The Beekeeper's Ball

by Susan Wiggs

  “I’m sure he is.” A cold determination formed in her core. “That’s actually why I’m here, Leo. I have something for you.” She gave him a copy of the data card. Her hand shook, but her spirit didn’t waver. “Everything you need to know about Calvin Sharpe is right here. I’m sending a copy to his network producer, too. You can do what you want with it.”

  Leo frowned. “What is it?”

  “It’s self-explanatory. I’ll let you decide whether or not you want to do anything about it at all. Suffice it to say, there won’t be any glad-handing between Cal and me.”

  She left the office, drained and breathing fast as if she’d run a great distance. Her heart was pounding, but she felt liberated, strong and sure of herself. Finally.

  It was Mac, bringing out the truth in Magnus’s story, who had given her the courage to tell her own truth. For years, she’d been too afraid, too ashamed to come forward.

  Since Mac had left, she’d spent a lot of time thinking about the stories he’d drawn from her, and from her grandfather and Annelise. She’d learned so much from them. Knowing the trials they’d endured and the lives they’d built for themselves, put it all into perspective. The human spirit could brave anything so long as there was some better future to believe in.

  At long last, she got it. As much as she loved Bella Vista, it had been her hiding place, walling her off from the rest of the world. Now Isabel wanted it to be a place to grow. The only thing holding her back was herself.

  Mac would be proud of her. But he was gone; her doubts and fears had kept her from stopping him. She still ached for him every day, but knew now for certain that she would survive, although she’d never be the same. He had left his mark upon her heart, as indelible as a battle scar.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ravello was everything Mac had expected, only better. Autumn was a golden time in the rocky Italian hill town, with its ancient streets and alleyways, the markets and little shops and plazas tucked around the magnificent duomo and the beautiful ruins and gardens of the Villa Cimbrone. He’d come here on what might have been a fool’s errand, but as it turned out, the hunch he’d been following was correct.

  He’d been essentially fired from the previous assignment. He’d never before been glad to be taken off a story, but this time, it was a blessing. In Istanbul, Ari Nejim had set him free. It was the last thing Mac had expected from Yasmin’s father. The man’s daughter had been murdered. After the incident, the kind of rage that had burned in Ari’s eyes had seemed as eternal as the endlessly burning fire in the Gates of Hell. Back then, Mac had been certain Ari would not rest until his daughter’s murderers were exposed.

  Yet in Turkey, he’d found Ari in a different place, emotionally as well as geographically. At a Bosphorus-side breakfast spot, over cups of thick native coffee, Ari had seemed diminished, resigned. But he was also focused.

  “I do not want to do this,” he’d said, referring to the project. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way, but I must make certain you understand I’m not being coerced. The murder of my daughter is for the authorities to deal with. Perhaps they will find the truth about Yasmin, perhaps not. Either way, I must step back from this, because it is killing me. After she died, I found myself with two choices. I can live in hell, or I can live my life.”

  “What do you want to do?” Mac had asked.

  “I must let this go. I need to. I cannot bring my daughter back. My energy needs to go elsewhere, to a positive place. I’ve taken a position with the World Engineering Society. I’ll be in charge of their charitable initiatives.”

  “That’s good, Ari,” said Mac. “I’m glad for you. So...what do you want me to do?”

  “Let it go, as I have. Don’t allow it to poison your future. Move ahead with your life. It’s all we can do, yes?”

  Mac had thought long and hard about that advice. He’d married a woman in order to save her life, and she’d died. The fact that he hadn’t had a serious relationship since then was pretty telling. But Ari was right. It was time to move on.

  Mac thought he might have discovered a way to do that here in Ravello, where Francesca Cioffi had grown up among the lemon gardens overlooking the sea far below. He’d found out some remarkable things about her and her family. He wanted Isabel to know what he’d learned.

  But maybe some things should be left to rest. She claimed she wasn’t interested in finding out more about her father’s accident. Maybe she didn’t want to know anything more about her mother’s family, either.

  It was late afternoon, and the vendors at the farmer’s market were packing up their tubs of olives and racks of produce for the day. He passed by a booth where they were serving samples of honey from carnelian bees. The taste of honey reminded him of Isabel. Hell, everything reminded him of Isabel.

  He looked around the old buildings with their stone archways and flaking plaster. The town had long been a mecca for artists and writers. This morning he’d passed by the house where D. H. Lawrence had lived and worked, writing his mournful, sensual books about people who destroyed themselves in search of a perfect love that didn’t exist.

  Don’t look back, that had always been Mac’s motto. But it was damned hard, considering what he’d left behind. Ah, well, he thought. Something new would come up. Some new project. Maybe he’d pursue the bridge wreck on his own and dig deeper into the accident that had taken Erik Johansen’s life. Yeah, it would be cool to have an excuse to go back to California.

  He licked the honey from his fingers and starting walking toward the penzione where he was staying. As he approached the old house, with its painted shutters and blooming window boxes, he heard the buzz of a scooter motor and looked up, spying a beautiful girl with bare legs and sandals on a Vespa.

  His heart tumbled over in his chest. “No way,” he breathed. “My God.”

  “I got my first passport stamp,” Isabel said, taking off the helmet and shaking loose her long, glorious hair.

  * * *

  “Jet lag is fun,” Isabel murmured, draping her naked self over Mac’s body. It was three in the morning, and they had just spent the past hour making love in the penzione, a cozy little room with sturdy whitewashed furniture and a view of a patio garden. Cool air blew against the lace curtain on the window, scented with lemons and the smell of the sea.

  “You’re fun,” Mac said, kissing her temple. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I can’t, either. I can’t believe I found your penzione. The address on your itinerary wasn’t very specific. But the locals are really helpful. Did I surprise you?”

  “Hell, yes. You’re incredible, Isabel. Thanks for coming.”

  “I need to tell you something.” She rolled over and propped her chin on his bare chest. “A lot has happened since you left. I didn’t exactly level with you about Calvin Sharpe.”

  “That douche bag? What about him?”

  “He’s history.” Isabel took a deep breath and told Mac the truth. She told him about handing over the evidence of the assault. She could say it now. She could say it without shame or guilt. The statute of limitations had run out for her to take action against him, but he’d been disgraced in that irrevocable way the mass media had of piling on. Regardless of the legal outcome, he was destroyed professionally. His network had fired him after his cooking show’s sponsors had dropped him like the proverbial hot potato. His cookbook deal was toast. The backers of his restaurant empire had pulled out and his entourage had disappeared. He would be nothing but an asterisk on Wikipedia, a failed pseudo celebrity, a mistake. Obscurity was the worst punishment imaginable for a man with Calvin’s ego.

  “A guy like that deserves worse than getting dropped by his network,” said Mac, fury vibrating in his voice.

  “Believe me, losing his spot in the limelight will kill him. His restaurant franchise is dead in
the water. Just like his career is going to be. I feel bad that I didn’t speak up, that I was scared for so long.”

  Mac kissed her gently. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. But I’m glad you’re done with him.”

  “And I’m sorry I let what happened in the past affect my feelings for you,” she said. “You’re a good man, Mac. You’ve been really patient with me.”

  “First time I’ve ever been accused of patience,” he said. “But there came a point—probably the day of the hot springs—when I realized I was willing to wait for you to come around.”

  He held her tenderly for a long time. She yawned, feeling a wave of exhaustion. “I’m sleepy again.”

  “Then you should sleep.”

  “Jet lag’s weird. I have no idea what day it is or what time it is.”

  “Shh,” he said, stroking her temple. “It’s our time.”

  * * *

  Breakfast was a revelation of perfectly prepared cappuccino and a basket of sfogliatelle, flaky pastry filled with sweet cheese. The weather was gorgeous, a day of picture-perfect blue skies and a cooling breeze. “What are we going to do today?” she asked.

  He looked at her for a moment. Then he said, “I have a surprise for you.”

  Suspicion darkened her mood. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Hey, you bowled me over yesterday. I get to surprise you. Finish your coffee. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Here?” She narrowed her eyes. “Who?”

  “You have to trust,” he said.

  “I trust.”

  They strolled through the pretty streets with their cascading gardens, and Isabel felt as if she was in a dream, holding hands with him and watching the shopkeepers rolling out their awnings. There was a profumi where limoncello was made from local lemons, tiny ceramics shops and tourist kiosks. He brought her down an uneven, winding staircase of a street to a row of small, interconnected houses and stopped at a painted green door with potted geraniums on either side.

  A woman opened the door. Isabel’s legs turned to water, and she fell back against Mac. She stared, because she was looking at her mother. Her living mother. She recognized Francesca’s beautiful face, her full mouth, tremulous with an uncertain smile. The woman was older now of course, and still lovely, with dark wavy hair and large dark eyes, the same eyes in the photos Isabel had studied all her life, yearning to know the mother who had given her life.

  The woman at the door stared, too, her eyes brimming with tears. She said something in rapid Italian, and the only word Isabel understood was Francesca.

  Mac replied to her briefly, and she motioned them inside. In the foyer, she paused and turned, pulling Isabel into her arms and speaking nonstop.

  Mac said something calming, then took Isabel’s hand. “This is your Aunt Lucia,” he said. “She’s your mother’s sister.”

  Somehow, Isabel found her voice. “It’s good to meet you,” she said.

  Lucia spoke again.

  “She’s Francesca’s sister. Her twin sister,” Mac said.

  Twins. Shock and wonder reverberated through her. “Could we...sit down?”

  Mac translated. Lucia bustled them into a small sitting room filled with old-fashioned furniture. She sat on a love seat next to Isabel and held both her hands. She spoke some more, and Isabel realized she was comparing their hands, their faces. We look alike.

  “How did you know to come looking for her?” she asked Mac.

  “The photo,” he said. “The one we found in the trunk. I knew it wasn’t Francesca.”

  “You did? How?”

  “The birthmark. The girl in the photo didn’t have one, but your mother did. And the girl in the photo was holding a pen in her right-hand. Remember? Your mother was left-handed, like you.” He related this to Lucia in Italian.

  “Wow,” said Isabel. “I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know what to say.” She wept, then, and Lucia gathered her close, and the two of them held each other for a moment. Isabel felt enclosed by the warmth of this woman, this stranger who was identical to the mother she’d never known.

  Then Isabel pulled back. “I have questions.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Mac.

  “You never tried to contact my mother?” she asked, and he posed the question to Lucia.

  Lucia spoke for a moment; then Mac translated. “It was a terrible falling-out. She says their parents were already on a pension and there was nothing to spare to go traveling in search of someone who did not want to be found. They assumed Francesca had simply moved on without them. And it seems, in a way, that she did. Your grandmother sent a letter when Francesca died, and there was an exchange of cards at Christmas, but eventually that tapered off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Isabel said. “I’m sorry for your loss. You lost her twice—once when she went away, and again because she died.”

  “Si. Grazie.”

  “I wish I’d known what she was like. Maybe you can tell me one day.”

  “She says she can tell you right now,” Mac explained.

  Isabel leaned forward, waiting. “Yes?”

  Lucia stood and brought Isabel to the hearth in the sitting room, turning her to face the framed oval mirror on the mantel, and she said something in a quiet voice.

  “She was like that,” Mac said. “Almost exactly like that.”

  Isabel’s heart filled with warmth. “Really?”

  “That is why she nearly fell apart when she saw you. Francesca was young and fresh and beautiful. Her voice was low and sweet, and she sounded just like you,” Mac translated. Then he said, “Now you know.”

  * * *

  They spent the day with Lucia, who promised that the following day she would take them up to Scala, an even tinier, loftier town where her parents now lived. That evening, Mac took her to a restaurant called Il Flauto di Pan—Pan’s Flute—perched at the Villa Cimbrone among the gardens and crumbling walls. It was probably the most beautiful restaurant she’d ever seen. The centuries-old villa was embellished with incredible gardens of fuchsia bougainvillea, lemon and cypress trees and flowering herbs that scented the air. Their veranda table had an impossibly gorgeous view of the sea.

  They shared a bottle of wine with the tasting menu, but despite the delicious food, she could scarcely eat. “I’m too excited,” she confessed, and lifted her glass to him. “Thank you, Mac. Thank you for making this happen.”

  “You’re the one who got on that plane,” he said. “You got your passport stamped.”

  “I did. It was fun. I wish I could stay longer, but you know I need to get back.” She gazed at the color of the sunset through her wineglass. There was a part of her—a very big part—that wanted to stay here forever. To stay with him forever, traveling the world with him, leaving Bella Vista behind. Could she...would she give that up for the love of this man? Or was the sacrifice too great? Could she give up a dream for the one she loved?

  “What’s that face?” he asked.

  “Daydreaming. I just thought...” She stopped herself from trying to explain, and instead took a sip of wine. “I’ll be a different person when I go back. I feel...complete.”

  “You’ve always been complete, Isabel.”

  He had a talent for saying the sweetest things. He said everything she needed to hear...almost. “So,” she dared to ask. “What’s next for you?”

  “I have a book to write. It’s very portable.”

  “Then where are you taking it?”

  “I want to be with you, Isabel. I figured you would get that by now.”

  “But for how long?”

  “How about forever? Would forever work for you?”

  She felt the blood rush to her face. “You are never serious.”

  “How do y
ou know I’m not serious?”

  “Because you never are.”

  “Listen,” he said, drilling her with a look. “I tried marrying once, and I did a lousy job, okay? I didn’t love her and she died. What’s worse than that?”

  “It’s terrible, Mac, but you did what you thought was best at the time. You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

  “Exactly. And I don’t know what’s going to happen now. All I know is that this is completely different. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You took care of me, Isabel, and no one’s ever done that before. You take care of the people in your life, but I think you’re still waiting for somebody to take care of you. I want to be with you so bad I can’t sleep at night. I can’t think of anything except how much I love you.”

  “Oh....”

  “That’s it? Just oh?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I want you to say what’s true.”

  She got up from the table, blinking back tears. She walked over to the stone veranda, away from the other tables, leaned on the rail and looked out at the amber sky. Under the palms of her hands, the ancient pale stone was still warm from the sun.

  He came up behind her, his hands circling her waist. Turning, she wound her arms around his neck. Yet she’d never felt more vulnerable.

  Isabel shut her eyes—and leaped. “What’s true is that I love you. It started the first time you took me riding on the scooter, and this feeling keeps getting bigger every day and I never want it to end.” She let the tears come then, because she was happy and nervous and filled with hope. “I’ve learned so much about love from you, Mac. I never even knew a feeling like this was possible.”

  He held her gently. He was always so gentle with her. “So,” he said. “I guess you’re cool with me coming back to Bella Vista.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “I’m cool with it.”

  “Forever.”

  “That sounds good to me.”

  The quartet eased into a smooth melody, like a song without words. They held each other and watched the sun go down, and Isabel knew in that precise moment, everything was perfect. It wouldn’t always be, but she didn’t need for it to be. Here in Mac’s arms, she had everything she needed. She would always go back to Bella Vista, the one true place where she was most at home in the world. But everything was different now. She wasn’t afraid anymore. Mac had opened her eyes to possibilities she hadn’t let herself see before. Nothing had changed. And yet everything had changed.