Flight Patterns (28 page)

“Does that tell you anything?” Caroline asked.

“Confirms more than tells me anything new. We were pretty sure we knew the blank, and this marking tells us that we're right, because it's in the correct time period. It narrows down where I need to look in the ledger for the Beaulieu estate, as well. I've got about one hundred years of entries and I'm in the eighteen seventies now, but I'm going to jump ahead and start with 1888.”

“Could your soup cup be part of my grandmother's china?” James asked.

“I can't rule it out,” I said quietly, as I slowly flipped through more photos—dinner plates, salad plates, a sugar bowl with a lid. A honeybee sat on top, suspended in porcelain.

“Maybe this will help,” Caroline said as she slid out a piece of paper she'd stuck between the pages of the Haviland & Co. catalog. “It's the list of missing pieces Elizabeth sent to me.”

I hesitated just for a moment before taking the paper from her. It was from a lined piece of notebook paper, the spiral edge shredded from being ripped out. “It appears that my grandmother's set contained only the basics—twelve eight-piece place settings with a few serving dishes, such as the cream and sugar and a couple of covered vegetable dishes.”

I looked down at the paper, easily reading Caroline's handwriting, which was as neat and precise as she was.
Missing items: teacup and saucer (James), soup cup, and large piece—unknown.

“That's all?” I asked.

Caroline nodded. “Elizabeth and Lauren—another sister—have gone through every single piece of china, crystal, and silver and itemized it all. There are twelve of all the dinner, salad, bread-and-butter, and dessert plates, yet only eleven of the teacups and saucers, of course.” She glanced at James, and I blushed, realizing he must have taken the blame for their destruction.

She continued. “There are eleven soup cups and twelve saucers, so it's a logical assumption that a soup cup is missing. As for the large object,
all we know is that there was always a hole in the middle front of the china display in the cabinet. Both Elizabeth and I remember our grandmother saying she was saving the spot. We both assumed she was waiting to either buy the piece or be given it as a gift. Elizabeth used the list I sent her of pieces made in blank number eleven to see what might have been the right size, but that's pure conjecture. Elizabeth thinks it could be a covered cake plate, or a coffeepot. Possibly even a teapot.” She shook her head. “I just wish we'd thought to ask while she was still alive. Although, to be honest, I never liked the pattern very much. I'm afraid of bees.”

My mind was so busy whirring in circles that I didn't think to start my lecture I usually gave about why people shouldn't be afraid of bees. I lowered the iPad, needing to get away from the bright colors and intricate design. It was so unique, so special. So
personal
. So unlike any china pattern I'd ever come across.

“I think we have more questions than answers now, but I'm fairly confident that this was a custom design. Otherwise we would have run across it by now, or at least one of my contacts in the field would have seen it at some point. Even a limited-run pattern would be listed
somewhere
. It may have been created for somebody who had a last name that had something to do with honeybees or even flowers.”

“Or it could have been commissioned by somebody who just liked bees,” James said. “It would be helpful to find the soup cup, to verify that it came from the same set. It's such a long shot that I just can't believe it without seeing it and knowing for sure. But we've looked everywhere in the house—the attic, the closets, the dining room, and kitchen cabinets. I'm thinking we need to assume it's gone.”

A stirring that felt a lot like panic flitted through my chest. It was time for both of us to go back to our lives, and I was unsure whose departure bothered me the most.

I placed the iPad on the bench, remembering something Aunt Marlene had said. “I asked Maisy to go through all the bedroom furniture upstairs, but she hasn't said anything, so she either forgot or she didn't find anything. I'll follow up with her, and then I'm going to finish searching through the old accounting ledgers today even if it
blinds me. I hope I find something, because if I don't, I haven't a clue as to where to look next.” I stood, my feet heavy.

Caroline stood, too, and surprised me by taking my hands. “You'll think of something. You strike me as somebody who's not only smart and resilient, but also knows a bit about reinvention.” She kept her eyes on mine, but I was pretty sure she wasn't just talking to me. “We all need to learn to be more like that, or just hang around people who are for long enough so it rubs off on us.”

I gently pulled away, uncomfortable. I was the one who ran away, because it was the easiest way out. I was about to tell her that she didn't know me, but I stopped, recalling already telling her that, and how she'd responded.
He told me that you collect antique locks and keys because you believe everything has an answer. He needs someone right now who really believes that.
Except I wasn't so sure I did anymore.

I stepped back and smiled, eager to change the subject. “I'll see you for lunch?”

“Absolutely. Do you have something in mind?”

“Have you ever shucked a raw oyster?”

Her mouth twisted as she pretended to think. “Not that I recall.” She turned to look behind me. “James, have you?”

“Once, but not in the oyster capital of the world. I have a feeling that we're going to be taught by a pro.”

“I've done my fair share of shucking, but I'd never call myself a pro. How about I meet you both at Boss Oyster at noon? It's right across the street. I'll finish going through the ledgers by then and will hopefully have something to share.”

James's phone buzzed but he didn't make a move to answer it.

Caroline gave him the same look I'd seen Maisy give Becky when she left her tennis racket in the middle of the floor. “Aren't you going to check to see who it is? You know it's not me, so it's safe to answer.”

“Yeah, well, there are three more where you came from.”

Caroline's back straightened. “I told them not to call you while I was here. That I would let them know how you were doing. Maybe it's Dad.”

James sent her a withering glare as he began to remove his phone from his arm case. “He knows better.” He glanced down at his phone, his face paling under the pink tint from his exertion. He touched the screen with his thumb and the phone stopped buzzing.

“Who was it?” Caroline asked.

His eyes darkened as he regarded his sister. I stepped back, but she remained where she was, almost as if she knew his answer before he said it. “Brian.”

She nodded. “You can't avoid him forever, James.”

He stepped away. “I'll see you both at lunch,” he said before jogging out of the garden, the sound of his steps gaining momentum as they pounded down the street, as if he planned to run for as long as it took to forget.

“His best friend,” Caroline explained, as if I hadn't already guessed. “It's been two years.” She said it with resignation, as if she'd been fighting the battle herself. As if betrayal and hurt had an expiration date.

“Don't you think some things are unforgivable?” I wasn't sure why I'd asked that of her, because I'd never asked anybody before. Because I was sure I already knew the answer.

She studied me for a long moment. “It's not really about forgiveness, is it? It's about power. When you let your hurt from the past control you, you are tied to it forever. You will never change your life until you learn to let go of the things that once hurt you.”

My anger came to me with an unexpected intensity, the kind of rage that once made me curse and throw things. Or head to the nearest bar and drink until I didn't feel anything. To welcome the attention of any man who was willing to give it. “You have no idea. . . .”

She held up her hand. “Yes, I do. My first husband died during the nine-eleven attacks. He was having a business breakfast in Windows on the World. I was thirty years old and thought that I'd figured out what life was supposed to be, and then everything changed. I was so angry for a long time. Angry at my husband for going to that
stupid meeting. Angry at the people who were responsible. Angry at the survivors. I couldn't see through all of that anger.

“My family made me go to a grief therapy group, and I met a man there whose wife had died of cancer. She'd been in remission for five years when they married, and then it came back. They were only married for three years, but all he could talk about was how grateful he was for those three short years. I told him he was an idiot. He just smiled at me and said he'd been called worse things and then asked me out for coffee.”

“Did you go?”

“Yes, I went. And I married him a year later.”

I raised my eyebrows. “So you're not angry anymore?”

“Only at myself. For wasting so much time looking back and wishing the past had a fork in the road where I could choose an alternate ending.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I held my breath, waiting for her to answer.

“I guess because I need practice. I want to help James, to share what I've learned, but every time I try to sit down and have a serious talk, he runs off.”

I saw her now not as just an elegant middle-aged mother of four, but as an older sister. Whose love and concern over her sibling didn't need to be explained to me. “It's not that easy, is it? Sometimes I think the hardest thing to do is just wait until we figure things out on our own.”

“Very true. But we both know that life is a limited resource. There are no guarantees that there will be enough time to tell our loved ones what we want them to hear.”

I realized I'd been clenching my teeth, as if I'd been called into the principal's office for writing on the wall. After consciously relaxing my jaw, I asked, “What is it you want James to know?”

She stared at me evenly. “That we need to ask for forgiveness even when we believe we've done nothing wrong.” She paused, as if wondering whether she should continue. “And to forgive ourselves. That's usually the hardest kind of forgiveness.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at her, feeling absurdly like Becky. “I thought when we first met that you were an easy person to like. Now I'm not so sure.”

She smiled James's smile and I thawed slightly. “I get that a lot. It's always hard to hear something that goes against the grain of everything we've always thought was true.” She began gathering up her iPad, papers, and purse. “I hope we can be friends. I think we have a lot in common.”

She smiled her good-bye, then walked out of the garden.

I was torn between running after her and asking her to explain how I was supposed to move forward after nearly ten years of running in place, and making my way home to finish going through the ledger. Each held such potential for disappointment that I stood still, my feet leaden as I smelled the last lingering pittosporum blooms, reminding me of a complicated childhood that refused to let me go.

It is a common misconception that bees won't sting at night. But, like all creatures when backed into a corner, a bee will sting whenever it feels threatened.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Birdie

I
stood at the edge of the bay, the warm water lapping at the hem of my nightgown, the needlerush bared to the rising sun by the low tide. George had known so much about the tides and the weather, had taught me how a fisherman had to show respect to both or pay the consequences.
When the wind shifts against the sun, trust it not, for back it will run.
I closed my eyes, feeling him near, imagining the morning breeze as his breath on my neck.

My memories were pinned butterflies beneath glass, their wings fluttering, eager to escape. I needed to let them go, to set everything free. I wanted to speak again without being afraid that my words would become pointed projectiles. Maybe it was too late for Maisy and Georgia, but not for Becky. She needed to know the truth so she would understand what invisible fist grabbed at her throat and stuttered her words. She needed to know that none of it was her fault.

Shadowy silhouettes of boats dotted the horizon, making me squint
so I could pretend, just for a little while, that one of the boats was the one George called
Birdie
, and that he would be coming home to me.

The water reflected the crimson sky, and I thought how appropriate that was, that it must mean that George was nearby in the briny smell of the water, the cries of the shorebirds. I could never separate those from my memories of him. Or the dark splash of red that made the water look as if it were bleeding. George and I had met during the summer of the longest red tide to date at that time, in 1953 when we were both thirteen. The red bloom poisoned the gulf, destroying the shellfish industry for nearly two years, and grounding the shrimp and oyster boats. It was the red tide that brought George into my life. He would have been out on the boat with his daddy and granddaddy harvesting oysters instead of loitering at the marina with the rest of the town staring at the bloated carcasses of dead fish and birds floating against the red stain of the water.

George's mama always said that should have been a warning to us both, that nothing good ever comes from a red tide, but we never much cared about what other people said. Maybe we should have. Maybe Daddy and I should have listened to my mama when she said we should move inland, that the spray from the red surf was poisoning the air. My mama's parents lived in Gainesville and would have welcomed us, just as they had when I was a baby. We'd lived there until I was eight and we moved to Apalach and the house on the bay with the beautiful turret.

But I would not be separated from George for the little time outside of school that I had to be with him. I have since learned that people rarely do what they should when every thought and action is filtered through their hearts.

I took a step forward, barely aware of my saturated nightgown wrapping around my legs, straining my ears to hear George between the laps against the dock posts.
If red the sun begin his race, be sure the rain will fall apace.
How easy it would be to keep walking, to let the wet arms of the bay pull me under until the sun was only a distant blur. To be reunited with George.

Being with him was the only thing I'd ever really wanted. I'd once believed that a shared secret would bind two people together. But that's the thing about secrets. They're like little worms that burrow under the skin, growing and growing, eating at your flesh, wanting to get out. The longer you keep them, the more they destroy, until nothing is left of you except skin and bone.

“B-Birdie?”

I turned around, startled for a moment into believing that time had run in reverse and Georgia was there, giving me another chance. But I'd heard the stutter, recognized that Georgia had never been hesitant to speak or act.

Becky clutched her large stuffed rabbit, a gift from Georgia when Becky was born. It had always surprised me that Maisy had allowed it to become Becky's favorite.

One of its ears was missing—in Maisy's mending box, presumably—its white fur long since grayed by overuse and excessive washing. It had a zippered abdomen for storing pajamas, but Becky had always used it for her personal collections throughout her life's stages: pacifiers, socks, hair bows, seashells. It used to go everywhere with her, but now Rabbit stayed in Becky's room, still loved but not something she wanted to advertise.

“Why are you in the w-water?”

I quickly waded back to the solid shore, ashamed that I had scared her. I smoothed her golden hair from her face and kissed her forehead. She sat in one of the Adirondack chairs while I squeezed the moisture from my nightgown, already missing the water. I sat down in the chair next to hers and smiled with encouragement. She smiled back and sat up, perching herself on the edge of the seat just like I'd shown her, and she began to sing.

We'd started this ritual right after Georgia had returned, when I'd noticed Becky's stuttering had become worse, as if all the tensions in the house had bound her words together. Two days after Georgia's arrival, I'd had another sleepless night. The rising red of the sun teased
at my eyelids, reminding me of George and the water, and like a magnet I'd headed out to the dock. Becky had awakened and followed me, her tension and mixed emotions as thick as the air around us.

She'd loved to sing as a child, but was shy about other people hearing. Maisy had a beautiful voice, unlike Georgia, whose voice warbled into three different keys within the confines of a single stanza. Maisy's voice had been clear and strong, but she was shy about it, too, afraid it meant people might look at her. I'd been so focused on Georgia, trying to get her to enter beauty pageants and take acting classes, that I hadn't noticed how badly Maisy wanted to sing, or how unprepared I was to encourage her. My intentions had been good. All I wanted was for them to be more than ordinary, to give them the confidence needed to live the kind of lives where they were always moving forward instead of looking backward.

I'd failed, as I had with most things. With Becky I saw a chance for redemption, a chance for her to discover her own talents, while I pretended that a small bucket was all that was needed to bail out a boat full of regret.

At first I just encouraged her to sing with me, and then I began to share sheet music with her, singing along with her before backing out to let her hear her own voice, amazed at her range and pitch. Mostly I was surprised at how she never stuttered when she sang, her voice confident and flawless. We kept this our secret, knowing that Maisy would discourage it because it reminded her of me, and of the frivolity of beauty pageants and drama school and all the things she thought were the cause of our private disasters and personal disappointments.

Becky began singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” but I didn't join in, letting her know that she didn't need me. Purple half-moons under her eyes marred her skin, and I knew we couldn't continue our early-morning sessions. Perhaps we didn't need to. Maybe, just this once, I'd taught something worth knowing.

Becky finished and sat back in her chair, a smile on her tired face. A fish nearby flung itself out of the water for a brief moment, in search of an airborne insect breakfast, then disappeared under the surface.

“I wish I didn't have to go to school today,” Becky whispered.

I reached out and placed my hand on top of hers and squeezed. I'd never been taught that the small gestures matter most. Or that words weren't always necessary. Becky had shown me both.

Slowly she slid from her chair, her oversize T-shirt coming nearly to her ankles. It was an old shirt of Lyle's and read, “He was a bold man that first ate an oyster.” It was a Jonathan Swift quote that Lyle said often, and the shirt had made the perfect gift once from Maisy.

“I wish we could all be happy. We were all happy before, weren't we?”

I smiled at her, wanting her to be reassured even though I was no longer sure I knew the answer. How far did I have to go back before I reached the truth?

An image of Adeline brushed my consciousness, a flutter of a butterfly's wing, a memory from long before the scent of briny water became a part of me. Adeline and I, on a bench at the heavy wood kitchen table while she braided my hair. The table set with ten plates for dinner, the smell of roasting chicken and potatoes thickening the air. I turned my head, sure I could catch a glimpse of her, to tell her I still thought about her. That I always thought I'd see her again.

“Weren't we?” Becky's face wore an expression that was too much like Georgia's when she used to challenge me. “Mama says you don't talk because you're punishing her for not being the daughter you wanted. I heard her say that to Grandpa once. But that's not true, is it?”

I slowly shook my head, seeing Maisy the way she'd been the day she was born, dark haired and light eyed and looking nothing like me. And remembering how Maisy had spent most of her youth trying to rectify that small slip of fate.

Becky tilted her head back so that the pink tinge of the brightening sky reflected off the smooth curve of her jaw, and in that moment I saw Adeline again. She was pressing something cold and hard into my hand and telling me never to forget, and then she showed me a picture on cardboard.
It will be all right.
She put her larger hand over mine and released it, then wiggled her fingers like a blooming sunflower. I had
imitated her, an old ritual we'd learned from someone else, someone whose face I couldn't remember.

Her tears were wet against my skin as others pulled my hands from hers, their accents foreign to me. I dragged my heels across the tiled floor, but I didn't cry out. I'd been through this before and knew that nobody cared enough to listen. I think that was when I first learned that words meant nothing.

“I need to get back in bed before Mama gets up.” Becky ducked her head, looking like a small child again, and my heart ached. “Don't be mad, but I found something in your room.”

The whir of a small motor drifted with the tide toward shore, giving me a moment to process her words. “A couple of weeks ago I was looking for the chocolate you hide in your drawer.” She placed Rabbit on her chair and unzipped the abdomen. “I think Aunt Georgia is looking for this. I didn't want to get in trouble for snooping through your drawers if I told Mama, and I didn't want you to get mad at me for taking it. So I hid it in Rabbit.”

Her small hands held the object toward me, but all I could do was stare. It was a piece of china, a shallow bowl with a finger hole on each side, its delicate shape and bright colors so familiar, the pattern of bees flitting around the curved white porcelain so real that I imagined I knew their names.
Marie, Lucille, Lisette, Jean
. I could almost hear my own childlike voice singing them in a lilting tune.

I took the bowl, cupping it in my hands, the white roundness of it reminding me of a skull. The wings of memory beat inside my brain, making my head hurt. I closed my eyes, suddenly smelling the poisonous fumes of the red tide, the air thick with the miasma of rotting fish and dead vegetation.

I stared at the bowl. There was something missing. Or maybe not . . . missing. Maybe . . . I turned it over in my hand, my fingers expecting to feel something different, a lid perhaps? A spout?

And then there was the smell again, making me look into the water to make sure it wasn't crimson. Something about this bowl reminded me of the red tide, but . . .

The sun rose higher in the sky, spilling orange and yellow light onto the boards of the dock, illuminating the cracks and the water that undulated beneath, reminding me of another dock, at George's house at Cat Point. I blinked in surprise at the memory of my first kiss, of the warm water sluicing beneath our feet, his lips soft and unpracticed on mine, and how I'd thought I'd rather die a thousand times than never to have him kiss me again.

But the cup in my hand was something else, another memory from George's dock. George's mama calling from the house that there was a man there looking for me saying he knew my daddy.

We'd stood, George's sun-browned hand clasping my pale white one, waiting for the man to approach. He wore dungarees and a long-sleeved work shirt, his face lined and worn. But I could tell, even at thirteen, that he wasn't as old as he seemed, that it wasn't the sun or the water that had added years to him in the same way barnacles on dock pilings showed the passage of time. He was small and wiry, and thin, achingly thin, his clothes hanging from him like loose skin. But not thin like so many of the oystermen who worked the boats. They had firm, knotty muscles that bulged from their arms and shoulders. This man seemed to be flesh held together by loose bones, his nose bent in the middle as if once severely broken and not set properly, his smile revealing three missing teeth. He carried a small knapsack on one scrawny shoulder, making him lean slightly to the side, as if he toted a great weight.