A Beeline to Murder

Time spent in a garden is a lot like yoga; it slows the breath, quiets the mind, and guides you to the truth.

While Philippe played with Sugar in the orchard area, Abby took a quick shower and changed into a lime-colored silk blouse with embroidery trim in a yellow paisley pattern along the edges of the capped sleeves and hem, straight-leg jeans, and black Mary Jane flats. She brushed her hair into a ponytail and twisted the end back under a rubber band to make a thick knot. After a quick application of mascara to her light lashes, she chose a soft shade of peach lip gloss and smoothed a fingertip of it across her lips. The use of blush was not possible because of her injured cheek. She decided that a drop of rosemary and lemon oil dabbed against her temples couldn’t hurt; the herbalist who sold it to her had emphasized its qualities for enhancing mental clarity and concentration. And today Abby needed all the help she could get as she met with Otto at the police station to talk through the loose ends of the pastry chef’s murder. The evidence boxes were already loaded into the Jeep and she was eager to return them to the police.

Strolling onto the patio, into a light breeze, she imagined the wind carrying away the ugly vibe of the skinhead who’d attacked her. Since buying the farmette, she’d always felt safe and peaceful there, as though the more she nurtured the land, the more it nourished her spirit. Her assailant had stalked her like prey, and the memory of it would always be with her. But for Abby to live in fear meant he had taken her power, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.

Although the farmette was a peaceful place, it was never quiet—what with the squawking of jays and the endless hoarse cawing of crows, which had taken up residence in the tall pine near the front of her property. Now, as on most other days, Abby watched them flap, flap, flap overhead without gliding as they flew from the massive sugar pine to the eucalyptus grove at the rear of her property.

Philippe stopped his game of fetch with Sugar to watch the crows, too. He and Sugar walked over to the patio.

“This place, Abby, it is special,” he said. “I feel content, and that surprises me. I have always felt more at ease in cities.”

“Well, it just means you’ll have to visit Sugar and me as often as possible,” Abby said. She held his jacket in one hand and jiggled the car keys in the other. “Ready?”

“Oui.” Philippe dropped the stick he’d been throwing to the dog and brushed his hands together a few times, apparently to rid them of dirt from the stick and Sugar’s slobber. “Did you know Sugar can do tricks?”

Abby smiled. “What kind of tricks?”

“Fetch.”

“Really? Does she find the stick and bring it back?” Abby wondered why Sugar had never fetched for her.

“Well, no. She goes after it, but she does not bring it back.”

“Then, technically, I don’t think it’s a trick. But we’ll work on it, won’t we, Sugar?”

Sugar trotted over and stretched down on her forepaws, looking up at Abby with large brown eyes. She wagged her tail happily, as if in anticipation that she would accompany the humans during an outing, which she already sensed.

Abby already felt guilty for not wanting to take Sugar to the police station, and her heart melted as she looked at Sugar’s sweet face, with its expression of trust. She knelt and scratched the short hairs behind Sugar’s ears. “Good girl. I love you for protecting me, Sugar.”

“What about me?” Philippe asked. “I threw the stone.”

“Of course you did!” Abby said, looking over at Philippe and smiling. “You hit him squarely on the shoulder. Your aim was perfect.”

“Well, not exactly,” Philippe admitted sheepishly. “I was aiming for his head.”

Abby laughed and stood. “But at least you nailed him, and not Sugar or me.”

Philippe gave her a quick hug. “You know, Abby, when I first saw this place, I couldn’t understand why you would choose to live out here. I thought how difficult it would be for me to live without art galleries, the opera house, and a symphonic hall all within walking distance or, at the very least, a taxi ride away. But I think I understand. It is your paradise, n’est-ce pas?”

“I suppose it is. Not quite paradise, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

After a beat, Philippe said, “When I return to New York, come with me. I’ll introduce you to my parents. They’ll love you. And we will get to know each other better, ma chérie.”

Abby felt a momentary rush of excitement. New York. The Big Apple. A place she’d always wanted to see someday. But how on earth could she possibly get away now, when she had fallen behind with her planting and renovation projects? She said nothing but swallowed hard.

An awkward moment ensued. Abby maintained her silence, pondering how to respond to his invitation. In the silence, an unwelcome tension arose between them. Abby sensed it, and her stomach tightened. Finally, she touched his arm and said tenderly, “You know I’d love to . . . someday . . . but I can’t leave the farmette now, not with seeds still to go into the ground . . . and the harvesting of stone fruit for canning . . . and the honey flow just starting. Then there’s Sugar, who needs training, and those plywood countertops, which need replacing, and the bathroom renovation . . . all before the rains come . . . our season of winter.”

“I understand, Abby. I do.” Philippe stepped back and gestured to the house. “I’ll just wash my hands and be right out.”

Abby knelt and hugged Sugar. She fought back tears. Why shut him down like that with a litany of excuses? She felt like kicking herself. When had anyone as handsome and as charming as Philippe Bonheur ever invited her to his home to meet his family? Never. Not even Clay, who supposedly had truly loved her, had done this. Maybe Kat was right and she just needed to open her heart to those around her, to start having a social life, and to enjoy the men she met for as long as the relationship worked. If she didn’t get out more, there was a good possibility she’d end up alone.

The unspoken tension created a gulf between Abby and Philippe that remained as they left the farmette and drove toward town. However, as soon as they passed some vineyards, Philippe broke the silence, telling Abby that he was beginning to appreciate the provincial charm of small-town life. As he extolled the virtues of rural life from his perspective, Abby felt the tense muscles of her body relaxing.

“Really?” she said.

“C’est vrai.” He flashed one of those charming smiles at her, and she relaxed even more.

As she listened to Philippe free-associating, Abby concluded that he was considering the possibility of returning to visit her and Sugar, perhaps around Thanksgiving or Christmas. It would give him a good excuse to leave the family gallery in New York and check on their other gallery in San Francisco. He could spend part of the time enjoying her company.

“How would you feel about that, Abby?” he asked.

“Sounds lovely, Philippe. It gives me a reason to finally get the kitchen finished.” She felt happy that he’d given her a second chance to say yes to the possibility of a relationship. . . or at least to a visit, which had more to do with the birth of new possibilities than with another ending.

Abby guided her Jeep into a parking spot in front of the police department. Philippe placed one evidence box in Abby’s arms and took the other. Inside they met Nettie, who was still on crutches, and she led them to the office of the Otto Nowicki, the acting chief of police in the absence of Bob Allen.

“Hello, Abby. Mr. Bonheur,” said Otto, extending a pasty white hand to Philippe, who juggled the box so that he could shake Otto’s hand. “Kat told me to expect you two. She also laid out your theory, Abby, but we have a problem. Your prime suspect is recently deceased.”

“I heard about it. I don’t think it’s an insurmountable problem,” Abby replied. She looked briefly around the office and realized there was not a single uncluttered surface on which they could put the boxes. She set the evidence box in her arms on the floor, next to Otto’s small desk. Philippe followed her lead and sat down.

Abby knew these four walls all too well. The space had been promised to her by Bob Allen, along with a promotion, which had never materialized. “Too good,” he’d told her. She was too good at what she did to leave the streets, whether she liked it or not. The truth be told, he felt threatened by smart women in positions of authority. Chief Bob Allen made no excuse for believing as he did that only men could serve effectively as police chiefs, since men wouldn’t want to take orders from a woman. But that was then.... She didn’t need to think about that anymore.

“Heard about your attack this morning. You okay?”

“Yes,” Abby replied. “My attacker got a name?” She sat down and leaned forward in her chair. “Can you tell me why he singled me out?”

“His name is Roy Sweeney. Ring any bells?”

“I know a Harlan Sweeney, a rough-around-the-edges guy who practically lives at the Black Witch when he isn’t in his double-wide, watching episodes of Street Outlaws.”

“Well, I interviewed Roy Sweeney. He’s Harlan’s cousin by marriage on his father’s side. He’s been staying with Harlan since being paroled a month ago. Roy told us that your friend Mr. Bonheur attacked him with a rock and that he was just defending himself.”

“Well, the rock part is true,” Abby said, looking over at Philippe, who was shaking his head, apparently in disbelief. “But did he mention that he was trespassing on my property, casing it in the wee hours of the morning, that he tried to rape me, and that he threatened to kill my dog?”

“He left those details out. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that he’s got a rap sheet with a lot of priors . . . assault, burglary, illegal drug possession, sexual assault. Now, with the probation violation and the attack on you, his future doesn’t look too bright. He’s got himself boxed into a corner.”

“Has he lawyered up yet?” Abby asked.

“No.”

Abby smiled at Philippe. “That’s a good thing, because Otto can ratchet up the pressure on him. I’m wondering if he had anything to do with Eva Lennahan’s murder.”

Otto looked at Abby with a poker-faced expression. “You know I can’t talk about an open investigation.” He rapped his fingers on the desk, as if thinking about something. Then, after a beat, he rose and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bonheur. Would you give us a moment?”

“Mais oui,” Philippe replied, rising from his chair.

“I’ll be right out, Philippe,” Abby said.

Philippe followed the chief to the door just as Nettie hobbled up.

“I’ll take him to the waiting area,” she said to Otto and Abby.

After closing the door, Otto sat back down. “So we’ve got a history, you and I, and let’s just say you’ve helped me out more than once. So keep this to yourself, Abby. The vic—that is, Eva Lennahan—was a town council member who was running for mayor. You know that, right?”

“Yes. I know of her. Met her once,” Abby answered.

“Her campaign manager called us after she went missing.”

“Okay. So her campaign manager, not her husband?”

“No. He left for the Caribbean yesterday. My sources tell me that he’s in bad shape, grieving and all.”

“Well, I knew he was planning to go there for his birthday,” Abby said, “with Chef Jean-Louis, but that’s neither here nor there. You were saying about her campaign manager?”

“He knew her password to a phone location app and tracked her phone pinging off the tower closest to the Redwood cutoff.”

“Well, besides the tower, there’s nothing up there but brush, steep canyons, and a serpentine road that twists through the mountains.”

“All the way up to Vista Point,” Otto said, finishing her thought. “She had been at a fundraiser at the Las Flores Inn. No one saw her leave.”

“Why was she up at the Redwood cutoff, then?”

Otto shook his head. “It’s anybody’s guess. Perhaps she was lured up there by someone she knew.”

“How was she killed?”

“Strangled, looks like, with her own scarf, according to the coroner.”

“You said her campaign manager tracked her phone.... Did you find it with the body?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Anything taken from the scene? Her purse?” Abby asked.

“Her purse had been riffled through. No money in the wallet. A credit card was dropped on the seat, and a lipstick on the floorboards. A woman like her always has cash and cards. Her killer probably took the rest of her cards and her phone. Her campaign manager said he had searched everywhere and had finally resorted to pinpointing her location by tracking her phone. It was triangulating at the Redwood cutoff. That’s when he called us, and we sent a cruiser out to check on her. But the campaign manager called back to say the phone had begun pinging off a different tower, one in the south county, city of Baxter, and after that in Juniper Ridge, heading out of the county.”

“You know what this means, don’t you, Otto?”

“Yep . . . Our person of interest took her phone and is on the move.”

“Find her phone, and we find our guy,” Abby said.

“We’ve notified law enforcement in the south county. Put out a BOLO. They’ve established roadblocks. Our perp is trapped. Shouldn’t be long now.”

“Hope so. Whoever killed Eva Lennahan, I believe, was involved in helping her kill our pastry chef, too. Eva was probably killed to shut her up. That’s what I think.”

Otto was grinning widely. “Knowing that we’re going to close this case makes me hungry. How about let’s head down to the break room? I’m off that diet,” he said. “Didn’t work, anyway, and Nettie brought in some chocolate chip cookies this morning. Hungry?”

“Not really, but I’ll walk with you,” Abby said.

Stepping out of Otto’s office, Abby heard Kat’s voice coming through Otto’s radio. “Ten-nineteen with Harlan Sweeney in custody . . . ETA . . . five minutes.”

Abby suppressed an urge to high-five Otto. She felt giddy with excitement. Abby knew how things would proceed now. Harlan Sweeney would be interviewed before being booked into the county jail. Abby just hoped the evidence would support a charge of capital murder. He was in this up to his elbows, with Eva Lennahan most likely calling the shots, until she pushed him the wrong way or Abby’s investigation caused him to be concerned about being found out. But Abby knew these were just her suspicions. Otto would have to back him into a corner if he was going to trip up Harlan Sweeney with his own statements.

They entered the break room. Otto poured himself a cup of coffee, added sugar, and then made a beeline for the cookies.

Watching Otto pop a cookie in his mouth and wash it down with sugary coffee, Abby said wryly, “Well, some things haven’t changed.”

“Carbs reduce my stress,” Otto confessed, reaching for another cookie. “Want one?”

“I’ll pass. More for you.”

Abby suggested that Otto push hard on Roy Sweeney. “Those two have a linkage in more ways than as blood relatives,” Abby said. Leaning against the wall, she added, “I’m thinking he’s weaker than his cousin Harlan. Implicate them both in Eva’s murder, and I think Roy will sing like a songbird.”

“Roy will say he was busy when Eva Lennahan died, and he’d be right,” Otto said. “In a strange twist of irony, you, Abby, will be his alibi. He’ll say he was defending himself against your friend Mr. Bonheur here, who tried to kill him with a stone after he mistakenly walked onto your property and roused your dog.”

Abby asserted, “Well, the dog . . . Sugar was protecting me from that thug.”

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the conversation. Her question intended for Otto, Nettie called out, “Which interview room?”

“Number two,” Otto called back. “I’m thinking it’s going to be a long day,” he said.

Kat marched a disheveled Harlan Sweeney in handcuffs past the break room and toward the interview rooms. Another officer, whom Abby didn’t know and who, she surmised, was a new recruit, judging from his youthful face, followed Kat and the handcuffed Harlan.

“Good luck,” Abby said. “Philippe and I will be waiting for news.”

Otto nodded and gave her a half smile, which, Abby knew from working with him, meant that he was already thinking of the order of the questions and his approach to the interview.

It was 6:12 p.m. when Abby got a text from Kat asking her where she was. Abby replied via text that she and Philippe were at his brother’s apartment, packing the last items to be shipped to New York. Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. Leaving the bags of leftover bubble wrap, packing paper, and clear tape, Abby offered to answer the door.

“Hey there, girlfriend. Could we talk for a minute in the cruiser?” Kat asked, glancing past Abby toward the open door to the bedroom, where Philippe was tucking books of a similar size into cardboard boxes.

“Sure,” Abby said. She called out to Philippe, “I’m going outside for a moment to chitty-chat with Kat. I’ll be right back.”

He smiled and, flicking his fingers sideways, waved her on.

On their way to the cruiser, Kat said softly, “Otto and I thought you’d like to be the one to inform Philippe that Harlan Sweeney has confessed to murdering Chef Jean-Louis and also Eva Lennahan. And it went down, Abby, just like you said. Harlan Sweeney heard Etienne spreading that ridiculous lie about Jean-Louis and figured Eva could use it to her advantage.”

“How did someone like Eva know a thug like Harlan Sweeney?”

“Mutual associates. The night the chef died, Eva met Harlan in the alley behind the bar and the pastry shop, where they sat in her black Mercedes and hatched their plan to kill the chef.”

Kat opened the cruiser door and slid into the driver’s seat. Abby climbed in on the passenger side and waited as Kat scrolled to an image on her laptop. “Do you know what this is?”

Abby looked closely at a picture of a gold medallion hanging from a chain. “Looks like a man’s necklace. Saint Honorius, I think. Where did you get it?”

“Harlan Sweeney had it in his pocket, along with Eva’s credit cards, when I took him in.”

“That looks like the medal the chef always wore.”

“That’s what I thought. And it has a nice fat fingerprint on it that could be Sweeney’s.”

“Assuming Jean-Louis was wearing it when he was killed—and Harlan Sweeney removed it from the body—this could be the proof that you’ll need to prove he’s a murderer, just in case he tries to retract that confession.” Abby studied the medallion closely. “See the imagery there? It tells you that this man is Honorius, or Honoré, as they say in French. In his right hand, he holds a paddle for sliding loaves of bread into the oven. On the table are the loaves. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”

“I figured there was no need to research this, since you’d probably know what it is. You’ve got more trivia in your brain than anyone I have ever met.”

“Why, thank you.”

“So, this is how we think it played out,” Kat said. “Eva Lennahan paid Harlan Sweeney five thousand dollars to help her murder the chef. The Black Witch was about to close when Eva sent Sweeney back in to buy a couple of glasses of brandy. Eva—who suffers from asthma and carries capsules of diphenhydramine around with her—heavily spiked one of the drinks. She knocked on the pastry shop back door, told the chef that she wanted to talk and that she’d brought drinks in honor of his upcoming birthday.”

“Okay. I’m with you so far.”

“According to Sweeney, Eva told the chef she wanted discuss the upcoming Caribbean trip her husband had scheduled. Of course, she knew that Jean-Louis would be going with him, and that infuriated her. Once inside the pastry shop, Eva made small talk until the chef could no longer fight off sleep. She had used several high-dose capsules, and it took only about twenty minutes, Sweeney said. At some point, she motioned for Sweeney to come in. He overpowered Jean-Louis, then strung up the chef with a long piece of twine that Jean-Louis kept in a bucket in his shop kitchen. Apparently, he recycled the twine taken from the daily newspaper bundles.”

“What about the messy kitchen? It was so unlike Chef Jean-Louis to have his work area in such disarray.”

“All part of the staging, during which Eva lost her earring.”

“Dora must have arrived at the back door for her coffee shortly afterward,” Abby said. “Poor woman. I can only wonder what she must have been thinking as she cut the body down and removed the twine from around his neck.”

“As I told you already, we found the chef’s apron and the rest of the twine in a plastic bag in Dora’s shopping cart.”

“I cannot even imagine how she must have felt seeing him like that. It had to be traumatic for her,” Abby said, reaching back to adjust her ponytail. “If money was Sweeney’s motivation to murder the chef, what motivated him to kill Eva?”

Kat shook her head. “He is such an idiot. He was afraid she’d talk. But he was the one doing the talking. He likes booze. Drank too much and spilled to his cousin what they’d done.” Kat met Abby’s gaze. “Don’t you remember me telling you when we met him in the bar that night that his kind mouthed off too much and that would be his undoing sooner or later?”

Abby nodded. “His cousin Roy Sweeney might have been next on his list. It’s crazy.” She looked toward the apartment. Philippe was standing in the doorway, the light behind him. He was leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets, grinning and shaking his head, apparently finding it humorous that the two women were hunkered down, heads together, in conversation . . . in the cruiser.

“I need to get back, Kat,” said Abby. “But I have to know why Roy Sweeney attacked me.”

“As a favor to Harlan, who was giving him shelter and a helping hand. Those two were not too happy about how you were turning up the heat on the investigation just when they hoped it would go down as a suicide. It was payback for your interference.”

“What a hot mess!” Abby said. “But thank goodness, it’s all over.”

“Yeah. I hear you.” Kat leaned down and looked past Abby out the window. “When is Philippe flying back to New York?”

“I suppose soon, now that his brother is buried and the Sweeneys are in jail,” Abby replied.

“He’ll be back,” Kat said. “He seems to appreciate you. If he doesn’t come back because his heart tells him to, then he’ll surely return to visit his brother’s grave, and let us not forget, the trial of his brother’s murderer. . . .” Kat heaved a tired sigh. “Well, that’s it, girlfriend. I think I’ll head home now, take a shower, have a sandwich, and call it a night.”

Abby leaned over and gave Kat a quick hug. “You’re the best,” she whispered. “Thank you, Kat.”

“Thank me? No, I think we should all be thanking you. This case was closed until you gave us a reasonable theory and evidence to reopen it.”

Abby grinned and allowed herself to feel a moment of personal pride before getting out of the car and waving good-bye. Philippe had strolled away from the apartment’s doorway and was walking toward her.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“More than all right,” Abby answered. “It’s over, Philippe. Two people took your brother’s life. One is dead, and the other is in police custody.”

“And the police, they can prove it was murder?” Philippe asked as they headed back to the apartment.

“Yes. Well, they’ll give the case to the DA to prove in court. But the murderer is going away for good.”

Philippe ran his fingers through his hair. “Fantastique!” Once they were back inside the apartment, he closed the door and look at Abby tenderly. “What about the man who hurt you?”

“That hooligan is in custody, too.”

Philippe sighed and pulled her into his arms. “There is only the silverware to pack now. Let’s finish this tomorrow, Abby. You are welcome to stay in town tonight, or I could accompany you home . . . make sure you get there safely.”

Abby turned over the options in her mind. “Both are lovely choices, but home is calling. Sugar will be waiting for me, and I want to check on the bees and my chickens.”

Philippe stroked her hair and whispered, “I’ve never met anyone like you, Abby. Whatever happens, I hope you’ll always remember that for me you are a woman extraordinaire.”

Abby relaxed into his embrace. As she tilted her head up to look into his eyes, he leaned down and touched his warm, soft lips to her, at first kissing her slowly and then devouringly. Maybe Sugar and the chickens could wait a while longer; it wouldn’t be dark for a few more hours.

She melted under his kisses. He responded with a passion lit, apparently, by an inner fire. After gently pushing her against the wall, he pulled the elastic band from her hair, swooped the mass from her shoulders and began to kiss the length of her neck, earlobe to décolletage. As he reached for the top button of her blouse, his cell phone rang.

“Mon Dieu!” He fumbled with the button, ignoring the cell. When the phone continued to ring, he said in a voice edged with exasperation, “Let me answer and be done with it.” After pulling the phone from his pants pocket and glancing at the screen, he frowned. “C’est mon père.”

Abby sucked in a long breath and exhaled as Philippe answered the call from his father. She scanned his face for signs that the call brought good news or bad. When his expression darkened and he wiped his palm over his mouth and stepped away, turning his back to her, it became apparent that he needed to some space.

“Right,” she murmured and headed toward the kitchen to finish packing the utensil drawer. After a few moments, Philippe strode into the kitchen, still holding the phone to his ear.

“Eh bien! Je prends le premier vol demain.” He sighed heavily. “Moi aussi.”

Abby watched him pocket his phone and stare at the floor, a forlorn expression claiming his features. No longer did he look like the devastatingly handsome man about to make mad, passionate love to her. He looked vulnerable and sad, as if he’d lost his only friend. Abby dropped the forks, rushed over, and threw her arms around him, laying her face against his chest. They held each other in silence.

“What’s happened?” she asked finally.

Philippe kissed her head. He cleared his throat and in a husky voice said, “It’s my mother. This Parkinson’s disease—it has ravaged her body. It has robbed her of her mind. The pneumonia has cleared, but this is the second time she has had it in three months. My father says she doesn’t eat. She sleeps most of the time. Her tremors continue, even in her sleep. She thinks her husband is her brother. My father believes her time is coming to an end. He’s inconsolable.” Philippe curled a finger under Abby’s chin, then tilted her face upward. “I must go, Abby, back to New York tomorrow.” His eyes caressed her face.

“Of course,” Abby said, trying to convey understanding and strength in her tone. “Your family needs you.”

He bit his lower lip and nodded.

“The last of the packing is done. I can meet the shipper for you tomorrow . . . get all these boxes out of here, so you don’t have to think about anything but your parents,” Abby offered bravely.

Philippe nodded.

“So,” she said with hesitation, “I guess I’d better let you get on with packing your suitcase and checking flights leaving for the East Coast.”

“Not so fast,” Philippe said. “That can wait until morning.”

“Oh, I see,” Abby said, but she didn’t see. Surely he would not want to waste a minute more than necessary in Las Flores.

“Is it all right if I stay with you and Sugar tonight?”

Abby’s eyelids batted in sudden disbelief. “Really? Well . . . what I mean is . . . I’d love that.”

He grinned. “I intend to see to it that no one interferes with your sleep tonight . . . unless, of course, it’s me.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “How gallant of you.”

The ride home seemed shorter than usual. Abby explained how the killer had been caught through GPS tracking of the cell phone belonging to Eva Lennahan, the wife of Jean-Louis’s lover, Jake. And how Etienne had started the tragic spiraling of events leading to murder with his malicious lies. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “The cops have your brother’s Saint Honoré medallion, but they have to keep it for evidence. You will get it back after the trial.”

Philippe nodded. “I cannot thank you enough, Abby, for all you’ve done.” For the remainder of the ride home, he seemed deeply absorbed in thought, and Abby did not intrude.

Sugar met them at the driveway gate. “Down. Get down,” Abby said, kneeling to stroke the dog’s head and nose. Sugar licked her face, giving her multiple doggy kisses. “I know you’re glad to see me. I’m glad to see you, too . . . and so glad to be home.” Sugar ran from Abby to jump up on Philippe, pawing at his waist.

“No, no,” Abby commanded, but Philippe seemed not to mind Sugar’s excitement at being reunited. As they walked to the back of the house, Abby said, “She won’t let me out of her sight, Philippe. Will you play with her while I make us some mint tea? We can relax for a bit, and then I’ll make dinner. Okay with you?”

“Ah, oui. That sounds good, Abby.”

Abby smiled and walked inside the kitchen. It felt just like the old days, when Clay was around and the two of them moved in an easy rhythm of work and winding down. She kicked off her shoes but just as quickly picked them up for fear that Sugar would chew on them the moment she spotted them. Abby walked down the hallway and tossed the shoes in the bedroom closet, then closed the door securely. Back in the kitchen, she gave Sugar a rawhide bone to take outside.

After dropping ice cubes into two tall glasses, Abby turned on a burner, added water to a saucepan, and put it on to simmer. She strolled back outside and headed in the direction of the mint patch, where she plucked a handful of fresh green leaves. Back in the kitchen she paused to sniff the sweet scent of the summer mint before dousing it with cold water and then tossing it into the saucepan. After the mint had simmered long enough for the water to extract the flavor from it, Abby poured the tea over the ice cubes in the glasses, then sweetened each with honey. She cut up some honey cake into bite-size pieces and put everything on a tray, which she carried out to the patio.

As soon as Abby appeared with the tea and cake, Sugar trotted over, tail wagging. After handing a glass to Philippe, Abby sank into the old rocking chair. Philippe adjusted the cushion of the other chair, took a piece of the honey cake, and sat down beside her.

He put a bit of cake in his mouth. “Mmm,” he said. He reached for Abby’s hand.

She rocked slowly, secretly feeling delight at the warmth of Philippe’s hand around hers. He didn’t speak. Like her, he seemed to be soaking up the peacefulness of the early evening. She gazed at the eucalyptus trees next to the old house on the back acre. Branches swayed as the blue-green leaves rustled in the wind, which had begun to kick up, as it usually did around sunset. If the wind continued its summer pattern, the breezes would blow for a while. The mourning doves had descended from the olive tree to feed from the giant pottery saucer of birdseed that Abby kept filled near the back fence. A lone scrub jay screeched as it chased a flock of smaller birds from the firethorn bush sprawling between the two properties.

As the muscles in her body began to lose tension, Abby felt contentment take hold of her spirit. The rhythms of nature comforted her. All was right again on the farmette. More than right . . . Philippe was here to share the wild beauty of this place.

They sat in silence, the rocker quietly clicking on the stone surface of the patio. The sounds of the ice cubes groaning and plopping as they melted and moved to the bottom of the empty glasses reminded Abby that every day should end in such sublime sweetness. Torn between wanting to preserve the moment and knowing she should be getting up to make dinner, Abby looked over at Philippe. He was resting his head on the back of the chair, eyes closed. Abby heard a faint buzzing to the left of the patio, off near the bee apiary. The sound stirred Sugar off her haunches and into a state of alertness.

Philippe opened his eyes. He sat upright and turned toward the sound. After a moment, he pointed toward the wooden fence that partially cordoned off the apiary from the rest of the farmette. “There.”

Abby followed the line of his finger. She spotted a tiny swarm, no larger than a child’s fist, coalescing beneath the birdhouse she’d hung on the fence. “Well, bees, thank you for waiting,” Abby said, rising from the chair.

“What can I do to help?” Philippe asked, standing. A grin crinkled his face as he stood at the ready. “I shall be your knight in shining—”

“You’re not afraid of being stung again?”

His smile evaporated as he thought for a moment. “Do you have an extra bee suit?”

Smiling at his exuberance, Abby shook her head.

Seemingly dismayed, Philippe stared at her.

“The swarm is tiny, Philippe, and it’s so late in the day that they might just go back inside the hive,” Abby explained. “But, in case they’re indecisive, I’ve already placed a super close by with frames of wax and honey for when they are ready to make a move.”

Philippe drew a half step closer and put his arms around her. When Abby tilted her face upward, his gray-green eyes locked on hers. “Then, will you stay here with me?” he whispered huskily. “I am not indecisive like your bees. I am ready to make the moves.”

Abby sucked in a breath and let it escape in an effort to calm the sudden erratic beating of her heart. “What about dinner?” she teased. “Have you no appetite?”

“Au contraire. My hunger, it increases . . . for you.” Philippe flashed a sexy grin, slipped his hand under her blouse, and trailed his fingers along her waistline at her back. “Ma chérie, let us do what the bees do.”

The warmth of his touch against her flesh kindled sensuous feelings within Abby, feelings she no longer wanted to resist. Pricks of electricity arced through her body. “And, pray tell, what is that? Taking flight?”

“Non. Making something sweet,” he whispered, “of our time together.”

“In that case . . . ,” Abby mumbled as Philippe’s lips pressed hungrily against hers. We won’t need bee suits.

Old World Honey Cake

Ingredients:

1 cup honey (preferably dark and thick), plus 1
tablespoon for brushing the cake
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
½ teaspoon ground cardamom
2 teaspoons baking soda
½ cup softened unsalted butter
1 cup dark brown sugar
4 large egg yolks
½ cup natural Greek yogurt
½ cup cottage cheese (small curd)
1 tablespoon fresh orange zest
2½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
10 dates, pitted and diced
1 cup walnuts, finely chopped
½ cup seedless raisins
12 cup slivered almonds, for garnish (optional)

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 300°F. Grease a 10-inch tube pan.

Combine the honey, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamom in a small saucepan and bring it to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring often. Stir in the baking soda, remove from the heat, and let the honey-spice mixture cool.

In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter with the brown sugar. Beat in 1 egg yolk at a time. Fold the reserved honey-spice mixture into the butter-egg mixture and set aside.

In a small mixing bowl, mix together the yogurt, cottage cheese, and orange zest.

Sift half (1¼ cups) of the flour and the salt into the reserved honey-spice-butter mixture. In a medium mixing bowl, combine the remaining 1¼ cups flour, the dates, walnuts, and raisins. Fold the date-walnut mixture into batter. Fold the yogurt mixture into the reserved honey-spice-butter mixture.

Pour the batter into the prepared tube pan and bake for 1½ hours. Test for doneness by inserting a toothpick into the cake, which should have no batter on it when extracted.

Cool the cake for 15 minutes before inverting. Invert the cake onto a wire rack, and brush it with the remaining 1 tablespoon honey. Sprinkle the cake with slivered almonds, if desired. After the cake has completely cooled, store it in an airtight container in the refrigerator for 24 to 48 hours before serving.

Serves 8