Flight Patterns (17 page)

“How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower.”

Isaac Watts

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

I
walked down the hall to Marlene's kitchen, trailed by the wagging tails and clicking paws of four dogs. In the nearly two weeks since I'd been home, Marlene's four-legged shadows had glommed onto me, as if they thought I was in need of companionship. Each night they followed me into my old bedroom and lined themselves up along the foot of the bed, their expressions telling me that I wouldn't be able to get them to leave.

The slow drip of rain against the metal roof at least meant that the rain that had pelted the house all night and most of the previous two days was finally slowing. I was thinking how nice it would be to work out on the dock when I reached the kitchen and stopped abruptly in the doorway. James and Becky sat at the kitchen table eating eggs and bacon, a plate of biscuits on the table between them, the ubiquitous jar
of tupelo honey next to it. Marlene stood at the counter pouring three glasses of orange juice. She sent me a grin over her shoulder.

“At last, Sleeping Beauty emerges from her lair.”

“Very funny,” I said, glancing at the round kitchen clock over the stove. “It's nine o'clock—a very respectable time for a Saturday morning.”

“Not really,” groaned Becky, her usually quiet voice louder and more confident in Marlene's kitchen, as if she found strength and acceptance here just as I had all those years ago. “You know, Aunt Georgia, cell phones now have alarm clocks on them. So you'd know when to wake up. We've been waiting for forever.”

I hid my smile. “Sorry—I didn't know anybody was waiting for me.”

“You
said
you didn't have a bathing suit, and then James said he didn't either and you could go shopping with him.” She glanced at my tie-dyed romper with the fringe hem. “I thought I could help.”

“I was thinking that with all this rain we've been having I should hold off on purchasing a bathing suit. Today I planned to head over to the library to see if they were able to find anything about those artists your mother discovered. I called my contact at the Haviland archives at the University of Iowa library, but I haven't heard back from her, so I figured I'd better start looking elsewhere while I wait. And then I need to take Grandpa for a walk.”

“You can do all that
after
we shop,” Becky said matter-of-factly, as if everything had been decided. “And the sun is shining now.” She sounded so much like Maisy—the “little general,” as Grandpa had called her. I guessed she'd been the one to coordinate this morning with James, her face earnest and serious as she manipulated everyone's schedule.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Does your mother know you're here?”

James nodded. “I called her to make sure it was all right. She said it was fine as long as Becky wasn't late for her tennis lesson. She brought her racket just in case, and we can drop her off at the courts on the old Marshall Square on Fourteenth Street by eleven.”

My stomach growled as I spied the food on their plates and smelled the bacon, forgetting my next question involving why James and Becky were sitting at Marlene's table.

James stood and pulled out a chair for me. “Why don't you eat first? Becky brought these biscuits. Maisy made them. They're pretty good.”

“Are they as good as mine?” I'd meant it as a joke, but I realized it hadn't sounded like one.

I slid into the offered chair as Marlene placed a full plate in front of me, along with a steaming cup of coffee. “I enjoy having all my limbs attached, so give me a moment to answer that.” James sat down. “I think both are equally delicious and different.”

“Good one,” Becky said, offering her clenched hand for a fist bump.

I laughed, then helped myself to a biscuit. “So why are you both here?”

James placed his napkin beside his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. “Becky texted me this morning and told me that you wanted me to pick her up and bring her here so we could go shopping.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “Becky, I don't think Mr. Graf appreciates . . .” I stopped, confused as to why she was studying me so intently. “What?” I asked.

“If you and Mr. Graf had a baby, I wonder what color its eyes would be. Yours are brown, but Mama's are gray, which means you're not a pure-strain brown.”

I'd made the mistake of taking a sip from my coffee and started coughing.

Oblivious to my distress, Becky continued. “Blue is recessive, but if brown eyes aren't pure-strain, then it's possible to have a blue-eyed child. Mine are brown, like yours and Birdie's. Daddy has brown eyes, too, so I'm going to have to ask Mr. Ward, my science teacher.” With a serious face, she added, “We're studying fruit flies in science class.”

Marlene appeared at my side with the pot of coffee. She winked at me as she leaned in to top off my mug. “Remember that your mama and aunt are half sisters. Your aunt Georgia's daddy had blue eyes just like Mr. Graf—the same shade as the bay first thing in the morning. But Georgia got Birdie's coloring—for her eyes and her hair. Those are some bossy genes; that's for sure.”

I focused on my food, wondering how to tell a nine-year-old it was time to stop talking.

“My wife had brown eyes,” James said quietly. “Lighter than Georgia's—with a hint of green in them. I always wondered what color eyes our children would have had.” A sad smile softened his face.

Becky took a sip of juice from her glass. “Mama said that your wife died. I'm really sorry. When my cat died when I was eight, Birdie said not to be sad. And when we remember them it means they're still alive.”

Marlene placed a hand on Becky's shoulder. “So Birdie's talking?”

Becky looked at me with wide eyes. “P-please don't tell Mama. It makes her m-mad.”

“I won't, Becky,” I said gently. “But I am curious. Birdie hasn't spoken to me since before you were born, but if she's talking to you, then I'd feel better.”

She looked down at her plate. “She only talks to me. Sort of.”

“What do you mean, ‘sort of'?” Marlene asked, sitting down in an empty chair.

Becky's small shoulders shrugged, and I had to lean closer to hear her. “She sings songs, and then I have to guess what she's saying. She moves her eyes to tell me I've guessed right. It's been our game since I was little.”

“Like how the bees talk to one another to let the others know where to find food, or if there's danger. Like that?” I said.

Becky's face brightened. “
Just
like that.” And then she smiled and all of those missing years suddenly became a gaping wound, an empty space I'd never found a way to fill no matter how many times I'd told myself that I had.
I missed you
.
I'm so glad you have a happy life with parents who adore you.
I'm sorry
. All the words I wanted to say sat frozen on my lips, impotent and too many years too late.

I stood, focusing on picking up my plate and cup and bringing them to the sink. I took my time rinsing the dishes, waiting until the lump had dissolved in my throat, the bitter aftertaste I knew would follow. “I'll go get my shoes and purse,” I said without looking at anyone, hoping to have remembered who I was and why I was there before I had to return.

We decided to walk to the small downtown area. The roads were black and sodden from all the rain, the trees top-heavy. Leaden skies hovered over the bay, but blue sky was making a valiant effort to show through. It wasn't too far to walk, the distance seeming much farther during the summer months, when your hair melted onto your scalp and you felt yourself walking slowly through the wall of humidity that settled on Apalachicola like a wet blanket despite the breezes that blew in across the bay. I sent a sideways look at James, who wore long pants and a button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves.

“If you're going to stay here much longer, you're going to need some shorts and short-sleeved shirts. And probably lots of sunscreen.” I took in his reddish gold hair and blue eyes. “Are you Irish or Scottish?”

“Mostly Swiss, actually. Graf is a common Swiss name. Believe it or not, I actually have some Italian and French in me, too—my grandmother's mother was French, her father an Italian. So I'm not ‘pure-strain,' according to Becky,” he said with a slow smile. “I do sunburn if I'm not careful, but I've got enough Italian and French in me that I've been known to actually have a tan.”

We strolled in silence, watching as Becky walked with hunched shoulders ahead of us, avoiding the cracks in the sidewalks, just as I'd done as a child. We walked past the wedding-cake Victorians with crushed-oyster-shell drives that sat next to Apalachicola bungalows, and shotgun cottages with their slender columns and filigreed overhangs, most lots interspersed with tall pines and thick oaks. The architecture was as diverse as the people and history of Apalachicola, something I'd always loved about my hometown. And one of the things that made it hard to forget.

“It must have been difficult to leave,” James said.

I swallowed, wondering how he could have read my mind, and quickly tried to think of a lighthearted quip. “You haven't been here in August. You might think differently.”

His expression was serious, and I sobered immediately, getting ready to deflect any uncomfortable observations.

“Your roots are here—your family, the house, your history.” A car sped by and James took my elbow to move me away from the road. “I remember my grandmother's stories about how they moved to Switzerland during the war. She was a teenager at the time, but she always said part of her soul had been left behind. I've wondered if you felt the same about here.”

I felt the anger in me rise, tempered only by the memory of his face as he'd told me about his wife. “You could ask yourself the same question. You're here, aren't you?”

His face stilled. “But this is temporary. As diverting as it's been, it's not permanent.”

I continued walking, Becky almost a block ahead of us. “Yeah. I used to think that, too.”

He was silent for a moment. “Have you ever thought that you haven't looked at the situation from every perspective—this thing between you and Maisy? I know hindsight's twenty/twenty, but I can't stop thinking that if I'd only taken the time to notice things, to ask questions before Kate's death, I wouldn't have all these feelings now.” He frowned, his gaze focused on the ground in front of him. “It's like living with a deep cut that you don't remember getting, and having no idea how to stop it from bleeding. I would give away everything I own for just five minutes with her again.” He looked at me, his eyes dark. “If Maisy disappeared from your life tomorrow, would you regret anything?”

Something that felt a lot like panic gripped me, making it hard for me to breathe, making me want to lean over and rest my hands on my knees as if I'd just sprinted for a mile. Even when I'd lived in New Orleans all those years, I always knew that Maisy was here. That if I wanted to I could call her, or come visit. If I could just push back my pride for five minutes and pick up the phone. That the option might be removed permanently shattered something inside of me. I felt bared, exposed. Resentful. Yet when I looked into his clear eyes, I felt the unmistakable nudge of thankfulness.

“I'm too afraid, I think.”

“Afraid?”

I stopped walking to think for a moment, to make sure I understood what, exactly, I was afraid of. “I'm afraid that she won't meet me halfway. That she'll turn around and walk away and everything will be as it's been.” I swallowed. “Because then I'll have lost all hope. At least this way I still have hope.”

“But what if she doesn't walk away?”