yielded a collection of handwritten cards and notes in a small portfolio bound with string. “Recipes,” she said with a rush of pleasure. “I’m going to draft you to help me translate these.”

  “Of course. Cool that your mother collected recipes.”

  There were a few postcards in Italian and English, which she set aside for later inspection. At the bottom was a crisp color photo taken with a good camera, perhaps a professional shot. The image took her breath away. It was a glossy eight-by-ten depicting a young woman in sunglasses, espadrille sandals and a skirt and top. She sat sidesaddle on the back of a scooter, her sun-browned arms looped around a handsome man wearing shorts and flip-flops, his head thrown back with laughter.

  “It’s my parents on the scooter,” she said softly. “They look so young. So happy.”

  “I don’t blame them. Riding around like that is a kick.” In the background was a row of cypress trees and a stone railing against a misty blue sky.

  She nodded. The caption on the back of the photo read “Ravello, 1981.” She looked up at Mac, who was watching her intently. This has been lost for decades.”

  “It never would have been found if you hadn’t decided to create the cooking school,” he said.

  “That’s true. I feel closer to them, somehow.” She felt her heart stumble then, finally getting a glimpse into the spirit of the woman who had died giving birth to her, and the man who had fathered her. They were vibrant, carefree, filled with joy.

  Isabel realized that she could finally feel her mother. She imagined the sound of Francesca’s laughter on the breeze. The picture gave her a glimpse into the hearts of her parents, and the feelings overwhelmed her. She couldn’t control the rush of tears then, though she gulped air to try to get a grip on herself.

  A tide of long-suppressed emotion rose through her, poignant and bittersweet. Mac put his arms around her and she melted against him, grateful for his solid strength and for his silence. He simply held her while she let it all out, and then he offered her a box of tissues from the nightstand.

  “Oh, my gosh,” she said. “I’m a mess.”

  “You’re fine,” he said, then peered at her while she blotted her face. “Right?”

  “Yes. I...it’s hard to put into words. I’ve always wished I could know my mother better, what she was like in person. And of course this isn’t the same, but it’s just incredible, seeing this picture, knowing my parents were together and that they loved each other, at least in this moment, they did.”

  “It’s easy to be in love when you’re riding around on a scooter in Italy,” he said.

  “Do you mean it’s hard, otherwise?”

  He regarded her steadily, then smiled. “Not when you find the right person.”

  It suddenly felt too warm in the room, and she went and turned down the thermostat. The air-conditioning sighed through the vents. “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Meltdown over. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. My Irish grandmother used to say a woman’s tears are the quenching of the soul.”

  She was surprised to hear such sentiment from him. “Really?”

  “No, but it sounds like something an Irish granny would say, right? Do you feel quenched?”

  “Smart aleck.” She took a deep breath and went back to inspecting the contents of the trunk. “The clothes are beautiful,” she said, holding up a chic sundress in a graphic print on textured cotton. “They look handmade, but very professional. I wonder if she was a seamstress. I should ask Grandfather if she sewed.” She took out a sleeveless blouse in butter-yellow, its details highlighted with hand stitching. “This is really nice,” she said, holding it up against her and turning to the old-fashioned cheval-glass dressing mirror in the corner. “I think this is the top she’s wearing in the scooter photo.”

  He held it next to her. “You’re right.”

  “And this skirt,” she added, taking out an A-line skirt in a small plaid print. “Very cool.”

  The last dress in the wardrobe was loosely wrapped in thin tissue paper that tore away at the slightest touch. Isabel was intrigued by this one, a cocktail dress in peach-colored silk, embellished with a line of crystal bugle beads around the neckline, a fitted bodice and flaring skirt. In the glow of the bedside lamp, the dress was luminous and shimmering with a life of its own. “Wow,” she said. “This is gorgeous. Seriously, gorgeous.”

  “I’m no expert, but yeah, it’s real pretty.”

  She laid it on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and inspected the tag. “Valentino Garavani. Oh, my gosh. Mac, that’s the designer Valentino.”

  “A big name in fashion?”

  “The biggest,” she said. “How on earth did my mother score a Valentino?” She held it up again, letting the luxurious silk slide through her fingers. The lining felt smooth and watery, the back zipper nearly invisible. “It’s amazing. A real couture dress. I should show this to Tess. She’s so smart about figuring out the value of treasures.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Mac.

  “What’s that?”

  “Wear it to her wedding.”

  “What? Oh, come on. I can’t—”

  “Why not?”

  “It would look funny on me. Or ridiculous.”

  “You said yourself it’s gorgeous.”

  “It probably wouldn’t fit.” She laid it on the bed and stepped back. The style was timeless, and in spite of herself, she felt drawn to the beautiful dress.

  “I bet it’d fit. You look just like your mother. You’re probably the same size.”

  “It would need to be cleaned and restored, not to mention alterations.”

  “How about this?” Mac suggested. “How about you quit trying to think up all the reasons it won’t work, and focus on why it will?”

  “You’re such a boy scout.”

  “Nope. I think that day at the hot springs, we established that I definitely am not.” Mac gestured at the garments. “All this stuff would look great on you.”


  “It’s not really my style. She seemed to like things that were more fitted, you know?”

  “What I know is that you have an amazing body and it shouldn’t be covered up.”

  Ouch. He was knew her too well. After she’d fled from culinary school, she’d wanted to hide herself away, and that included cloaking herself in a wardrobe of long, drapey clothes designed to cover everything. Mac was the first person who’d ever pointed that out to her. He seemed to know what she’d been avoiding for so long—that she needed to face her reasons for wanting to cover up.

  “You’re very observant,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah. I’ve made a lot of observations about you.” With that, he took her gently by the shoulders. Then he slid his hands behind her and lifted her hair away from the nape of her neck. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, “For instance, I’ve observed that you’re wearing too many clothes.” His breath was warm, his lips nearly touching her.

  She told herself to put a stop to this right now, to pull away and make a dignified exit, but she was riveted to the spot. Her breathing was shallow, her arms useless at her sides.

  “You wear them like armor,” he said. “You don’t need armor around me, Isabel. I’m not going to hurt you.” And with that, he unbuttoned her dress at the back and let it drop to the floor.

  Her skin tingled as she stood there in her camisole and panties, but to her amazement, she didn’t feel apprehensive or even awkward. She was too full of feelings far more elemental—she wanted his touch; she yearned for him to put his hands on her, to caress her. There was a wild sense of urgency she’d never felt before.

  But he didn’t touch her. Instead, he picked up the peach silk dress and unzipped it. “You’re going to try this on.”

  She practically groaned aloud in frustration. He’d been flirting with her for weeks, and finally she was ready to do something about it, but he was focused on the stupid couture dress. She instantly tried to think of an objection to trying it on, but discovered she was all out of ammunition. Truth be told, she wanted to know if it fit, and to see how it would feel to wear something that had once clothed her mother. It also occurred to her that she’d never worn an actual couture dress, had never even put one on.

  She smiled at him and lifted her arms over her head, and he carefully helped her put the dress on. The luxurious fabric felt substantial and expensive on her frame. It felt as if it might fit.

  She held her hair up out of the way as he closed the zipper, then he turned her in his arms, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “There. You’re Aubrey Hepburn.”

  “Audrey. Really?”

  “Go look in the mirror.”

  She walked over to the tall oval cheval glass. The chiffon lining of the cocktail dress whispered with each subtle movement. The dress looked incredible, and she felt as if she were a different person in it. The bodice hugged her every curve, and the crystal beads flashed in the lamplight. “Whoa,” she said. “This is a special dress. My mother had good taste. I wonder how she ended up with a Valentino.”

  “I’m just glad she kept it, because it looks fantastic on you.” He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist, then skimmed his lips along the line of her bare shoulder. “I’m really turned on right now.”

  She leaned back against him, even though she knew she should move away. “Don’t.”

  “Why not?” His hand came up and traced the line of her collarbone.

  “Because I don’t want to start something with you.”

  “Damn, you smell good,” he said, inhaling. “Why not?” he asked again.

  “Because....” It was hard to think when he was doing that with his hands, his mouth.... “Because I might take this—us—too seriously.”

  “Is that possible, taking love too seriously?”

  She pulled away then, turning to face him. “Who said anything about love?”

  “I did. You got a problem with that?”

  “Yes,” she said immediately.

  “With love in general, or with me in particular?”

  “I’m not having this conversation.” She knew his next question would be, “Why not?” She decided to preempt him. “Because I have a theory about love, and you’re probably not going to like it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

  “Always with the questions. Because I can never give you what you want.”

  “How do you know what I want?”

  She couldn’t think straight when he looked at her like that. She turned her attention to the things they’d pulled out of the trunk. She gazed down at the print of the beautiful couple on the Vespa. “I’ve never felt the way they look in this picture,” she said. “I don’t expect I ever will.”

  “Not with an attitude like that, you won’t.”

  She sighed, brushed her hand over the fine silk of the dress. “I always thought, growing up, that a person had one great love in her life. Sure, there would be boyfriends and broken hearts, missed connections and mistakes. But ultimately, I believed there would be one great love. The one that would save me and keep me safe forever and show me the joy in life.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m older. Wiser. I survived a terrible love, and it turned out not to be love at all. So I quit believing what that naive girl believed.”

  “Isabel—”

  “No, let me finish. It was like being a kid and figuring out that Santa Claus doesn’t exist. You’re not surprised, but disappointed, because you really want it to be true. But then you move on from there. I found other kinds of love to fill my life—family and friends. People I work with. The occasional date or social occasion.”

  “Jeez,” he said. “You definitely need to get out more.”

  “That’s exactly what I don’t need. Because the surprising thing that happened is that after I let go of all those romantic notions, my life filled right up. I discovered I didn’t need that one great romance in order to be happy, the same way I don’t need Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. Life is just fine without all that.”

  “Okay, but there’s something I need to tell you,” said Mac. He walked over to her, put his arms around her, stirring up a shimmer of emotion.

  “What’s that?” she whispered.

  “I still believe in Santa Claus.” He pulled her against him and put his lips very close to hers. “And the tooth fairy, too. And the Easter bunny.”

  The shimmer became a warm explosion of feeling. “Oh, boy.”

  “And I also believe in...” He whispered a suggestion into her ear that made her bones melt.

  Despite the warmth of the evening, she got goose bumps. “Yeah?”

  He slid down the zipper of the dress and skimmed it to the floor, taking her hand so she could step out of the pool of fabric. Without taking his eyes off her, he peeled his shirt off one-handed over his head. Then he unfastened her bra and swept it aside, laid her back on the bed and pressed her down into the luxurious mattress. “Yeah,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  On the day of Tess and Dominic’s wedding, Bella Vista was surrounded by a coastal fog. The impenetrable white mist gathered like undulating wraiths in the valley carved by Angel Creek, and hid in the low spots between the rising hills.

  “It is a sign of good luck,” Ernestina insisted, pouring coffee at the kitchen counter. “The fog means you will spend your life enclosed in pure love.”

  Tess paced to the window, looked out and turned back to face Ernestina, who was flanked by Isabel and Shannon. “I’ve never heard that before,” she said.

  “I just made it up.” Ernestina looked at her, then poured a mug of herbal tea from another pot. “No coffee for you. You’re already nervous.”

  “I’m getting married today. I’m supposed to be nervous.”r />
  “But in a good way,” said Isabel. “As in, excited. And the last thing you should be nervous about is the weather.”

  “She’s right,” Shannon said. “This is Sonoma, land of perfect weather.”

  “It will be sunny and clear by three o’clock,” Ernestina promised, sounding unaccountably authoritative. “By five o’clock, when the ceremony starts, the whole world will be perfect. You’ll see.”

  “Fine, I’m not nervous,” Tess said. “I’m excited. I’m so excited, I could throw up.”

  “Drink your tea,” said Isabel. “It’s got chamomile and elderflower in it, to soothe your nerves.”

  “Did I ever tell you the first thing Dominic ever bought me was a cup of herbal tea?” asked Tess.

  “I didn’t know that,” Isabel said.

  She nodded. “He said the same thing—I needed to calm my nerves.” She sniffed the tea and wrinkled her nose. “I told him it smelled like yard clippings.”

  “And here you are about to marry him. He must have done something right.”

  “Try some honey in it,” said Jamie, coming into the kitchen with a stack of frames filled with cured and capped honey. She had been harvesting daily, cutting the combs from the frames, straining and sieving the honey and putting it in jars.

  “More honey?” Isabel asked.

  “Every day.”

  “That’s so cool,” she said. “Your yield is ten times what I got last summer.”

  “It’ll get better every year,” Jamie promised. She carried the frames to the stationary tub in the adjacent utility room, which had a rack of sterilized jars and equipment. Ever since choosing what she wanted to do about her pregnancy, she seemed more relaxed. She was even talking about getting a part-time job in town in the off-season, expressing interest in the local restaurant scene. She loved performing and knew she was good. Several local establishments featured live music, and she was planning to set up some auditions.