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       Chapter Eight

      “Isabel? Someone’s here to see you.” Ernestina Navarro stepped into Isabel’s study, a small space tucked into an alcove near the main kitchen. One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases crammed with cookbooks, which she’d been collecting ever since she was a little girl. The other walls were pinned with pictures she’d collected as inspiration for the renovation, and with lists and ideas for the upcoming wedding. There was a needlepoint sampler from an old family friend with the phrase “Live This Day” embroidered in the middle.

      Isabel looked up from the mood board she’d been studying for far too long. The day after her uncomfortable conversation with Cormac O’Neill, she had escaped into work. But she couldn’t escape her own thoughts. He had a way of saying things that stuck with her, turned over and over in her mind as she speculated on the meaning.

      You don’t know me.

      No, but I want to.

      Focus, she commanded herself. There was plenty to be done, anyway. The task in front of her was to study the mood board in order to pick colors and finishes for the two guest suites at the end of the second-floor hallway. Only a year ago, she’d had no idea what a mood board was. Now she was intimately familiar with the device, used by designers to present options for colors, textures and patterns. Isabel discovered that she could look at mood boards all day, and still not make a decision.

      The designer in charge of the guest rooms at Bella Vista offered far too many choices. Should the upholstery be navy graphic or ecru abstract? Sandy-brown or celery-green on the walls? Wrought iron or glass sconces? And that was just for one of the suites. Isabel found it all bewildering, though she knew the details were important.

      “Thanks,” she said to Ernestina, and swiveled to face her computer screen. She typed a quick note to the designer, telling him to go with the navy, the sandy-brown and the wrought iron. There, she thought, pushing back from the desk. Done. “Who is it?”

      “Jamie Westfall.”

      “Oh, good. The beekeeper.” Sliding her feet into sandals, she made her way down the hall to the main entryway. It was too bad he hadn’t shown up in time for the whole swarm drama. But it was springtime and there was still plenty of work to be done.

      She stopped in the foyer, startled by the sight of her visitor.

      Jamie Westfall was a woman. A very young woman. With tattoos, short, razor-cut, purple streaked hair...and what was almost assuredly a baby bump. The girl was long-legged and thin, wearing tight shorts and a Queensrÿche T-shirt stretched over her protruding tummy.

      “Hi, I’m Isabel,” she said, mentally regrouping. “I sent you a message the other morning.”

      “Yes.” The girl offered a fleeting smile and ducked her head. “Sorry, I didn’t see it in time to help you out.”

      “That’s all right. The swarm got away. But I’ve still got some overcrowded hives that need to be divided, and I’m quickly finding out that I’m in over my head. I’d love to get your advice about my hives.”

      “Sure, I can try to help you out.” She seemed soft-spoken, almost bashful in contrast to her hair and tattoos.

      “Let me get you something to drink, and then we’ll head out to the hives. I’ve got a pitcher of lavender lemonade made with Bella Vista honey.”

      “Sounds great. Thanks.” The girl looked around, wide-eyed, her gaze skimming over the surroundings of the foyer—a rustic table set against the wall, where eventually a guest book would go. Above that hung a large mirror Tess had found at a flea market, and on the opposite wall hung the main focus of the space—a stunning, mission-era scene painted by Arthur Frank Mathews. It was an original. Isabel didn’t even dare ask Tess about its value. She was certain the number would stress her out.

      “Um, could I use the restroom?” asked Jamie.

      “Yes, of course. It’s just there, down that hallway.” Isabel pointed. “Take your time. I’ll go get the lemonade.”

      As she went to the kitchen and poured the drinks, Isabel readjusted her mind around the beekeeper. She’d been expecting a guy with a battered pickup truck plastered with Ag Extension stickers. Not a teenage pregnant girl.

      Setting out some honey shortbread cookies to go with the lemonade, she flashed on memories of her grandmother, offering refreshments to anyone who was lucky enough to come through the kitchen door. As a working farm, Bella Vista was always busy with workers, some seasonal and others permanent. In my kitchen, everyone is family, Bubbie used to say, beaming as the orchard workers, mechanics or gardeners gladly wolfed down her baked goods.

      Knowing now what she did about her grandmother, Isabel wondered if there was a broader meaning to Bubbie’s pronouncement.

      Jamie came into the kitchen and set down her frayed army-surplus messenger bag. She looked scrubbed now, the hair framing her face damp. “It’s really beautiful here,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “What a nice place.”

      “Thanks. I’ve lived at Bella Vista all my life. I went away briefly for school, but...I had to cut it short, and ended up right back here.” Isabel often felt awkward, explaining that she’d never been anywhere. It made her feel incomplete, somehow. She handed Jamie a glass of lemonade. “Should we go take a look at the hives?”