While she waited, she paged through the purloined magazine and tried not to snoop around the Jeep, but it was hard to resist. The contents of a person’s car said so much about him. This one was cluttered, though not dirty. The dashboard was littered with receipts and a couple of maps with frayed edges. Who used a paper map anymore, in the age of smartphones and navigation devices? The stereo was old, too, the dial set to Pacifica Radio. There were CDs in the console—The Smiths, David Bowie, Led Zeppelin. Who played CDs anymore? She noticed some cards tucked in the visor—a parking pass of some sort, a driver’s license from out of state. She craned her neck and tilted her head to see. There were foreign characters on it, and from what she could see of the picture, he had a beard and mustache.
“Saudi Arabia,” he said, opening the door.
She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon?”
“The license. It’s from Saudi Arabia.”
“Do you live there?”
He tossed the pharmacy bag in the back and started the engine. “I don’t live anywhere.”
Isabel stood in the shower with the hot water pounding down on her. It was not yet noon, and her day had already been derailed. She tried to shake off the trouble—the lost swarm, the stranger showing up unexpectedly, the hasty trip to the clinic and then running into Calvin Sharpe, of all people.
She wanted to believe she’d moved on, that she was immune to him now, but she still remembered the naive trust she’d put in him, a chef instructor at the culinary institute, her mentor, her lover.
On the day all those illusions had been shattered, she had gone with him to one of the teaching kitchens to set up a laptop webcam so they could film a presentation. She had felt a special air of privilege at being his anointed favorite. It was then that she chose to confide in him that she’d missed her period; the home pregnancy test had registered positive.
She had not imagined he’d be pleased. But she never could have anticipated his reaction. Fury flashed like a lightning bolt. He’d slammed her against a stainless steel counter, pinning her there while he called her names that sliced her to ribbons and accused her of conniving to trap him. He’d slapped her across the face, and thrown her to the floor, her head striking the tiles with enough force to cause her to see stars. The attack was like being hit by a speeding car. It was that quick, that violent.
Long afterward, when she looked back on the incident that had broken her apart, she realized the signs had been there, if only she’d known how to read them. Calvin had been the classic and incredibly convincing charmer, drawing her into his exciting world.
What she’d failed to notice was his subtle exertion of power and control over her. He’d drawn her focus away from other instructors at culinary school. His way of playing the mentor had included subtle put-downs, eroding her confidence in ways she didn’t recognize until it was too late. He’d had answers for everything—what she should wear, how she should style her hair, the way she should angle the knife for julienne or brunoise. He expected her to be available every moment. Initially, she’d reveled in the attention, but as time went on, she came to realize he’d eclipsed everything else, even her long-held goals.
Her accidental pregnancy had taken the power and control away from him, and that was probably what had made him snap, his roiling anger erupting into pure violence.
Somehow she’d managed to drag herself up off the floor. With Calvin’s threats ringing in her ears, she had grabbed her things and left culinary school forever. He had overlooked one detail, however. The webcam on her laptop had recorded the incident. But she’d been too scared to take action by filing a complaint with the school, let alone the police. Instead, she’d buried her shame and kept herself hidden in the only safe place she knew—Bella Vista.
Today she was dealing with another unexpected arrival—a man with whom she had no past at all. Cormac O’Neill didn’t appear to have a cruel streak, but he was distracting in an entirely different way. He made her think about things like how lonely she sometimes felt, even when she was keeping herself busy with other things.
Wash away, she told herself. Let’s just wash the day away and hit the reset button. She used soap made from Bella Vista honey and lavender, inhaling the scent of the luxurious foam and wishing she could just stand here all day. Not possible. There was too much to do. She was not going to let a stranger named Cormac O’Neill rearrange the day’s plans for her, even though he’d already set back her schedule by two hours.
She dressed in a softly gathered skirt, sandals and a gauzy, loose-fitting blouse, light and comfortable in the warm weather. Her dark heavy curls—a legacy from the mother she’d never known—would dry in the sunshine today. Spring was in full bloom, and she had tons to do, starting with supervising the workers who were fixing a pergola over the new section of the patio, which had been expanded to make way for guests.
With its central fountain, wrought iron chairs and café tables with cobalt-blue majolica tile, the open-air space would be a gathering place—first for Tess and Dominic’s wedding guests, and later, starting in the fall, for people who came to attend the cooking school. Isabel wanted it to be as beautiful and inviting as a vintage California hacienda, and she’d planned the project down to the last golden limestone paver.
This had always been a private home, but this summer, it would be opened to the world. The estate had lain in slumber like an enchanted kingdom, and now it was finally waking up, opening its embrace to new energy. New life.
Yet despite all the details that needed attending to, her mind kept flitting to Cormac O’Neill. She reminded herself that his business was with her grandfather, not her. A biography. Why hadn’t Grandfather told her about this?
On her way down to the kitchen, she paused on the landing, which featured a wall-sized mirror. For some reason, she flashed on a bit from the article she’d seen in the waiting room—Wear something sexy. It just wasn’t her style. She favored clothes that were long, loose and drapey. Concealing. The most formfitting garment she owned was her chef’s apron. Sometimes she wished she had her sister’s natural eye for fashion, but when Isabel tried for that, she felt self-conscious, like a kid playing at dress up. She hadn’t even settled on her maid-of-honor dress.
Tess was at the kitchen counter, gazing out the window and eating a wedge of bee sting cake, cream filled and glossy with a crust of honeyed almonds. “If you don’t quit feeding me like this,” Tess scolded, “I’m never going to fit into my wedding dress.”
“That was for the workmen,” Isabel said. She’d quickly learned that construction guys needed baked goods to keep them at peak performance.
Tess shook back her glossy red hair. She had been growing it long in order to wear it up on her wedding day. “Couldn’t resist. Sorry. So where have you been all morning?”
“Dealing with your friend, Cormac O’Neill.”
Tess brightened. “Oh! He’s here?”
All glorious six-foot-something of him. “He got stung by bees and had an allergic reaction, so I took him to the clinic in town.”
“Oh, my gosh. Is he—”
“He’ll be fine. He says he’s here to work on Grandfather’s biography. Do you know anything about that?”
“Sure.” Tess paged through her wedding notebook, which was stuffed with lists and clippings of flowers, food and decor.
“Why didn’t you