The Beekeeper's Ball

“We’re not just a ‘story,’” she said, bridling.

“I get that,” he said. “But I still don’t see why it’s a problem for you. Nothing you’ve told me is going to reflect badly on you. Or your grandfather. Your dad...maybe.”

The tension she’d been holding inside unspooled just a little. Sometimes, when people heard about the unorthodox situation, they acted as if Tess and Isabel were somehow defective, having a rogue of a father who’d been careless enough to get two women pregnant, and then get himself killed in a mysterious car wreck.

Mac studied Erik’s name, carved on the headstone, with a phrase:

Erik Karl Johansen, beloved son. Measure his life not by its length but by the depth of the joy he brought us. He jumped into life and never touched bottom. We will never laugh the same again.

“Our father was a bit of a rogue,” Isabel said. “More than a bit. Sometimes I wonder what he might say in his defense. ‘He jumped into life and never touched bottom,’” she read from the headstone. “I once asked Grandfather what he meant by that, but all he ever said was that Erik had a huge appetite for life.”

“He gave the world two daughters. I can’t imagine your grandfather would have any regrets about you and Tess. And after all this time, the fact that your dad was banging two women doesn’t seem like much of an issue.”

Had he really said banging? How very refined of him. “Has Tess told you anything else about Erik?”

“Nope. Something tells me your sister is preoccupied with other things these days.”

“The wedding. I love that she’s having so much fun with it.”

“I never took her for the marrying type.”

“Really?”

“She was such a go-getter. Always seemed married to her career.”

“That was what she was like when I first met her, too,” Isabel agreed. “Now she’s going to be a wife and a stepmother, and probably a mother one day. I suppose it just goes to show you—love can change everything.”

“Very nice,” he said. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“No, just a keen observer.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “So about Erik—our father. One thing you’re bound to find out from Magnus is that my grandmother, Eva—Bubbie—was not Erik’s birth mother.”

“He was adopted?”

“Yes. Grandfather is very open about it—lately. But for the longest time, no one knew.” Isabel took a breath, then said in a rush, “Grandfather was his birth father.”

“Oh. So he was—”

“Please don’t say ‘banging’ again,” she said. “He will have to be the one to explain, and you’ll have to figure out how it fits into the story you’re writing. Erik’s birth mother was a woman named Annelise Winther.”

Mac said nothing, just stood there, his arms still crossed. She couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in a white T-shirt and jeans, his coloring deepened by the sunset. Finally, he asked, “Is she still living?”

“Yes. She lives in San Francisco.”

“Do you know her?”

“Thanks to Tess, I do now. Annelise is another survivor from the war years in Denmark,” Isabel explained. “She and my grandfather knew each other during the war. She’s actually...kind of wonderful. I’m hoping to get to know her better.”

“So you’re saying this woman had a baby, and Magnus and Eva raised him.”

“They did. We figured it out last year as we were going through old records and learned Bubbie could never have children. It was all a huge secret at the time.”

“That sort of thing was a bigger deal back then.”

“True. Now Grandfather wants it all out on the table, for my sake, and for Tess. You’re going to have to ask him what sort of arrangements they made in order to pull it off, because it seems they were very careful. Even the Navarros—they’ve lived and worked at Bella Vista for decades—claim they never knew.”

“And let me guess. Tess had a hand in figuring all this out.”

She nodded, feeling a flicker of surprise—at herself. She was giving up information like a singing canary. There was something about the intent way he listened that made her want to talk. Another reporter’s trick? Or was he actually a good listener? A rare trait in a guy.

“Tess is very good at research,” she continued. “In all the mountains of old family papers and records, she came across a medical file from the 1960s. From that, we figured out that Eva could never have children.” Isabel’s heart filled with sympathy for her lost grandmother. She could too-easily picture Bubbie as a hopeful young wife, getting the news that she had uterine cancer and needed a hysterectomy. In one cruel moment, the news would have taken away any dreams she’d had of having babies of her own.

“How much is it going to bug your grandfather when the subject comes up?” asked Mac.

She thought about it for a moment. “Ever since his accident last year, he’s been adamant about telling us everything. He seemed almost relieved when Tess and I asked about Erik’s birth mother.”

“Ah. Then you’re thinking it’s going to bug you.”

Ouch. “Bubbie was the only mother I ever knew. To find out, after all this time...I’m still getting used to the idea. And now it feels very strange that you plan to publish this whole story about my family. I keep trying to convince myself it’s not disrespectful.” She stared down at Bubbie’s headstone, wishing she could feel her presence once again, hear her voice, listen to her sing the cherry song one more time.

“In my experience, people are more comfortable with the truth than any lie,” said Mac. “Eventually.”

She leaned down and plucked a dockweed from the base of one of the stones, and then started down the hill toward the house. “I realize that. The fact that my grandfather had a baby out of wedlock is a key part of his story. I don’t understand why he did what he did.”

“Have you ever asked him?”

“No.”

“You should. It’s remarkable how much you can learn simply by asking.”

“Good point, but try asking your grandfather to explain something like that.”

“No, thanks. My granddad was a Freudian analyst. He probably would have liked the topic way too much. I never really knew my other grandfather. He owned a pub in Ireland, died when I was a little kid.”

“And the Freudian grandfather?”

“Total nut job, but he was a good listener.”

So are you. The thought crossed Isabel’s mind, taking her by surprise. “My grandfather has always been big on loyalty,” she said. “You’ll see that as you get to know him. When I found out about him and Annelise, it totally threw me off. It was hard to imagine Grandfather betraying his wife. He was—he’s always been—my moral compass.”

“Whoa. That’s a lot to ask of someone.”

“True. I’d hate to be someone’s moral compass,” she admitted.

He held open the wrought iron gate leading to the courtyard. A visceral hip-hop tune was playing on the workers’ radio. “I bet you’d be pretty good at it, Isabel.”

Her head snapped up as she passed through the gate in front of him. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said, his voice like the breeze, a soft caress. “But I want to.”