Flight Patterns (26 page)

I glanced down at the words scrawled in Lyle's familiar handwriting.
Château de Beaulieu, France.
I felt suddenly light-headed.

Lyle continued. “I looked it up and it's located near Monieux, in
southern France. If you Google it, there's a picture. Mostly ruins now, but apparently it wasn't what we consider an estate or castle—more like a large farmhouse with lots of land. Ever heard of it?”

The alcohol in my system seemed to dissolve immediately, leaving me with startling clarity. I nodded. “I've heard of both. But not from my grandfather.”

He looked at me expectantly, and for a moment I didn't know what to say, as if I'd already discounted what I was thinking as being as close to unlikely as to be impossible.

“The artist we believe painted the china pattern we're looking for, Emile Duval, lived in Monieux while an apprentice—which led us to a nearby estate owned by the Beaulieu family. It's a leap, but we've found a business ledger from the Beaulieu estate that I have been going through in the hopes of finding a payment to Haviland Limoges or, if we're really lucky, the artist's name to show that he was paid by the estate for the china design.” I spread my hand over the postcard, the red lettering peering out between my fingers. “What an odd coincidence to see this town's name twice in as many weeks, when I'd never heard it before in my entire life.”

“It would be,” Lyle said, unblinking. “Which is why I think it isn't.”

“Isn't what?”

“Isn't a coincidence.” He sat back in his chair, the fingers of both hands now drumming on the table. “Let me know if you find anything in the ledger book. I'm not sure what it will mean if you do, but we've got to start somewhere. Ricky Cook is the officer assigned to the case, but he's pretty overwhelmed with both his daughters getting married this month, so I've offered to help him out with some of the footwork—unofficially, of course. He's going to try to stop by sometime tomorrow to talk with your grandpa—as much as he can communicate, anyway.”

He pulled his chair to stand up and I stood, too. “Florence Love said she remembered her daddy talking to a stranger in town the week the truck was stolen. Definitely a foreigner, because he spoke with an accent—what kind we'll never know, because Florence's daddy died a
long time ago. But the stranger said he was a beekeeper, and had brought some of his own honey from home.”

“Honey?”

I nodded. “The man gave some to her father and Florence said it tasted like lavender. Since she mentioned that a knapsack with several jars of honey was found in the truck, I thought you might find it relevant.”

He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and jotted something down. “I'll pass this on to Ricky.” His pen hesitated over the paper for a moment. “Seems like an odd thing to travel with. The book makes sense—and even the postcard if he was using that for a bookmark. But honey?”

“When Grandpa used to travel to visit friends, he'd always bring a jar of honey as a hostess gift. So if our man was a beekeeper, carrying honey in a knapsack would make sense.”

Lyle jotted something else in his notepad and stuck it back in his shirt pocket before picking up the two plastic bags. “I should get going. Let me know if you find out anything and I'll do the same.”

He turned the doorknob but didn't open the door. “How much longer do you think you'll stay?”

“Not too much longer, I expect. I think Maisy's looking forward to seeing my back.”

“If that were true, she would have packed your bag and put it in your car already.” His smile softened. “She's scared, you know.”

I sucked in a breath. “She's got nothing to be afraid of from me. You and I both know that.”

“Yeah, well, she doesn't. She needs to be reminded.”

“That's the whole point, Lyle. She should know who I am without my having to remind her.”

He smiled sadly. “So you're just going to fly away again, your conscience clear because you think you tried?”

“Don't put this all on me, Lyle. I came down here, didn't I?”

“You had a client, Georgia, and another reason for coming. That's like saying you threw your line into the water without a hook
and you're disappointed you didn't catch any fish.” He shook his head, ending the conversation. “Before you tell me to mind my own business, forget that I said anything. But it's been good having you back. Just . . .” He pulled open the door and stepped out onto the steps. “Just don't leave too soon. In ten more years Becky will be in college.”

“Good night, Lyle,” I said, hearing the frost in my voice.

“G'night, Georgie.” He paused on the top step, then turned around briefly, giving me the once-over with his eyes. “Nice outfit, by the way. I bet James would love to see you in it.”

He jumped off the steps and was climbing into his cruiser before I could think of an appropriate response. He started the engine; then with a wave he pulled away, the tires crunching on broken shells.

I went back inside and turned off the porch light before heading back to my room, my thoughts full of honey, and French books, and a small town in the south of France. And when I finally drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of bees flying over fields of lavender, their movements erratic and random, as if they no longer knew the way home. Then, one by one, they slowly fell to earth.

“When you shoot an arrow of truth, dip its point in honey.”

Arab proverb

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Maisy

M
aisy stared into her grandfather's makeshift bedroom with a start. The blinds were open, the empty bed was made, his walker—the new piece of equipment they equally hated and pretended to be temporary—missing.

The smell of coffee and baking biscuits wafted out from the kitchen, teasing her nose and clenching her stomach as she guessed who might be in there baking. Digging in her heels with each step, she hurried to the kitchen, stopping abruptly in the doorway.

Georgia was taking another batch of biscuits from the oven as Becky, already dressed for school in a navy knit polo and pressed khakis, was reaching across the table to pour honey on Grandpa's biscuit. His ham had been cut into bite-size pieces, a dirty knife on the edge of Becky's plate identifying the person responsible. Becky's favorite juice glass, the one with Elsa from
Frozen
, was filled with orange juice and sitting next to Grandpa's plate.

Maisy's jaw unclenched as she studied her daughter's face. Becky's lower lip was clasped between her teeth as she carefully poured the honey, then used a napkin to wipe off the top so nothing clogged or dripped. When had her little girl learned to be conscious of others' needs? To know that honey congealed and clogged the tiny hole at the top of a squeeze bottle unless somebody thought to keep it clean? She felt close to tears as she watched Becky take her seat, then wait a moment to make sure Grandpa was all set before placing her napkin in her lap and picking up her fork.

“Good morning, Mama,” Becky said as Maisy walked into the kitchen, her glossy blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, emphasizing the elfin look of her face.

“You've done a great job,” Georgia whispered in Maisy's ear before handing her the coffee mug with the big “M” on the side, a conspicuous crack showing evidence of glue. “Drink this first. And then you're allowed to talk.” She moved to the table and pulled out a chair and motioned for Maisy to sit.

Maisy gave her grandfather a good-morning kiss on the cheek before sitting down in the proffered chair. Then Georgia grabbed a plate, placed two biscuits and a slice of ham on it, and silently put it in front of Maisy.

“Do you want gravy or honey?” Georgia asked, placing a gravy boat in the center of the table next to the honey. “No need to say anything—here's one of each.”

Maisy took two long gulps of coffee, not caring whether she scalded her tongue. She needed the fortification more than she needed to feel her tongue. “Why are you here so early?” she asked, reluctantly taking a pinch from one fluffy biscuit.

“I thought I'd spend more time with Grandpa. I need to get back to New Orleans soon and I realized we hadn't spent much time together.”

Maisy took her time with her next sip of coffee, needing to stare into the dark brown depths and hide her eyes. She
wanted
Georgia to
leave. They'd survived nearly ten years apart; surely that meant they could survive another ninety. That had been the mutual agreement, something they both thought would make them equally happy. So why then did she feel so
bereft
imagining Georgia gone again?

The doorbell rang and Becky slid back her chair. “That's Brittany Banyon. Her daddy's walking us to school this morning so you don't have to, Mama.”

Maisy had to think for a moment through her complicated carpool schedule made necessary by two working parents. She didn't have to be in that morning until later, and was relieved to be off duty. “Whose idea was that?”

Becky hurriedly placed her dishes in the dishwasher before swiping her face on a napkin. “Mr. Banyon's.”

Maisy casually eyed her sister. “Wasn't Danny Banyon a friend of yours, Georgia? Why don't you go say hi while Becky runs upstairs to brush her teeth?”

Georgia's face paled, the only color her dark brown eyes and two bright splotches of pink on her cheeks. “Sure,” she said, lifting her chin in a move that would have made Birdie proud. And managed to fill Maisy with shame.

Grandpa reached out his hand and grabbed Georgia's wrist as she walked past. He grunted something unintelligible, but his intention was clear.

Without looking at either one of them, Maisy stood. “Go on, Becky. Run upstairs and brush your teeth. I'll let them know you're on your way.” Without waiting to see whether Becky would do what she was told, Maisy went to the front door.

Before she could turn the knob, Georgia caught up to her and grabbed it out of her hand and pulled it open, not even pausing to catch her breath before speaking to the two figures standing on the other side. “Hello, Danny. It's so good to see you again. Becky's brushing her teeth, so she'll just be a few moments.” She smiled at the pale little girl standing at his elbow. “And this must be Brittany. Becky has told me so much about you. You're best friends, right?”

The little girl nodded shyly as Maisy studied Danny. He was staring at Georgia openly, an odd glint in his eyes hinting at their previous relationship—if it could be called that, and the oddest feeling of needing to wipe the smirk off his face rose up in Maisy. But before she could say anything, Georgia reached her hand out to him to shake. “It's been a while. Good to see you again.”

Danny looked at her hand with an expression that said he thought she was joking, but when she didn't remove it, he took it. “Good to see you, too.”

“And this is your little girl—she looks just like you.” Georgia turned to Brittany. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

She nodded vigorously. “I have a little brother who's six and another sister who's three. And my mommy's going to have another one around Thanksgiving. I hope it's a girl, because I don't want another brother.”

Georgia grinned. “So you think sisters are easier?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Just wait a few years,” Maisy said quietly.

Ignoring her, Georgia said, “Congratulations, Danny. I'd heard you married Susan Zinn. I always thought you made a cute couple.”

He grinned, exposing white teeth and a single dimple on his left cheek that used to make the girls have thoughts that would shock their parents. Even being four years younger, Maisy hadn't been immune. “Thank you. What about you? Husband or kids?”

The pause was almost imperceptible, but Maisy noticed it. “No,” Georgia answered. “I don't think I'm cut out for domestic bliss. I guess you could say I'm married to my work.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I've spoken with your grandfather a few times about your job. He's real proud of you. Like I try to teach my children, do whatever makes you happy.”

Georgia smiled as if in agreement, but the light had left her eyes.

Becky bounded down the stairs, grabbing her backpack from the hall table as she headed for the door. She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, an exercise her speech pathologist had suggested
and that seemed to work in most situations. Then Becky hugged Georgia and almost as an afterthought threw her arms around Maisy and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek.

Maisy and Georgia stood together watching them walk away, unsaid words darting between them like angry bees. Maisy turned to go inside and Georgia followed her, closing the door softly behind them. Maisy headed back toward the kitchen to clear the dishes, but Georgia's voice called her back.

“Maisy?”

Something that felt like hope bloomed somewhere in her, surprising her with its suddenness and intensity. As if she'd been waiting for something for so long that she'd forgotten why.

She turned around. “Yes?”

“I've been meaning to ask. When Becky was going through all of Granddaddy's papers, did she find any mention of the name Adeline?”

Disappointment thickened her throat. She shook her head, forced herself to swallow. “No. She didn't have time to go through them all, but I finished looking through them and didn't see anything. Why?”

“When I arrived this morning, I went upstairs to ask Birdie what she wanted for breakfast. She was still asleep, but seemed to be having a nightmare. She wasn't talking—but singing that name over and over. To the tune of that French song.”

Maisy frowned. “We should ask Grandpa.”

A sound made them both turn toward the back hallway leading from the kitchen, where their grandfather stood leaning heavily on his walker. He grunted, the word “what” buried in the sound.

“About someone named Adeline,” Georgia said. “Birdie's sung it several times, like she's calling for her. Like it was someone she once knew and not part of a song lyric.”

Grandpa stared back at them, unblinking behind his smudged eyeglasses. Finally he shook his head.

“Can I get you some water?” Maisy asked, already halfway to the kitchen.

Ignoring her, he began to clump his walker into the kitchen and toward the back door, the most direct route to his remaining hives.

Georgia looked past Grandpa's shoulders toward Maisy and raised her eyebrows, communicating in the way that sisters did where no words were required. There were so many things they needed to talk about with him, and this was as good a time as any.

“You want to go see your bees? Let me grab a glass of water for you and help you down the steps.”

Leaving the dirty dishes in the kitchen, they managed to get their grandfather and his walker down to the backyard and settled in a chair under the large magnolia tree. His chair faced his beloved apiary, his eyebrows knitted as he looked at the two remaining bee boxes.

Maisy pulled her chair close to his. “Florence stopped by yesterday while you were at therapy. She said she might stop by again today, but to let you know that she'll probably be bringing the hives back early. She said the tupelo harvest was just pitiful this year, and she doesn't want to starve the bees. She'll extract the honey for you, but she says not to expect more than two or three jars.”

He didn't seem to hear her, his focus on the hives and the movement of the bees around the entrances. The fingers of his left hand plucked at his pants in agitation, and he seemed like an insect under glass, under scrutiny and unable to escape.

Even though his doctors had told her that his brain function was normal, he wasn't the same man she remembered. The doctors had told them that after the trauma of the stroke and with the medications, their grandfather might have a few memory and behavioral issues that should improve with his recovery. She studied him for a moment, at his kind, intelligent eyes, his thinning gray hair, his arms that had never seemed frail, and couldn't imagine her grandfather being less than he'd always been to her.

She shifted her gaze to Georgia, and recognized in her sister's eyes that she was thinking the same thought.

He continued to stare at the hives, as if he could see the hundreds
of small, buzzing bodies huddled inside, their wings fluttering at two hundred and thirty beats per second. It suddenly occurred to Maisy why he and Georgia were so attached to the bees, why the insects were admired and even loved. Because they were easily
understood
. Bees existed for a purpose, and behaved the way they were supposed to, their reactions to adverse situations predictable. In a chaotic world, it almost seemed natural that Georgia and Grandpa would gravitate to a smaller world in which things made sense.

Maybe that was why Maisy hated the bees. Because life should make sense on its own. It was people like Birdie who sent people searching for meaning and understanding in the world of insects. For the first time Maisy felt sorry for Georgia, for being the oldest child whose job had been to explain a confusing world to a younger sister who didn't understand or like honeybees.

“Good morning.” They looked up to see Lyle emerging from around the front of the house, waving with one hand and with a small plastic-wrapped package held in his other. Maisy assumed it was the postcard and old book Georgia had phoned her about the previous evening.

Maisy pressed the heel of her palm against her chest to stop the wild thudding, then immediately dropped it when she realized what she was doing. Lyle smiled politely at Grandpa and Georgia before resting his gaze on Maisy. “I've always loved you in that color.”

She looked down at the pale green blouse she'd pulled from her closet that morning, knowing how Lyle liked it on her but wearing it anyway.

“I've always told her that green is her best color,” Georgia said, making Maisy wage an internal battle between resentment and gratitude.

“Hello, Ned.” Lyle pulled up a metal lawn chair to sit next to Grandpa. “Glad to see you up and about.”

Grandpa's face remained blank as he studied Lyle, as if trying to remember who he was.

“Ricky's tied up right now but asked me to ask you a few
questions about your truck. Unofficially, of course, just in case anybody asks. He thought that because you knew me you might be more comfortable answering questions. Are you feeling up to it?”