The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (19 page)

“Now what?” asked Mac, placing his hand at the small of her back to steady her. “You look as if you just saw a ghost.”

“Calvin Sharpe,” she said. “Not my favorite person.” She prayed the guy wouldn’t spot her.

He spotted her. His gaze focused like a laser aiming device. He still had some uncanny way of sensing her. Even as he regaled his admirers while the camera recorded him, his stare honed in on her, taking in Mac’s hand at her waist. Just for a moment, a fraction of a second, something hard and threatening flowed from him to her. She shivered and turned in the opposite direction.

“Isn’t that the guy you ran into the morning of the bee stings?” asked Mac.

“The very same.”

“He keeps turning up like a bad penny,” he said.

She crossed to the other side of the plaza. “Hmm. I’ve never actually seen a bad penny. How can a penny be bad?”

He shrugged. “I can tell he bugs you. Who broke whose heart?”

She quickened her steps. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because it’s obvious you have a past with that guy. Come on, spill.”

“It was a long time ago. And believe me, nobody’s heart got broken.”

“
Something
got broken. He’s swanning around town with an entourage, and the sight of him makes you go green around the gills.”

“So you say.”

“I have ways of making you talk.”

That drew a laugh from her. “Right.”

“It’s true. I’m a professional.”

She glanced back over her shoulder at the group making the video. “All right, if you must know, Calvin Sharpe was a chef-instructor at the cooking school I attended in Napa. He was—and I guess, still is—supersuccessful, with an ego to match. I was—and maybe still am—supernaive and I followed him around like a lost puppy.”

“Shit. Tell me this is not going where I think it’s going.”

“Sorry, whatever you’re thinking is probably on the money. It was every cliché you’re imagining—a promising, eager student enamored with her older, charismatic teacher.” Her stomach still churned when she thought of those days, the way she’d let him become her whole world, at the expense of her dreams. “He wasn’t—he’s
not
—a good guy. He treated me like his unpaid help and I was stupid enough to be grateful for the privilege. He took credit for work that I did and...” She stopped herself before blurting out the rest—the pregnancy, the assault.

“And?” he prompted. “And what? It ended badly.”

She shook her head. “The worst part isn’t that it ended. The worst part is that it didn’t end. I simply left the culinary program and never went back. Didn’t finish school, didn’t contact him ever again. There was no closure, no confrontation. As far as I know, he still assumes I’m a member of his fan club.”

“You can close that chapter anytime you want,” he said. “Up to you.”

“Right. Do I just go up to him and...what? Simply tell him off about something he probably doesn’t even remember? And then I’ll magically be over him?”

“You need to get over
yourself.
”

“Sure. Doing it now.” She knew he was right, but she didn’t like being pressured.

Mac looked back over his shoulder at Calvin and his entourage. “Have you ever told anyone the truth about that guy? Even yourself?”

She felt the color flare in her cheeks. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Change it to what?”

She gestured at a row of tasting rooms and colorful cafés. “Food and wine.”

“My two staples. Take me to your favorite place.” He surveyed the area, and a smile spread across his face. “I like it here. Great energy. Great smells. Live music.” He indicated a guy on a three-legged stool, tuning up a guitar.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Mac. Seeing that guy and his crew put me in a mood. Let me finish showing you around, and we’ll find a table somewhere.”

“Much better.”

It was a gorgeous evening, with a breeze shimmering through the trees, people strolling hand in hand through the quaint streets and the plaza. The shops, bistros and restaurants were abuzz with patrons. She showed him where the farmer’s market took place every Saturday, and pointed out her favorite spots—the town library, a tasting room co-op run by the area vintners, the Brew Ha Ha café and the Rose, a vintage community theater. On a night like this, she took a special pride in Archangel, with its cheerful spirit and colorful sights. She refused to let the Calvin sighting drag her down. He had ruined many things for her, but he was not going to ruin the way she felt about her hometown.

After some deliberation, she chose Andaluz, her favorite spot for Spanish-style wines and tapas. The bar spilled out onto the sidewalk, brightened by twinkling lights strung under the big canvas umbrellas. The tables were small, encouraging quiet intimacy and insuring that their knees would bump as they scooted their chairs close. She ordered a carafe of local Mataró, a deep, strong red from some of the oldest vines in the county, and a
plancha
of tapas—deviled dates, warm, marinated olives, a spicy seared tuna with smoked paprika. Across the way in the plaza garden, the musician strummed a few chords on his guitar.

The food was delicious, the wine even better, as elemental and earthy as the wild hills where the grapes grew. They finished with sips of a chocolate-infused port and cinnamon churros. The guitar player was singing “The Keeper,” his gentle voice seeming to float with the breeze. Isabel savored a bite of the churro, licking a sugary crumb from the corner of her mouth.

“Hang on,” Mac said, staring at her. “Don’t move.”

“What’s the matter?” She froze. Maybe he’d spotted a bee or mosquito on her.

“Nothing. I just want to freeze this moment.”

“What?”

“Because it’s kind of perfect.”

She melted a little inside. “Kind of?”

“Yep.”

“What would make it
really
perfect?”

“If I knew I was going to get lucky afterward.”

“Get...” She blushed, suddenly catching on, and finished the last sip of her cordial. “You don’t want to get lucky with me.”

“Wrong. I’d like nothing more.”

She shook her head. “We’re better as friends.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she was lying. She was falling for him in the worst way, but it was the kind of falling that was guaranteed to have a rough landing.

“How the hell do you know that?”

“I just know. I’m not interested in casual sex.”

“Who said anything about casual? To be honest, I don’t do casual sex, either. Just warm, intimate, slow, amazing sex.” He stared pointedly at her mouth. “It’s my favorite.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“You shouldn’t. You should make me prove myself.”

She looked away so he wouldn’t see the yearning in her eyes. “What I mean is, I don’t... I’m not interested in just sex, or a fling or whatever you’re calling it.”

“You’re a red-blooded American girl. How can you not be interested? Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who doesn’t like sex.”

“I do,” she said.
She did.
“But forgive me for having standards. When I get intimate with a guy, I like to know there’s a possible future.”

“And you don’t see that with me.”

“Not unless you’re okay with hanging around in Archangel.”

He scanned the area, filled with music and soft breezes and delightful aromas. “This doesn’t suck.”

“Tess says you’re a rolling stone. You never stay in one place for long.”

“I never had a reason to stay.” He leaned forward, still studying her mouth, his knees under the table straddling hers. He was going to kiss her. She knew it in every cell of her body. She
wanted
it with every cell of her body.

“Let’s not do this,” she said in a rush, and scraped her chair back.

“Why the hell not?”

He was a complication she absolutely did not need. Not now. Not ever. “We’re bad for each other.”

“We might be made for each other. But if you have that attitude, we’ll never know.”

Better that way,
she thought.
Better not to know. Safer and neater.
“Then I suppose you’re right. We’ll never know.”

P
ART
S
IX

The color, aroma and flavor of honey is a reflection of a specific region and time of year. Honey in its purest form isn’t clear, but misty with pollen. While plain sugar and other sweeteners are merely sweet, honey can express floral, grassy, fruity or woody flavor notes, depending on the source of the nectar. Honey from summer wildflowers is considered the sweetest variety.

Hummingbird Cake

CAKE

3 cups flour

2 cups sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon table salt

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

2 cups diced overripe bananas

3 beaten eggs

1 cup chopped toasted pecans

1 cup vegetable oil

2 tablespoons honey

1 (8-oz.) can crushed pineapple, undrained

Preheat oven to 350°. Sift together first 5 ingredients in a large bowl; add the remainder of the ingredients, stirring just until dry ingredients are moistened. Pour batter into 4 greased and floured 9-inch square or round cake pans.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pans on wire racks for about 10 minutes; then remove from pans and place the cakes on wire racks, to cool completely.

BROWNED BUTTER FROSTING

1 cup butter

1 lb. powdered sugar

¼ cup milk

1 tablespoon honey

Melt butter in a heavy saucepan over medium heat, stirring constantly for 8 to 10 minutes or until butter begins to turn golden-brown. Remove pan immediately from heat, and pour butter into a small bowl. Chill for an hour or until butter begins to solidify.

Beat butter with an electric mixer until fluffy, and add sugar alternately with milk. Stir in the honey.

Frost the cake and sprinkle with pecans. Chill for at least 1 hour before serving to make it easier to cut and serve.

[Source: Adapted from a traditional Southern recipe]

Chapter Fifteen

“Here, taste this.” Isabel set a slice of cake in front of Tess. “If you like it, then we’ll make it for your wedding cake.”

Isabel had always been good at cakes. It was a special talent, making a cake that was both beautiful and delicious. Tess’s green eyes danced as she regarded the creamy iced wedge of two-layer cake in front of her. “Am I drooling? Because if this tastes half as good as it looks—”

“Not half,” Isabel said. “All the way. You have to trust.”

“I trust.” Tess leaned down and inhaled the fragrance. “Butter and pecans.”

“It’s a browned butter frosting, and the filling is a cream cheese custard sweetened with honey.”

“Stop. You’re making me have an orgasm.”

“Tess.”

“A cake-gasm, then.” She dug in, savoring the first bite with closed eyes and a blissful expression on her face. “Incredible,” she said. “Why would anyone eat anything else when there is hummingbird cake in the world?”

“Exactly. I’m glad you approve.”

“Well, I hope you know CPR, because when the wedding guests taste this cake, they are going to keel over and die.”

“So it’s a go?”

“Are you kidding? Total go. Get the defibrillator paddles. This might be the best wedding cake ever made. Oh, and don’t try to make it look like anything but a cake, you know? I’m not a fan of those silly cakes that look like the Liberty Bell or birdcages or something in a 3-D cartoon. A mile high cake on stilts, big enough to feed the world. That’s all we need.”

“Got it,” said Isabel. “I’ll have the caterer pretty it up with fresh flowers, but no sculpting. No sugar dough blossoms.”

“Right. Oh, Isabel, thank you.”

“Welcome.” The loud grind and whir of an air hammer disturbed the quiet of the patio and pergola area. This was followed by a crash and some cursing in rapid-fire Spanish. Isabel cringed, then yanked off her apron and went outside. “What happened?” she asked the foreman.

He waved a hand, indicating a pile of coping stones that had apparently fallen from a forklift down a side slope. “It’s okay, senorita,” he said. “The walkway is steep, though. We might have to re-grade it.”

“All right,”
she said, answering him in Spanish.
“Do what you have to do.”

“The surveyor is coming this evening about the excavation for the pool,” he reminded her. “You can meet with us, yes?”

“Of course,” she said.

“La piscina?”
asked Tess. “Doesn’t that mean swimming pool?”

“We’re getting a pool. Crazy, right?”

“Crazy good. When did this genius idea come about?”

“It was an impulse, and it won’t be ready in time for the grand opening, but it’s in the plans for Phase Two. Mac’s suggestion, actually.”

“So, a pool?” Tess shaded her eyes and studied the area, currently a terraced slope spiked with surveyor’s stakes. “That’s exciting. But you look stressed out.”

“You think?” Isabel wiped her brow with the edge of her blouse. “It’s the hottest day of the year so far, I’ve been working nonstop, the car service for Annelise was late, something’s going on with the plumbing in the teaching kitchen, and oh, yeah, I added a pool to this insane project.... What was I thinking?”

“That everything is going to be fantastic,” said Tess. “Deep breath.”

“Got it.”

“So, you and Mac....”

Isabel planted her hands on her hips, pretending she hadn’t thought about him every waking moment since the night in the plaza. “Stop it. He’s here for Grandfather. And we’re becoming friends. End of story.”

“It doesn’t have to be the end. Honestly, Isabel, I’m desperate for you to have a little romance in your life. You haven’t dated anyone since I’ve known you.”

She brushed a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead. “If you must know, I had a date with Mac the other night.”

“Seriously?”

“No, it wasn’t serious at all. We went to town for tapas and wine. That counts as a date, right?”

“Totally. Why didn’t you tell me? Was it wonderful?”

“It was nice, and the nicest part of all is that it wasn’t serious.”

“That’s a good start. I’m glad you got out for a little bit. He’s a catch, don’t you think?”

“He doesn’t want to be caught. And I’m not in the market for a boyfriend, anyway.”

“But you’re attracted to him.”

“Hello, he looks like Thor’s big brother. I’d be declared brain dead if I wasn’t attracted to him. Doesn’t mean I want him for my boyfriend, though.”

Tess beamed at her. “I think I’ll invite him to the wedding.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Watch me.” She grabbed her phone and tapped out a text message.

“He’ll be gone before the wedding,” Isabel said. “We’ll never see him again.”

“Miss Johansen?” The plumber approached her with a clipboard. “I have a quote for the repair in the new kitchen.”

“It’s brand-new,” she said, hyperventilating when she saw the estimate. “How can it need repairing?”

He launched into an explanation so technical that her eyes glazed over. Isabel approved the bid, then was pulled away to deal with a delivery of landscaping plants. As she stood in a jungle of potted honey locusts and Italian plum trees, checking inventory off a list, she had an urge to run away from home.

That was when Mac showed up. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

“Tess said. I had a text message from her.”

“That’s right.” Tess took the plant inventory list away from Isabel. “You need to take her away from here for a while. She’s been working nonstop and has to decompress.”

“Hey,” Isabel said again. “I don’t have time to—”

“Actually, you do,” Tess said. “Trust me, I
know
how toxic stress is.”

Isabel knew she was alluding to the state Tess was in when she’d first arrived at Bella Vista. “I’ll be okay,” she said.

“Yes, but only after you take the afternoon off.” Tess grabbed Isabel’s phone. “Unplugged.”

Isabel scowled at her sister, then turned to Mac. “Thanks for the offer, but I can’t go anywhere right now.”

“Sure, you can,” he said. “Let’s go.”

What part of
no
did this person not understand?

“Hey, Tess,” he added, “thanks for the other message you sent. I’d be honored to come to your wedding. I’ve heard the food is going to be incredible.”

“The guest list is closed,” Isabel said.

“There’s always room for one more,” Tess assured her. She turned back to the landscape delivery, officiously checking the plants.

“What makes you think you’ll still be here for the wedding?” Isabel asked.

“You,” he said easily. “You make me think that.” Just as he’d done the other night, Mac took her hand. “I have an idea. It’s a great one. It’s going to knock your socks off.”

“What—”

“I’ll show you. I was going to wait until we were further along, but today’s as good as any other.” Keeping hold of her hand, he started walking, but not toward the house. Instead, he took her down to the machine shop. It was dimly lit with slices of sunlight cutting through the rustic wood planks on the walls.

Her grandfather’s tractor was parked there, with the flail and rotary mowers nearby. There were a couple of bin trailers and a forklift, and stacks of bushels, bins and ladders. The gooey smell of motor oil tinged the air, emanating from the repair bay.

“What are we doing in here?” she asked, wishing for a breeze.

“I spotted something when your grandfather was showing me around. Major find. I think you’re going to like it.” He went over to the repair bay and pulled away a canvas shroud to reveal an old-fashioned motor scooter. “I don’t suppose you recognize this.”

She stood back and frowned. “Should I?”

He wheeled it out into the sunshine, and she followed, still mystified. The scooter was a neglected hulk of a thing, its seafoam-green paint furred with dusty grease. A headlamp rested atop the front fender, and what might have been chrome was pocked with black spots. Yet its homely, bulbous shape was curiously appealing. There was a triangular leather saddle with springs and a square one behind it, and both shone from a recent polishing. The tires looked new, incongruous next to the shabby state of the rest of the scooter.

“It belonged to your mother.”

Her jaw dropped. “How’s that?”

“She brought it over from Italy when she moved here.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. Magnus told me that when she and your father met in Italy, this was her ride to and from classes every day.”

She walked around the old bike, trying to picture a young woman riding around Italy on it. “My mother went to university in Salerno. I knew she and my father had met there, but I never heard a thing about a motorcycle.” Whenever she spoke of her parents, Isabel felt curiously ambivalent. She was speaking of two strangers she’d never known, yet without them, she would never have been born. A part of her yearned to find out more, yet another part held back in fear. What if she learned something disturbing about her mother? It had been hard enough to hear Annelise’s unbearable truth.

But a motor scooter? There couldn’t be anything sad about that, could there?

“Magnus thinks Francesca’s father gave it to her, so I guess she was keeping it for sentimental value. It’s a 1952 model. It was put away when she found out she was pregnant with you. And then, I assume, forgotten.”

That was understandable, considering the drama around the time of her birth. “So you’re saying this thing just sat in a corner of the shop until now?”

“That’s what your grandfather told me. There are some bicycles, too, including a tandem bike, but this is by far the most interesting thing we found.”

“And you just happened to pull it out.”

“Magnus and I were talking about his son, and the conversation got around to Francesca, and we found her old scooter stored under an old tarp in the machine shop. Said he never took the time to get rid of it, and even considered getting it restored, but then just forgot about it.”

“He’s always been a pack rat.”

“We’ve been working on the sly.”

“So this is where you’ve disappeared to every day.”

“Yep. We replaced the tires and a lot of other parts,” said Mac. “And there’s good news.” He dangled a key in front of her, then inserted it and turned the fuel tap lever. With one foot, he kick-started it. There was a backfire, and then a chugging sound. With a puff of exhaust, the thing started. “I got it working.”

She took another step back. “You did not.”

“Yep.” He gunned the engine.

“Wow. I’m impressed. I can’t believe you got it running after all this time.”

“Living in developing countries has its perks. You learn to fix stuff on your own.”

“Unbelievable.” She gave a little laugh. “One of these days, I want to hear about these countries.”

“Not today. It’s all Italy today. There’s a lot more work to be done, but this will do for now.” He mounted the scooter, his feet resting on the flat floorboard. “
Vieni,
signorina.”

“Is it safe?” she asked, raising her voice over the chugging of the engine.

“Why is that always your first question?”

“We don’t have helmets,” she said. “I’m wearing flip-flops.”

“You’re living on the edge,” he said. “Come on, this thing is so underpowered, we won’t go faster than thirty, tops.”

“I’m sure it’s not even street legal,” she said.

“Not even,” he shot back.

“It’s filthy.”

“Get dirty with me, Isabel.”

“But—”

“Get
on.
”

Despite her apprehension, she bunched up her skirt and slung her leg over the bike. Gingerly, she groped for the edge of the saddle.

“Hang on,” he said.

There was nothing to hold on to except him. She clung to his waist, grabbing a handful of his T-shirt with her fists. He smelled of sweat and exhaust, a combination she found wildly appealing. This was crazy, because she always assumed she was attracted to men who wore cologne, and long-sleeved dress shirts and knife-pleated trousers. Not—

“Here we go,” he said, and accelerated. The scooter lurched forward, and they were off. He drove down to the main road, turning left, away from town, and opened up the accelerator. Isabel held his shirt in a death grip, certain the contraption was going to fly apart at any moment.

The landscape of Bella Vista flowed past, a sun-drenched smear of color—lush greens, the purple of wild iris, poppies the color of egg yolk, all under a sky of the deepest, most promising blue. The scooter chugged, and then hit its stride, humming along with a steady drone.

Suddenly Isabel found herself imagining her mother, in a way she never had before. She had always pictured Francesca as a two-dimensional image—a smiling young bride, carefully coiffed and posed in the yellowing wedding photos pressed in Bubbie’s fat, musty-smelling album. Now she could see someone vibrant and alive, someone who rode a motor scooter. Rather than a smiling woman in a fading photograph, Isabel could now envision her mother as an adventurous soul—young and in love, bravely leaving everything she’d ever known in Italy, all for the sake of an American named Erik Johansen.

Perhaps that was why she’d had her scooter shipped to Archangel, to have something familiar, something from home. Isabel wondered if Francesca had ridden these byways as a new bride, maybe stopping at a farm stand here or there to bring something home for supper, her parcels nestled in the willow basket behind the seat.

They skimmed past the sprawling Maldonado estate, heading north. “Do you know where you’re going?” she asked, shouting into the wind.

“Not a clue. Take me somewhere,” he said.

Take me somewhere.
No one had ever said that to her before. Suddenly she wanted to take him everywhere, to show him everything. The warm breeze eddied through her hair and caressed her skin. It felt wonderful. It felt like freedom.

“The vineyards on both sides of the road belong to the Maldonado family,” she said.

“As in Ramon Maldonado?” As he spoke, he turned his head to the side, and she had the sensation of his words flowing past her on the wind.