The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 by Susan Wiggs Page B

watching the play of light on his face, the breeze in his hair, his big hands as he gathered up his notes and gear. His dog-eared spiral-bound notebook was already filled with several pages of notes in his squarish, precise handwriting. She’d watched him writing as Grandfather talked; he seemed to have the ability to listen and compose simultaneously.
    “Everyone knows people suffered during the war, but hearing him talk about things as he lived them really drove that home.”
    “He’ll be okay. People process trauma in their own ways.”
    She thought about the few things Tess had told her about Mac’s past, and wondered how he’d dealt with his own trauma. He was a widower. It was shocking to contemplate the idea that he’d been married, that his wife had died. In her mind, she’d always pictured a widower as someone like her grandfather, not a young, vital man who exuded sex appeal. Mac looked older than Isabel, but not much older. Maybe thirty-five to her thirty.
    She wondered what had happened to his wife. Tess hadn’t been able to answer that question, saying she’d never met the woman, but judging by her name—Yasmin—assumed she was foreign, perhaps Middle Eastern.
    “Something wrong?” he asked.
    She realized she’d been staring at him. Though tempted to ask him about his past, she felt the need to keep her distance. She barely knew the guy. “I’m... You seem pretty sure of yourself. Pretty sure he’s going to be able to talk about these things.”
    He flashed a half grin. “Trust me, I’m a professional.”
    “That’s what Tess says.”
    “Then trust her. She’s your sister.”
    Isabel nodded. “Yes, but we haven’t grown up as sisters. It’s...complicated.”
    “I don’t have a sister myself, but I’ve heard it’s always complicated.”
    “Tess and I met only recently. Did she explain that to you?”
    “She said neither of you knew about the other when you were growing up.”
    “We connected with each other when she came here a year ago, and she changed everyone’s lives.”
    “Seems like Bella Vista—and you and your granddad—changed her life.”
    Her heart skipped a beat. “What a nice thing to say.”
    “Sometimes the truth is nice. A lot of the time, actually.” He moved the wooden chairs out of the pathway. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for losing your colony of bees?”
    “Never,” she said.
    “That’s harsh.”
    “Oh, yeah, that’s me. A harsh woman.”
    “My favorite kind.”
    “Really?”
    He gave her a long, considering look. Then he said, “We’ll see.”
    “How’s your knee?” she asked suddenly. “Are you up for a short walk?”
    “With you? Hell, yes.”
    She turned away quickly, pretending not to be flattered by his enthusiasm. “We can go to the top of that hill with the big oak tree. There’s something up there that might give you some insights about my grandfather...and me. You might find it kind of grim, but it’s part of the story.”
    “I can handle grim,” he said simply.
    Though tempted to ask him about the grim things he could handle, she’d save those questions for another day. She led the way up the slope, stepping over the ankle-high grass in the meadow, covered in budding lupine.
    “It’s the family plot,” she said when they arrived. The rectangular area was west-facing, bathed in afternoon light and surrounded by a wrought iron fence. There were three simple headstones of weathered rock. Oscar Navarro, the caretaker, kept the grass mowed, though wildflowers were left to bloom around the stones—egg-yolk-yellow California poppy, purple sage and tiny delicate wild iris. Not far away was a spreading California oak, its long branches creating a broad shaded area. “See what I mean?” she asked. “Grim.”
    “It feels peaceful here,” he said. “A resting place. And it’s sad, yeah.” He regarded the carved stones. “Your grandmother Eva, your mother, Francesca, and your father, Erik.”
    “The family plot,”