Mostly Magic: Books of the Kindling

By Donna June Cooper

Books of the Kindling, Book Two

309 pages

One terrifying premonition brings them together. Another will threaten their future.

Do dreams come true? Dr. Daniel Woodruff hopes they don't, because his dreams predict a devastating future for him, for those he loves—and for the planet.

His latest premonition, which blows a huge crater in his eroding sanity, holds a singular horror—the loss of a wife and unborn child. Yet another reason he can let no one into his chaotic life, least of all a perky, persistent investigative reporter he finds simultaneously frustrating and fascinating.

Mel Noblett leaves no stone unturned in her one-woman crusade to save the environment. When a whistleblower in Italy proves too frightened to talk, Mel turns to a fall-back lead, an extremely eccentric, beekeeping professor who might just make the trip worthwhile.

Despite their instant attraction, Mel is relieved when Daniel keeps her at arm’s length. After all, she has a secret of her own—one that makes her preternaturally good at her job. And, when Daniel’s terrifying visions prove cannily accurate and begin to revolve around Mel—it is a gift that could put her life in danger.

Warning: Reluctant seer of a bleak future meets petite force of nature who lights up the heart of his darkness. Where there’s smoke, there could be an unpredictable blaze of passion, but the rewards are oh, so sweet…

Mostly Magic is the second book in the Books of the Kindling, a science fantasy romance series that focuses on Woodruff Mountain, the ancient power beneath it, and the family that has hidden its secrets for centuries. It is a story that moves from the magical beauty of Italy's old city centers to the breathtaking backdrop of the Appalachian Mountains where magic is an elemental part of the folklore. But the magic of this mountain, the magic of the Kindling, is even older and more arcane.  It is a story where people who could live in your home town find themselves with abilities they don't understand and are confronted with a world that desperately needs those gifts. It is a story woven of mystery, humor, drama, and suspense, but most of all, it is a story about love.

(This book was previously published by Samhain Publishing, Ltd in June 2014, electronic publication, and March 2015, print publication, and is now re-released.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Furious Firefly Publishing
• Release date: May 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998739816

Book preview

Mostly Magic

(Books of the Kindling, Book 2)

Donna June Cooper

Copyright © 2014 by Donna June Cooper

ISBN: 978-0-9987398-1-6

Edited by Noah Chinn Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This book was previously published by Samhain Publishing, Ltd in

June 2014 and is now re-released.

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Furious Firefly Publishing.

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3577 N. Beltline Road

Irving, Texas 75062

eBooks are not transferable.

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

Dedication

For Raff, who always knew I would

Prologue

"I need a gurney or a room or something, now!" Daniel walked through the glass doors into the ER carrying her in his arms. It wasn’t difficult. She felt far too small and fragile even bundled in all those blankets.

A burly man in scrubs came around the admissions desk. Let me have her.

No. I’ll carry her. Point me to a bed, Daniel insisted.

Take it easy, fella. The man waved his arms. We can’t let—

The double doors to the treatment area banged open and Beth Campbell came running out. It’s okay. This is my neighbor, Daniel Woodruff.

Daniel was relieved to see Beth’s familiar face as the burly orderly backed away.

We’re ready, Daniel, Beth said. Bring her on back. Room 6. This way.

The contractions haven’t stopped, Daniel said, trudging after her. She’s only five months along, Beth. She started bleeding—

Let’s not panic. It could be a false alarm, Beth said.

It’s not a false alarm, Daniel said. It’s not Braxton-Hicks or anything like that. Grace said—

It’s all right, Daniel. I know. Lay her down and we’ll take over, Beth soothed, patting the bed. The room was suddenly full of people as Daniel eased the woman onto the bed. She was still warm, still breathing. But she was limp and unresponsive, her face far too pale and sweaty. He leaned over to kiss her brow, but someone’s hand pulled him away. He was herded out the door as the professionals took over, bustling around her bed until he could no longer see her and the door swung shut in his face.

"Danny? Danny!" came a tinny voice from his hand. He realized he was still clutching his cell phone, still connected.

Grace?

Yes, I heard. You got there in one piece. Grace’s voice was thin and far away. Take some deep breaths. The OB on call is in there.

Yeah. But she looks so pale. He looked at the blood on his sleeve. And she’s bleeding a lot.

She’ll be all right, Grace said.

Daniel noticed that Grace didn’t mention the baby. I know. She’s a tough little thing.

Yes, she is. We’re boarding in a minute. I’m…I’m so sorry I couldn’t get back in time, Danny, Grace said. So sorry.

Grace could have stopped this from happening. Grace could have fixed it. But she couldn’t get a flight home fast enough.

She was fine. We were so careful. She hasn’t been out of the house in weeks. We haven’t even let Jamie come around. How could she have—

You don’t know what’s wrong. Not yet.

What else could it be? Daniel barked. How is this thing being transmitted, Grace? Has anyone down there got a clue?

Maybe, Grace said, but she didn’t sound convinced. Daniel heard the noise of an announcement and then the rumble of Nick’s voice in the background. We’ve got to get on our flight. We’ll be there as soon as we can. I love you! Her voice broke on a sob. Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t there.

It’s okay, sis. It’s okay.

Hey, Daniel. Nick’s voice came over the line, steady and reassuring. Hang in there. We’ll be home in a few hours.

Thanks, Nick. Tell Grace it’s not her fault. She can’t be everywhere at once, Daniel said brokenly. I didn’t see this coming. I didn’t—

"This thing is fast, Daniel. You couldn’t have. I’m trying to convince her that none of us are infallible, but you know how she is. You take care of yourself and that precious lady of yours."

Daniel ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket, his eyes still on the door into room 6. He wanted to barge in. Whatever was happening, he wanted to hold her hand at least.

Instead he went to the sitting area in the hallway, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit. He put his hands up to lean against the wall, but it was too noisy around the nurses’ station to hear what was going on in her room. Much too busy. Looking at the haggard, pale faces of the staff, he wondered how many times they had seen this happen lately. How many miscarriages? How many preemies? Shaking his head, he glanced down at a stack of magazines on one of the chairs.

The Time magazine on top had a chart on the front of it. A simple line graph told the story—a stark red line sliding downward, labeled Global Birth Rate. He picked that one up and saw another beneath it with a cover photo of an empty crib. His vision blurred as he thought about the nursery at the old home place that they had almost finished decorating for the baby.

Why did Grace have to be away now? Of all days, why today? Nick had wrangled a meeting with some geek at the CDC, and that was saying something, given what was going on. But why today?

Damn, he whispered, closing his eyes, trying to make it all disappear.

I don’t want to see this.

He heard the door to the treatment room and opened his eyes.

The edges of his vision had gone dark, as if part of the hallway had vanished.

Shut it off now.

He blinked and tried to focus as Beth emerged, but his vision had narrowed until her face, drawn and sad, was the only thing he could see. As if a spotlight were focused on her face, and the rest was in darkness.

I’m so sorry.

No!

Shut it OFF!

Like a light going off, Beth’s face just blinked out.

There were voices in the hall outside his hotel room—loud and Italian—reminding him of where and when he was. He opened his eyes. Bologna. The conference. From the sounds outside, it was morning, but in his room it was pitch-black—again.

Damn.

He wiped his hand across his face and it came away wet. He could still feel the strain in his muscles from carrying her into the ER, and there was a hollow pain in his chest when he thought about their baby.

It was one thing to dream about fruitless trees and blasted fields, food shortages and a slow slide into extinction, but this nightmare promised an apocalypse that was far from slow. This plague, whatever it was, was devastating and very personal.

The first time he had this dream, he had thought it was Grace in his arms, losing her precious Lily. But it wasn’t. This time he was on the phone with his sister, and she was in Atlanta. So, if it wasn’t Grace…

There was no one in his life, and there would never be. It couldn’t have been his wife in his arms. It couldn’t have been his child.

A normal nightmare. Just like everyone else. Cooked up by his subconscious. Or maybe too much sambuca in his espresso last night. Horrible, but not prescient. A nightmare, that was all.

But his arms still ached with her warm weight. His heart was still raw from the terror he had felt for her and for their baby. The feeling of loss was real and potent. And, most telling of all, he was blind, again.

Damn.

Only a real look at the future ever left him groping in the pitch-blackness like this. As he waited impatiently for the dark to ease into murky gray, he grasped for the details, desperate to remember when and who, but the dates on those magazines had already slid away from him into so much smoke, along with the face of the woman he’d held in his arms.

Chapter One

Mel focused on the wisps of steam curling up from her espresso and drifting away across the other tables. Breathe in, breathe out. She gripped the pendant around her neck, rubbing the peach moonstone between her fingers. Breathe in, breathe out. She was tempted to ask the waiter to add some amaretto to her drink. She needed something to dissipate the overwhelming sense of dread the German scientist had brought to their meeting.

Mel? Lance’s voice jerked her attention back to her cell phone.

Sorry. I was thinking about what happened, she said. Basically, Dr. Drachan was terrified. Between that and his accent, I hardly got anything out of him at all.

Nothing? She could hear the frustration in Lance’s voice. After you flew all the way to Milan? After he came all that way from Hamburg? Nothing?

I know. Believe me, I used all the journalistic tools at my command, and a few very nonjournalistic ones. I tried businesslike. I tried firm. I tried sweet. I tried pleading. I even tried seductive. And you know how I hate seductive. Nothing worked. Not even my other tools. The man traveled all the way down here, and I suspect he changed trains and backtracked a few times, but he was still looking over his shoulder and sweating.

"Which means there is a story. Damn."

Yes, that much was apparent. But he was too afraid to tell it to me. She took another slow breath. I’m amazed that he even showed up, he was so jumpy.

Did he tell you why? Was he afraid someone at Fuchs-Vogler had followed him?

Lance, he didn’t tell me anything. Half the time he talked about his daughter’s wedding, the rest he was spouting corporate talking points you’d hear at any press conference. It was obvious he was horribly afraid of something.

Lance was silent, presumably to consider this piece of information.

I did my best to calm him down and distract him. And that was saying something, considering that the feeling of impending doom had nearly overwhelmed her and left her feeling a bit sick.

Mel poked at the origami frog that she had folded in her attempt to calm Dr. Drachan. It jumped, causing someone at a nearby table to point and exclaim, "Ehi, guarda!" Her café tabletop was full of origami creations—a flower, two of the frogs, a dragon, three different birds and five yellow-striped honeybees. Her swift folding of paper into various creatures could always be counted on to enchant even the most distracted children and adults. But the honeybees weren’t in her usual repertoire.

At first, it seemed to work. Dr. Drachan pulled several pieces of paper out of his briefcase, quickly folding honeybees and coloring them for her with a yellow highlighter and black pen. His bees were much simpler than her usual models, but he insisted on folding them for her, telling her, in his halting English, that it was appropriate since she was wishing to know about the honey. Apparently his daughter had taught him the design a long time ago. That had been when he pulled out a photograph of a pretty young lady and informed Mel that his Anna had just gotten married.

The entire conversation had been very strained and odd.

Now she had five origami bees but no story.

The whole honey-adulterated-with-antibiotics thing is old news. Most folks don’t understand why that is a bad thing. ‘Free antibiotics in your cereal! What could be better?’ Lance was good at sarcasm. But you said Dr. Drachan implied that he had something big. Something the average reader would understand. We need something new on this story. It’s not fresh enough. I mean, everyone is reduced to rehashing old details while the thing crawls through the courts, but what is Fuchs-Vogler doing to clean up their act over there? How are they ensuring no more contaminated honey gets past their lab tests?

Maybe you should call your friend at the FDA and get the Feds on this. If Dr. Drachan’s as frightened as he seems, this is bigger than the magazine getting a scoop.

Lance sighed. I doubt they would pay attention. With all the bad press and scrutiny, they’d probably think it was just echoes of the same story and put it on the back burner.

Dr. Drachan is upset about something, Mel argued. He has the credentials and the credibility—

A whistleblower only matters if he actually blows his whistle.

Yes, but I really—

Forget it. You’ll get him next time, Lance said. I’ve got another lead. Maybe we can help salvage this trip for you.

Mel took a deep breath and stroked her pendant again. How easily Lance could move on. Even after she got over the dark mood he’d left behind, Dr. Drachan’s sweaty, pinched face haunted her. All right, but it better not involve another paranoid scientist. She took a slow sip of her espresso.

Well, he is a bit publicity shy, which is why this is such a cool opportunity. And he is a scientist.

Lance, she warned.

Hey, you didn’t hear the perks—he’s tall, dark and handsome. Lots of hair. But a bit on the skinny side for me.

Does Mike know you’re lusting after other guys? she chided.

His career is lusting after other guys. Lance laughed. He was happily ensconced in a relationship with a gorgeous personal trainer. Sadly, this fellow is straight. But he is single.

Mel felt a brief pang of envy. Lance persisted in trying to ensure that everyone in the world was as happy as he was. "Does this paragon of male magnetism have a name? A story? A centerfold in New Scientist? What are we after here, his phone number?"

My dear Mel, we are after the scoop about his deal with Meyer Agro-Chemical.

She sat up a little straighter. Meyer had been an archnemesis of hers for some time now, and Lance knew it. The multinational corporation had a habit, more like a strategy, of awarding huge grants to scientists and institutions as a means to eliminate expert witnesses and dampen criticism of their products and practices. Meyer had managed to track down a source she had been developing for field test information on their genetically engineered sugarcane and had shut him down with a hefty promotion and relocation to France. There was a mob-like code of silence with these people, but no shallow graves—unless you counted burying people in money.

I’m listening, she said calmly.

She could sense Lance’s smug smile. I thought you would be. His name is Dr. Daniel Woodruff and he’s a big critic of one of Meyer’s insecticides. I am crap at those scientific names, but it’s the one they sell as Sustain and a bunch of oth—

I know it. The one killing the bees. She picked up an origami honeybee thoughtfully.

"The one allegedly killing the bees, Lance clarified. Dr. Woodruff has been pretty vocal about Meyer’s role in this whole colony collapse revolution thing."

"Disorder. Colony collapse disorder. CCD, Mel said. CCR is a band." Lance was an astute editor and newshound, but his grasp on some aspects of environmental science was a bit lacking.

Right. But whenever anyone calls it CCD, I think of my Catholic upbringing and shudder, Lance quipped. Anyway, he’s been studying the impacts of Meyer’s insecticide on the bees. Apparently the results aren’t so good for Meyer, who have their own bought-and-paid-for scientists saying that the whole thing is a combination of environmental stress, naturally occurring parasites and some virus for which, voilà, they opportunely happen to have the treatment.

Sounds like their usual angle, Mel agreed and drank down the rest of her espresso.

Well, this Woodruff guy isn’t having any of it. He says his research shows that the Meyer insecticide weakens the bees’ nervous systems—takes away their ability to do those dances they do when they find honey and stuff.

They don’t find honey, Lance. They make it, Mel corrected.

"And that is why you are the intrepid environmental freelancer and I am a mere mortal who only has the power to decide whether or not to pay for your stories."

Point taken. But it sounds like this is all on the record. Where’s the story?

Rumor is that Meyer is dangling a huge grant in front of Dr. Woodruff involving some weird theory on the resistance of feral bee hives to CCD because of natural comb and varying cell size. Whatever all that means, Lance replied.

In effect buying him off. Mel waved at the waiter, pointing to her cup. "Un altro, per favore?"

What? asked Lance.

Getting another cup of coffee.

How many languages do you know anyway?

I know how to say ‘I will die without another cup of coffee’ in about six, she said. So, buying him off?

Right, Lance said happily. But here’s where it gets good. Dr. Woodruff really doesn’t need their money.

And you think he’s is going to turn Meyer down cold and live to tell the tale.

Exactly!

I feel like I’ve heard of this Dr. Woodruff before. Should I have? Mel asked.

Probably not. Like I said, he’s kind of publicity shy. Although he seems to be well known in the beekeeping industry. They call him ‘the bee whisperer’ if you can believe it. Lance stopped. Mel could hear him tapping away at the keyboard. Teaches undergrads at Blount University, but he’s been on personal leave since his grandfather passed away last year—doing his own research on the bee problem in various countries, guest lectures at universities and institutes, that kind of thing. I sent you an email with some basic info on him.

Mel finally remembered where she had heard the name. Wait a minute. A Woodruff who isn’t interested in Meyer’s money? He’s not related—

Yep. Son of Marshall Woodruff, CEO of Hartford Pharmaceuticals.

Whoa. That puts an interesting spin on things, Mel said. The son of Marshall Woodruff is a beekeeper? In addition to running the multinational pharmaceutical company owned by his wife’s family, Marshall Woodruff was a very powerful voice for the pharmaceutical industry domestically and internationally, and not known to be an avid environmentalist. Quite the opposite, if she recalled correctly.

Heh. I knew you couldn’t resist, Lance said.

"Mille grazie! Mel said as her steaming cup of espresso arrived. Is there some angle here between father and son that I should know about?"

Oh, I’m sure you will plumb the emotional depths of the story like you always do, but I am only interested in what Dr. Woodruff has to say about Meyer’s offer and their splendid insecticides. Lance’s tone was just a bit too gleeful.

Where is Dr. Woodruff on this superb Saturday evening? Somewhere in Europe, I presume? Mel pushed the origami figures off her closed laptop and grabbed the backpack from her chair.

"He’s at an international conference in Bologna, sponsored by some alphabet soup group—CRA-API. It’s being held at the Hotel Aemilia. He’s giving a speech tomorrow morning, and he’s not scheduled to leave until Monday, so you should be able to catch him there."

Mel relaxed. Bologna was only a couple of hours away.

You can take that cool high-speed train they have. Only someone who didn’t travel as much as Mel did would sound that jealous about a train ride.

Or I can take this cool high-speed convertible I rented and enjoy the ride, she responded, looking across the darkened street at her Mini. It’s a beautiful spring evening in Milano. I think I’ll relax and enjoy my dessert, then head out early in the morning.

I want your job, Lance said.

She sighed. "If this is a bust, please tell me you have something for me to make that interminable plane ride worthwhile."

Hey, you’re the journalist. I’m sure you can find something to write about, Lance said, then relented. I’ll look and see what else is hot over there. There’s probably another conference or an EU committee meeting or something brewing.

Thanks, Lance. Talk at you later.

Bye, short stuff.

Mel made a face at the phone and slid it into her pocket. Waving to the waiter, she picked up one of Dr. Drachan’s creations. How odd. The nervous scientist had made bees for her, and now she was off to interview a bee expert.

There was no such thing as coincidence, not in her experience anyway. A few origami bees might come in handy as a conversation starter with a beekeeper. She slid them into her backpack thinking she could also reverse engineer the design and add it to her repertoire.

When the waiter arrived, she ordered panna cotta and handed him an origami flower, then leaned over to give one of the frogs to the admiring patron at the next table.

"Grazie!" came the laughing response from both.

*****

"Bitteschön," Daniel said.

The German scientist was clearly amused. "Your accent is not so good, Dr. Woodruff, but your stories about your mountain and your opa are wunderbar. You do need to write the book, I think."

Maybe I will. He had included some uplifting and humorous stories about Pops and Woodruff Mountain in his speech, because there was a distinct lack of encouraging news about their battle to save the honeybee.

The line after the lecture seemed to have transformed into a group of smiling and laughing people standing in the aisle. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t been that entertaining. Not after functioning without any decent sleep over the past few days. He leaned his head to look down the line again. He caught sight of someone in the middle of all the laughter—a girl with short blonde hair, wearing a colorful patchwork jacket.

An older woman stepped up to clasp his hand. "Oh, Daniel, you were magnifique, she said in her pleasing French accent. I adored your stories. Wenzel is right. You do need to publish the book."

That was odd. Dr. Dubois had never called him by his first name before. "Merci beaucoup, Dr. Dubois, he said. But I need to learn how to write first."

"It is a pity I am not younger. You are so amusing. I would go off to Firenze today avec tous les jeunes." She surprised him with a quick air kiss toward both cheeks and flounced off.

What had gotten into everyone?

Yes, you must! Francesca Sartori, a young Italian scientist who was part of the host committee, nearly bounced with excitement. "Vogliamo mostrarvi Firenze!"

Francesca took his hand. Between one breath, and the next, everything went black.

Francesca—sitting in the middle of a chaos of flickering lights and loud noises—the sound of people beginning to panic. Daniel was there, behind her eyes, as she sat in the passenger car of a train—hearing what she heard, feeling what she felt.

The train was moving under her, and not a smooth and rapid ride, but a bouncing, rough movement as she tried to cling to her seat.

I don’t want to see this.

There was the sound of something hitting the outside of the car, like huge hailstones pummeling tin. She looked toward the windows but there was nothing outside. Only blackness.

The man across from her dropped his newspaper.

All she could see—all Daniel could see—was that paper, crumpled on the floor. Everything else was gone.

Shut it off now.

The car shuddered and began to tilt. Then there was nothing but screaming.

Shut it OFF!

He wanted to scream as well, until the newspaper finally winked out of existence.

Francesca must have let go of his hand, because he staggered back a step, trying not to react when he found himself standing in the conference room, completely blind. His heart was pounding in fear, her fear, made worse by his own realization that he hadn’t been on that train with her.

He had a vision of Francesca’s future just from touching her? But his dreams, his visions, they were always his future, not someone else’s. This had never happened before. No. He had to have been on the train with her. But this vision had felt different. It wasn’t his future.

Dr. Woodruff? Are you all right? Francesca’s voice came in that lyrical accent of hers.

Yes, he managed to say. "Scusi, Signorina Sartori. I…I skipped breakfast. Big mistake. You’re—you’re going to Florence? On the—"

Frecciarossa! Yes. You will come with us?

Uh, no. I don’t think… Damn. He couldn’t just tell her not to go—tell them all not to go. I— His cell phone interrupted them, the cheerful tones of Flight of the Bumblebee ringing out. He shrugged apologetically at the laughing reaction from the group as he dug out his phone. There were thank-yous in several different languages, and he heard the group start to move away from him, still chattering.

Daniel slipped his phone into his pocket without answering and tried to find the edge of the table behind him. He almost knocked over someone standing right next to him and tried not to tread on any toes as a hand took his arm to steady him.

"Scusi," he said. That overwhelming sense of fear—Francesca’s fear—faded a bit. But he had to stop the group from getting on that train, or at least slow them down so they missed it.

The problem was, there was no way to know when what he had seen was going to happen. On the way to Florence? On the way back? And at the moment he couldn’t see well enough to follow them. He let out a frustrated breath.

Hello? an amused voice said.

Daniel realized someone was still holding his arm. He blinked desperately but still saw only a gray, murky fog and a vague blob that was someone short standing in front of him, wearing a lot of bright colors. The girl in the patchwork jacket whom he had seen in the line. "Scusi," he said, straining to see her through the fog. It seemed she wasn’t a girl at all. She was very much a woman—a petite woman, but definitely a woman. As the fog cleared, he could see that there was a very curvy figure beneath that vivid jacket and black slacks. And everything about her seemed to change color as she came into focus—her eyes, her tousled pixie haircut.

Dr. Woodruff? she said, releasing his arm. You look like you need to sit down. Can I get you some coffee or water or something? She scanned the room.

No. No. Thank you. Glad you enjoyed it. He assumed she had come up to thank him for the speech.

Are you sure you’re all right? she asked.

Daniel felt the brush of her fingers on his arm again. He focused on her face. A very pretty woman.

I promised myself I would not buy into the whole absentminded professor thing. I really did, the woman said with a dazzling smile. I’m Mel. Mel Noblett.

For some reason he felt inclined to smile, but suppressed the urge. It must be her accent. It reminded him of home, but she wasn’t wearing a conference name tag. You weren’t at the conference?

No, but I did catch your closing speech, which was fascinating, by the way. I liked the part about the stock tips you get from your bees, she said. And the research you’re doing with the Meyer insecticide. Sustain, or whatever it’s called.

She didn’t look or sound like one of Meyer’s corporate drones. They had shown up in expensive suits with boardroom pallor and German accents. Maybe they’d gone outright Bond villain and sent in a seductress. If so, he considered sending them a thank-you note. And you are?

The dazzling smile faded a bit. Mel Noblett, she pronounced carefully, as if he were mentally deficient. Oh, right, she had said her name before. I was passing by and heard all the laughter in here—

They weren’t laughing at the effects of Meyer’s insecticide, he said. He rubbed at his temple. A dull ache was building behind his eyes. She was probably one of those environmental journalists who had been hounding him, trying to get the dirt on Meyer. No tourist would wander into a hotel conference room full of academic types with all of Bologna beckoning outside. "As much as I appreciate a lovely face and a familiar accent—if you are from Meyer, the answer is still nein and will always be nein. If you are from the press, everything is in the press release from the conference. If you are neither, I apologize, but I’m in a bit of a hurry." He turned to put his presentation and notes into his satchel while scanning the room for Francesca and her entourage.

The ‘lovely face’ comment gets you points, but I’m a bit offended that you would think I’m from Meyer. She had circled to stand across from him. Do I look like one of their corporate goons?

Daniel looked up. Her eyes seemed to have changed color a bit, close to the blue of one of the many patches on her jacket. Her feathery hair was several different shades of blonde. He pinched the bridge of his nose. No actually, you look like… He considered it for a moment, thinking he might have seen her face before somewhere, but he needed to find Francesca and something to get rid of this headache.

"You look like you could use a drink," she said with a concerned frown.

Drinking is what created the problem in the first place, he lied. But thanks.

Whatever it was, it must have a powerful kick. Sambuca? Grappa? Or way too much Tuscan wine? You were doing much better when you were giving your speech, she said. I tell you what: you give me a story, and I’ll give you a hangover cure that you’ll pass down to your children and grandchildren.

Tempting, but no thanks. He shoved his papers into his battered satchel. Creative though. Usually you guys only offer to buy me drinks. No one ever throws in a hangover cure.

"I can picture guys and gals offering to buy you drinks," Mel said.

He tried not to smile, but failed. His looks had resulted in him getting hit on, a lot, by both sexes, but no one had ever been quite so blatant pointing it out.

A smile! I knew you had teeth in there somewhere. She gave a satisfied smirk.

Yes, and I bite. He growled halfheartedly as he tugged off his tie and tossed it in his satchel. Who do you write for, Ms. Noblett? I’ll be sure to let them know you are one of their more creative correspondents. He picked up his satchel and headed down the aisle.

Anyone who will buy my stories or read my blog, Dr. Woodruff. A lot of people who are concerned about our environment are interested in what you have to say about Meyer and the bees. She hefted her backpack and followed alongside. And I do have a great hangover cure.

I’m sorry, Ms. Noblett, but I’ve said all I’m going to say about Meyer right now. He turned at the entrance to the meeting room. It’s all in my research, so if you’ll excuse me. His phone rang, and this time he could see the name—Grace. He answered it as he walked through the lobby.

We are all fine here, Dr. Daniel. The baby is fine. Nick is fine. Jamie is fine, Grace said. He’d made a call to his sister again this morning, far too early, but it had rolled to voice mail. His brother-in-law, Nick, was making certain that Grace got her rest as the pregnancy advanced, so no more middle of the night phone calls from her loony brother who couldn’t remember his time zones.

The girls’re fine! Jamie’s youthful voice piped up in the background.

Your bees are fine. Actually, they’re amazingly healthy this spring. His sister could usually chase away all his nightmares in a few short words. But they miss you. We all do. When are you coming home?

Tomorrow, but it’s one of those all-day, two-stopover flights. I’ll be late driving in from Knoxville, he said. Sorry I worried you. I wanted to let you know that yesterday was a false alarm. I had the dream again last night, and it was pretty clear that it wasn’t about Lily. Grace and Nick’s daughter Lily was due in four months.

Yes, I got that, Grace said in her usual calm way. So it was about some other baby then?

I…I only know it wasn’t Lily. Daniel saw that Mel was still trotting along behind him and lowered his voice. I’ve been having some wild dreams lately and I was… It was probably something I ate or—

Didn’t you use the drops?

I’m out again.

You’re going through them fast, she said. Daniel, you need to—

Don’t say it. I know. You’re probably right, I’m not—

Nick says get over it, Grace said.

Right. Tell my favorite Fed to shove it.

Ex-Fed.

Tell my favorite unemployed brother-in-law to shove it. Have you been out to Rock House yet?

It is still insanely early here. Jamie was a bit overeager to see how their bees are doing and showed up before the sun rose. She’s making us waffles as her penance. Grace laughed. I’ll call you later, after we go out there. I hope the news will be positive. Rock House was a neighboring apiary that had lost every single hive over the winter and was basically starting over.

"Sounds good. Ti voglio bene!"

Me too, whatever that means! Bye.

Ciao.

So, do we have a deal? My priceless hangover remedy for a really quick interview? He had reached the lobby and so had Mel.

Daniel looked down at her very sensible black flats—clearly not one of those women who tried to compensate for her petite frame