personality.
Why here? Sonoma was dotted with charming small towns frequented by tourists. Why Archangel, of all places? And why now, just as she was creating the life she’d always wanted?
She grabbed the magazine, determined to distract herself, and caught a glimpse of another tidbit of advice: Take down your walls. He can’t see you if you’re hiding something. Oh, boy. When it came to putting up walls, she was a master bricklayer. But how would a guy notice if she quit doing that?
Wear something sexy was next on the list. Clearly, this article was not meant for her. She brushed at a grass stain on her beekeeping coveralls and impatiently turned the page.
A piece called “Wedding Wonders” jumped out at her. Perfect. As Tess’s maid of honor, Isabel was knee-deep in wedding plans. The article admonished her to keep things simple. Right, she thought. With Tess and Dominic, nothing was ever simple. Dominic had two kids from his previous marriage, and multiple relatives, some of them coming all the way from Italy. Keeping track of everyone was a major juggling act. Yet Tess was blissful; that was clear to anyone seeing the light in her eyes.
As a girl, Isabel used to dream of her own wedding, but she’d put that aside at the same time she’d set aside her plans to study the culinary arts and earn her chef’s credentials. She had found other things to focus on—Bubbie, whose cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatment had thrown darkness over everyone at Bella Vista as she became sicker and eventually passed away. Then the estate itself, sinking deeper and deeper into debt as they battled the insurance company that had rejected the claim for Bubbie’s treatment. On the heels of that, Grandfather had fallen from a ladder in the orchard and was in a coma for weeks. Tess, whom Isabel had not met until that incident, had appeared out of nowhere, a redheaded reminder of the fact that their mutual father, Erik, had been a scoundrel right up until the moment of his death in a fiery car crash.
But as Bubbie used to say—out of the worst winter will always come a brilliant springtime. Tess and Isabel had turned into the best of friends, and thanks to Tess’s relentless research, they’d recovered from the brink of disaster, and had turned the fortunes of Bella Vista around.
Life could be very distracting, thought Isabel. And that was a good thing. It kept her from focusing on things that couldn’t be changed, such as the fact that she’d never finished culinary school, or that she’d allowed one failed relationship to keep her closed up tight inside a hard, protective shell. Now she had a new project that consumed her every waking moment—the cooking school. It was true that she didn’t have the official certification from a prestigious institute, but she had something that couldn’t be taught—a God-given talent in the kitchen.
She clung to that gift, grateful to let the passion consume her and fill her days with a joyous pursuit. She believed living and feeling well came from eating well, appreciating the simple things in life and spending time in the company of family and friends, and that was the mission of the Bella Vista Cooking School. The last thing in the world she needed was something to divert her attention from creating the world she had always dreamed of.
Cormac O’Neill returned to the waiting room, wearing a cotton print hospital smock that was open in the front from neck to navel, revealing his chest and abs. His abs had ridges. Ridges.
He didn’t seem to notice the way she was staring. “The patient will live to fight the swarm another day,” he said. “I need to grab a clean shirt and my wallet from the car.” Leaning on his cane, he ducked out briefly, then returned. Now he wore a clean black T-shirt with an Illuminati logo, the fabric stretched taut across his chest, defining its muscled shape.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” said Isabel, pretending not to notice the muscles.
He gave a clipboard and insurance card to the receptionist. “I’m okay to drive,” he said to Isabel. “I’ll give you a lift back to your place.”
“All right.” She quit trying to be sneaky about checking him out. He was probably onto her, anyway. He had to be used to it, surely. A guy couldn’t just walk around looking like that—flamboyant hair, big shoulders, piercing green eyes—and attract no notice.
She tucked the magazine under her arm. It was an outdated issue, anyway. No one would care if she borrowed it to finish a couple of articles.
“...if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Uh...mind? Mind what?” She made herself focus on his words.
“I need to stop at the pharmacy. The doc phoned in a couple of prescriptions. She said it’s just a few doors down.”
“Vern’s, with the striped awning,” she said as they left the clinic. “I’ll wait for you.”
She watched him make his way to the drugstore. Even with a limp and a cane, he seemed to walk with a swagger.
Tara Wilson, a teller at the bank, walked past with a cardboard tray of steaming coffee cups from Brew Ha Ha, a busy local café. She spied Cormac and nearly dumped the tray as she did a double take.
So it’s not just me, thought Isabel, getting into the Jeep. For the first time in ages, she tried to recall the last time she’d gone out with a guy, or even stayed home and made out with one. Ah, she was so bad at dating. It simply had not been a priority of hers. She didn’t like that vulnerable feeling that took over when she was drawn to someone—and so she didn’t allow herself to be drawn to anyone. Sometimes, though, it couldn’t be helped.
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
