The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 by Susan Wiggs Read Free Book Online

and Treasure Island. ”
    “Good choices. I loved those books.” He pulled out a copy of White Fang and opened to the inside cover. There was a bookplate on which Erik had written his name, the letters slanted in a careless or perhaps hurried scrawl. Cormac replaced the book and moved on to a row of travel books about Zanzibar, Mongolia, Tangier, Patagonia. “He was a fan of traveling. Or travel books.”
    Isabel nodded. “He went to the University of Salerno in Italy, as part of the exchange program with UC Davis. That’s where he met my mom.”
    “Are the French and Spanish books his, too?”
    Isabel nodded. “According to Grandfather, Erik was a gifted student of languages. He grew up speaking Danish with his parents, Spanish with the workers and French because he loved it. And Italian, because he loved my mother.”
    “Your mom’s Italian?”
    “She, um, she died in childbirth. Giving birth to me.” Isabel’s own mother was yet another ghost in the house.
    She caught Cormac’s flash of stark sympathy, which made her feel slightly apologetic, given what Tess had just told her—that Cormac O’Neill was a widower. “I know, this makes me Little Orphan Annie, but honestly, my grandparents were wonderful parents to me. If you lose someone before you know them, does it count as a loss?”
    He hooked his thumbs into his back pockets and looked out the window. “Every death is a loss,” he said quietly.
    “Of course. I’m just saying, it didn’t hit me the way it did Erik’s parents. Or Francesca’s. That was my mother’s name—Francesca.”
    Cormac went over to a faded round dartboard and examined some papers stuck in place with a dart. “Looks as if Erik knew how to get in trouble, too. Aren’t these unpaid speeding tickets?”
    “Yes. He drove a Mustang convertible.”
    Cormac moved on to a display of ribbons. “What are all these for?” he asked.
    “Okay, so he was a typical boy in every way—but he had this quirk,” she said. “He was a master baker. He won the Sonoma County Fair Blue Ribbon for the youth division from 1978 to 1982 in several categories.” She touched one of the fading ribbons. “Going through this stuff is like putting together a puzzle—but an imperfect one. I have all these artifacts—the things he left behind, photographs, stories from my grandparents and people who knew him. But I never got to know him, so that picture will never be accurate.” She opened a drawer of an old wooden desk. “My favorite artifact—his recipe collection.” Though she didn’t say so, this was when she felt closest to Erik—when she was following a recipe he’d put a little star by or annotated in his messy handwriting.
    Cormac plucked a photograph from the drawer. “He’s a grown man in this picture.”
    It was her favorite shot of Erik, one she used to take out and study when she was growing up. The photo showed him standing on Shell Beach, out on the Sonoma coast, with the cliffs sweeping up behind him and the ocean crashing around his bare feet. He was smiling broadly, maybe laughing, in the picture. He wore a red baseball cap turned backward, board shorts and no shirt. The camera had frozen him in a moment of freedom and joy.
    “He’s younger in this picture than I am now.” She shook off a wave of regret, then shut the drawer with a decisive shove. “So, do you want a quick tour, or...?”
    “Sure.” He turned and grabbed his cane.
    “What happened to your leg?” she asked.
    “I wish I could say I trashed my knee while doing something awesome, but it happened at JFK airport when I was running for a flight.” He shrugged. “It’ll be okay.”
    In the middle of the second floor were the two biggest suites, one facing north, the other south. “We just finished remodeling them,” Isabel said. “Careful, I think the paint might still be wet on the doorframes.”
    He scanned the new furnishings, the bright walls and window seats. “It’s great, Isabel.”
    “Thank