is amazing,” Cormac said. He surveyed the area. The weather was almost unbearably perfect today, a stark contrast to the scorching deserts, barren tundras and steamy jungles he often had to visit on assignment. In addition to the construction crew at the house, there were people in every section of the orchard, some working alone, some in teams. Farming was as foreign to Mac as picking out draperies. “And your home is beautiful.”
“Yes. I have enjoyed much good fortune in my life.”
It was a startling statement, given what little Mac knew of the man. Magnus Johansen had lost his family in the war, and had outlived his only son and his wife. He had survived a head injury not so long ago. And yet here he stood, elderly but still proud, beaming at his granddaughters. Mac was suddenly more interested in Magnus, anxious to find out how the man had endured all that, yet could still call himself lucky.
“So,” said Magnus. “We must get to know one another.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I’ve read some of your books. I’m honored that you’re going to be writing about me. I warn you, though. I have a very long story to tell.”
Mac’s gaze kept straying to Isabel. She clearly didn’t like him, and despite what his libido was telling him, he didn’t like her, either. Still, there was something about her, not just the slender ankles and the pretty dark hair, but some vibe that drew him, even as he told himself she was a complication he didn’t need in his life.
“I’ve got time,” he said.
“So how do you prepare for your first interview with your subject?” asked Isabel the next morning.
After dragging himself out of bed, Mac needed coffee, not questions. He noticed a soft hissing sound coming from the espresso machine. “So that magic cappuccino you made me yesterday—was that a one-time event or can I get another?”
“Depends on how you ask.”
“Please. Begging here. Charge me anything you like. Put it on my tab.”
“I might just do that.” She didn’t smile, but her eyes were light as she ground some coffee beans into a one-shot filter.
Mac inhaled the aroma and watched her expertly pull the shot and then steam the milk with a wand. He liked watching her work, each movement economical, efficient. He liked watching her, period. What the hell? If he was going to be stuck in paradise for a while, he might as well enjoy the view.
“You and Grandfather can have coffee on the patio, and then get to work on your project. It’s quiet out there until the workmen arrive. After that, he can show you more of Bella Vista.”
“Thanks. Will you and Tess be joining us?”
She hesitated, glanced back over her shoulder at him. “It’s Grandfather’s story.”
“You’re part of it. Just figured you might want to hear what he has to say.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose....”
“Sure we do,” said Tess, coming into the kitchen. She was wearing some crazy headpiece, a white net thing with a big fake flower made of feathers. Noticing his stare, she said, “Do you like my fascinator?”
It looked weirdly similar to Isabel’s beekeeping veil. “Your what?”
“My fascinator. I’m trying out different looks for the wedding.” She turned her head this way and that. Tess was a pretty woman—and who didn’t like a redhead—but the lopsided headgear didn’t do much for her.
“I never give fashion advice before I’ve had my morning coffee,” he said.
Isabel set a perfect bowl-shaped cup of cappuccino in front of him. “Good answer.”
“Bless you,” he said, savoring the first creamy sip.
Tess picked up a painted serving tray. “Let me help you carry.”
“Thanks.” Isabel held the door leading out to the patio. Mac followed with his coffee and his cane, and a satchel of files and photographs he’d stayed up late studying last night. Magnus sat at a wrought iron and tile table with his coffee, the two cats swirling around his ankles. “Grandfather, is it all right if we join you for a bit?”
“Of course. Particularly since you’ve brought sustenance.” He eyed the tray of food.
It looked like a food magazine layout, featuring a variety of cheeses with fresh berries on brightly painted Italian pottery, and a tiny glass container of honey with the smallest spoon he’d ever seen.
Isabel laced a thread of honey across the cheeses. “These are my favorite honey and cheese pairings. Comté, Appenzeller and ricotta. I had my first honey harvest last summer—a small one. That’s when I realized I needed expert help with my beekeeping.”
“Sorry I wasn’t your guy,” said Mac.
“Please, sit down and let’s enjoy the morning.” Magnus gestured at the chairs.
It was all Mac could do not to wolf down the whole snack tray. But he’d been trained by the best, his redoubtable mother, who had taught her six sons diplomatic protocol and etiquette as if it were her job. He made himself a small plate, sipped his coffee and settled in, curious to find out more about Magnus, his beauteous granddaughters and the place they called home.
Magnus smoothed his weather-beaten hands over the legs of his trousers. “So. Here we all are. It is hard to conceive of, my life in a book. I don’t know where to begin.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mac said. “Whatever crosses your mind.”
“Bella Vista,” Magnus said without hesitation. “This place is always on my mind. Perhaps I even imagined it before I realized it was quite real.” He flexed his fingers, resting them on his knees, and said, “When I was a boy in Denmark, we would go to the cinema on Saturday afternoons, and naturally my favorites were the films about cowboys and Indians in the Wild West. I always envisioned America as this vast, unsettled land, a place of endless opportunity. It never looked like this in the picture show. My schoolmates and I yearned to come here, but I never thought I would. It was more like a place of dreams.”
In an odd way, Mac could relate. He, too, had grown up far from the States, and he, too, had been drawn to its larger-than-life, practically mythic aspect. His impressions had been formed by watching old VHS tapes of Nickelodeon series. Instead of the Wild West of Magnus’s imagination, he had been filled with mental pictures of schools populated by perky girls with ponytails, a row of candy-colored lockers and stern but good-hearted teachers capable of solving a spunky kid’s problems before each thirty-minute segment was up.
“Do you recall when you made the decision to come here?” Isabel asked.
The old man rested his hands atop his cane. “There was no decision. It was an act of desperation. And survival.”
Mac put his phone on the table. “I’ve got a digital recorder app. Do you mind?”
“No,
