Flight Patterns (3 page)

I leaned back in my chair. “There are other Haviland identification books we can refer to if we don't find it in the Schleiger volumes, but I've rarely had to dig that deep. The Schleiger books are pretty comprehensive.”

“So there's a chance you won't be able to identify it or determine its value?” he asked.

“Not necessarily, but it will take some time. It might not have a pattern name, but there are other ways to determine its origin, and through that a more exact value. For instance, floral patterns were popular in the 1950s, and there were distinctive patterns from the Art Nouveau era that can help us pinpoint the time period the china was first made. Although I must say I can't really identify a time period where insects were the ‘in' thing. I'll need to double-check, but I believe the
blank was in use in the second half of the eighteen hundreds, so that would be a place to start.”

I picked up the cup and ran the tip of my finger over the bees, so lifelike that I could almost imagine their buzzing. “This pattern is so unusual. If it was mass-produced, there will be more out there, unless it wasn't popular and had a limited run. Even harder to find would be if it was made on commission.” I looked up at Mr. Mandeville. “Well-known artists like Gauguin, Ribiere, Dufy, and Cocteau actually designed several patterns for David Haviland. If this is one of theirs, it could be very valuable.”

“But wasn't Haviland Limoges meant for the American market?” Mr. Mandeville asked, beaming. I'd had to explain that factoid to him many times and was glad to know it had stuck. “And if Mr. Graf's grandmother was from New York, perhaps you could start by looking at the local retailers there who sold Limoges.”

“Yes, but the Limoges factories were in France, so it wouldn't be unheard-of for a French customer to commission a set of china. And that might be like looking for a needle in a haystack.” I ran my fingers along the end of the teacup again, a reluctant memory stirring.

James turned the catalog around to face him and began thumbing through the pages with a frown on his face. “So to identify the pattern, you have to look through each page to see if you recognize it.”

“Pretty much,” I said, wanting to explain that I loved the minutiae of my work, the mindlessness of flipping through pages that took enough of my concentration that my mind didn't have to wander down paths it wasn't allowed to go.

“I could help,” he offered, his blue eyes sincere.

I shook my head quickly. “I'm sure you have to get back to New York. If you allow me to keep the cup and saucer, I'll fill out the necessary paperwork for insurance purposes. . . .”

He straightened. “Actually, I've taken a leave of absence from my job, so I have as much time as it will take. I wasn't planning on heading back until I have some answers.”

“And he's already promised that we will handle the auction of the
china and the rest of his grandmother's estate if this search proves fruitful,” Mr. Mandeville added, giving me a hard look under lowered eyebrows.

I studied the bees again as they swirled around the pieces of china, their wings stuck in perpetual movement.
So memorable.
I had a flash of memory of my grandfather in his apiary, my hand in his as we walked down the rows of hives, the bees thick as they darted and spun around us, and how I hadn't been afraid. And then I remembered Birdie finding me in her room, rummaging through her closet for something vintage to wear, finding instead something entirely unexpected, something that had made my mother so sad that she had to go away again. Something that had made her put her finger over her lips and make me promise to keep it a secret. It was the only thing my mother and I had ever shared, just the two of us. And so I had.

“I think—” I said, then stopped. I wasn't sure I wanted to mention that I thought the pattern seemed familiar, that I might have seen it in my childhood house. Because, even after all this time and all that had happened in the intervening years, I didn't want to give my mother another reason to be disappointed by me.

“What do you think?” prompted Mr. Mandeville.

“I think,” I said again, “that I may have seen this pattern before. Or something very similar.” My eyes settled on Mr. Mandeville. “On a soup cup I found in my mother's closet. My grandmother was a bit of a junker—always collecting stray bits of china and knickknacks, which is probably where it came from.”

“Good,” said my boss. “Then all you have to do is go home and bring it here so we can compare.”

I frowned up at him. He'd been urging me to go home to see my family for years now, not understanding how people related by blood could be separated for so long. As if being related meant permanence and acceptance, two words I'd never associated with my family.

“I really don't think that's necessary. I'll call my grandfather, ask him to look for it and ship it here if he finds it. Or maybe he can just take pictures and send them. That might be enough to compare it
with this one. It wouldn't be necessary to physically hold it to see if it's the same.” I indicated the cup I still held in my hands, almost feeling the thrum of the flying bees through my fingertips.

“If it is the same,” asked James, “what might that imply?”

“That the pattern could be mass-produced, which will mean it's not worth as much as a custom one.” I ran my fingertips along the edge of the cup, trying to remember that day in my mother's closet, trying to see again the pattern of bees. Trying to remember what it was about it that had sent my mother away again. “Although I'd be pretty surprised if it were mass-produced. I've seen thousands of Limoges patterns before, but never anything like this. It's rather . . . unique.”

“I'd prefer to see it in person,” Mr. Mandeville said. “That way we won't make any mistakes.” He cleared his throat as he turned his attention to James. “We're very particular here at the Big Easy. We like to make sure we're one hundred percent correct when assigning values.”

“I'll call my grandfather,” I repeated, my higher voice sounding panicky, and I hoped they hadn't noticed.

Mr. Mandeville frowned. “But if the piece doesn't turn up, I want you to go look for yourself. You're very thorough, Georgia. It's what makes you so good at what you do.” His frown morphed into a fatherly smile that made him look like an executioner holding an ax.

I felt James's presence beside me, watching me closely, making it impossible for me to tell my boss exactly why I hadn't been back to Apalachicola in ten years.

“I'm sure your family would love a visit from you, too,” he added.

Impotent anger pulsed through me, forcing me to close my eyes so I could focus on breathing slowly to calm down, just as Aunt Marlene had shown me when I was a little girl and the world had stopped making sense.
Breathe in; breathe out.
The air whistled in through my nose and out through my mouth, sounding more and more like the drone of hundreds of angry bees as I tried to force the word “no” from my lips.

A bumblebee, if dropped into an open tumbler, will be there until it dies, unless it is taken out. It never sees the means of escape at the top, but persists in trying to find some way out through the sides. It will seek a way where none exists, until it completely destroys itself.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Maisy

APALACHICOLA, FLORIDA

M
aisy Sawyers followed her mother to the back porch. She peered into the late-April morning sunshine toward the backyard and the apiary, the air sweet with the scent of sun-warmed honey and filled with the low drone of bees. She stiffened at the sight of a bee flitting above her mother's gold hair. Maisy hated the little flying insects almost as much as her grandfather, mother, and half sister, Georgia, loved them. Maybe it was because they loved them so much.

She spotted her ninety-four-year-old grandfather wearing only a long-sleeved shirt and baggy dungarees on his tall, thin frame, walking down the middle of his ten bee boxes, five on each side. He was getting ready to move eight of his hives into the swamps around the Apalachicola River, where the white Ogeechee tupelo trees were beginning to blossom. There was only a small window of time between
late April and early May when the trees bloomed, and if a beekeeper wanted the much-sought-after pure tupelo honey, he had to make sure his hives were in the right place at the right time.

Turning to her mother, she said, “It's still pretty cool outside and there's a nice breeze. I thought we'd sit in the shade of the magnolia for a bit if that's all right.” She watched her mother as she considered. By all estimations, Birdie was most likely in her mid-seventies, but looked a decade or two younger, owing in part to good genes and an almost fanatical aversion to letting any sun on her skin.

Birdie tilted her head to the side and began to sing, her voice still as clear and pure as a girl's. It wasn't a song Maisy knew, but that wasn't a surprise. Her mother had studied voice since she was a child, accumulating a repertoire that spanned decades and styles. And it had been the only sound she'd made for nearly ten years.

Maisy followed her mother down the steps from the back porch and then through the yard of sandy soil and sparse grass toward the majestic tree that had held court over this part of the yard since she and Georgia were little girls.

Her thoughts skittered over memories of her half sister, something she rarely allowed them to do, and she wondered whether Georgia remembered the tree and the old swing—gone since Hurricane Dennis—or thought about her home at all. Or the people she'd left behind, frozen in time. In the nearly ten years since Georgia had left, nothing had really changed. More tourists and construction on St. George Island, more fishing regulations and fewer oysters in the bay. But Maisy had remained, along with their grandfather and mother, and her memories of a childhood that were incomplete without including Georgia.

“Mama!”

Maisy turned to where her nine-year-old daughter, Becky, stood on the back porch in her bare feet and pajamas. “The phone keeps ringing.”

“Who is it?”

“I don't know—they hang up before I can answer. Caller ID says it's from a number starting with five-oh-four. They didn't leave a message. Do you want me to wait by the phone and see if they call back?”

It took a moment for Maisy to find her voice. “No, Becky. That's all right.”

Becky returned to the kitchen, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

Birdie stopped singing and Maisy knew that she'd heard, too. Had understood what it meant. Maisy's mother was a conscientious objector to her own life, but that didn't mean she was unaware of it swirling around her.

“That's New Orleans,” Maisy said unnecessarily. Georgia never called the landline, just in case Maisy happened to answer it. Maisy knew her sister had monthly conversations with their grandfather, and that he initiated the call from the old black Princess phone in his bedroom.

Birdie and Maisy watched as Grandpa began walking toward them from the apiary, his slow movements confirming his age. His mind was as quick and agile as that of a man of half his years, but his body had already begun to betray him with stiffened joints and an irregular heartbeat.

The faint ringing of the telephone began again from inside. Knowing it would continue until she answered it, Maisy left her mother and ran back to the house. She grabbed the kitchen phone, the long cord that was so knotted and kinked now that it reached only about three feet.

“Hello?” Something buzzed by her head and she jerked back as the bee darted past her and up toward the ceiling.
A bee in the house means there will be a visitor.
Her grandfather's bee wisdoms seemed imprinted on her brain no matter how much she wished she could erase them.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the phone. “Hello, Maisy? It's Georgia.”

Like she needed to introduce herself. Like Maisy wouldn't know the voice almost as well as she knew her own.

“Hello, Georgia.” She had no intention of making this any easier. The bee buzzed past her again, and Maisy turned toward the wall and retrieved the flyswatter she kept on a nail. If that damned insect bothered her again, it would be the last thing it would ever do.

“I need to ask a favor.”

I'm fine—thank you for asking.
“Is this about that soup cup?”

A pause. “Yes. I guess Grandpa told you then. He didn't remember it, but said he'd look for it. He said he didn't find it.”

“Well, then. It must not be here.” She held the phone to her ear, listening to her sister breathe.

“I'd like you to look,” Georgia said finally. “To make sure.”

“It's not here,” Maisy said quickly. “I helped him look, and we were very thorough. We even looked in Birdie's closet and didn't find it. I thought he already told you that.”

She pictured Georgia's lips tightening over her teeth, clamping her mouth shut. Grandpa used to say it made her look like an oyster unwilling to give up her pearl. It was an expression Georgia always used when pitting herself against what she was hearing and what she wanted to hear. An expression that was usually reserved for interactions with their mother.

“He did,” Georgia said slowly. “It's just that this is pretty important, for a potentially very big client. . . .”

“Well, I'm sorry we can't help you.” Maisy was thinking about whether she should think of something innocuous to say or just hang up when Georgia spoke again.

“I guess I'll be coming home, then. To see for myself. It's not that I don't believe you—it's just . . .” Georgia paused, and Maisy imagined that closed-oyster look again. “It's just that my boss is insisting on it. It's for what could be one of our biggest clients, and there's a possibility it could be from a very rare and valuable pattern. He wants to hear from me that it's not there.”

Panic filled the back of Maisy's throat like bee venom. “But you promised, Georgia. You
promised
.” The last word was mostly air.

“I know. But that was ten years ago. Things are different.
I'm
different.”

“How do you know that, Georgia? How can you really know that? This is not a good idea.”

There was a hint of something in Georgia's voice. Resignation,
maybe? Or was it more like anticipation, the hum of bees approaching a summer garden? “I'm sorry, Maisy. I have to come.”

Maisy relaxed her jaw, aware she'd been grinding her teeth. “Will you be staying here?”

“No,” Georgia said quickly, as if she'd already anticipated the question. “I'll probably stay at Aunt Marlene's. I don't want things to be . . . awkward.”

“Lyle and I are separated. He's living at his parents' old place until we figure things out.” Maisy wasn't sure why she'd said that, why she wanted to advertise her biggest failure. Maybe it was simply the old habit of needing to share all her heartaches with her sister, as if they were still children and life hadn't happened to them yet.

“I know. Grandpa told me last time I called. I'm sorry.”

Maisy closed her eyes for a moment, considering the word and how useless it was, how much it resembled a teaspoon bailing out a sinking boat. “When will you be here and how long will you stay?”

“I should be able to get there by Monday. What I need to do shouldn't take more than a few days.” After a moment in which neither of them spoke, Georgia asked, “How's Birdie?”

“The same. And you don't need to pretend you care just because you're coming home.”

“I didn't say I cared. I just asked how she was.”

Silence. Then, “How's Grandpa?”

“The same. You'll see them both, I expect, when you're here.”

“Of course,” Georgia added quickly, almost as if to convince herself. A longer pause, and then, “And Becky? How is she? Is she in third grade this year or fourth?”

“We'll see you when you get here,” Maisy said as she gently replaced the telephone into the cradle.

“Who was that?”

Maisy turned to find Becky standing in the doorway, her blond hair still tousled from sleep, her bare toes peeking out from too-short pajama bottoms and polished in different shades of orange and purple.

“That was your aunt Georgia. She's coming for a visit.”

“The same Aunt Georgia who always sends me birthday and Christmas presents?”

“Yes.” Maisy didn't say any more, although it seemed as if Becky was waiting.

“Have I ever met her?” Becky's eyes, so dark they seemed almost black, peered back at her intently.

“Once. When you were a baby.”

“Daddy said I'm not supposed to mention her to you.”

Maisy stared back at her daughter, wondering whether her expression was as guileless as it seemed. “Did he? Well, your aunt Georgia and I don't get along, is all. We had an argument a long time ago and she left. That's pretty much all there is to it.”

“What was the argument about?” Becky leaned against the kitchen counter, as if preparing for a long story.

You.
“I don't remember,” Maisy said. “Maybe if you had a sister you might understand how one can drive you crazy more than anyone else in the world.”

“I
wish
I had a sister,” Becky said.

The bee chose that moment to land on the phone's receiver. Without thinking, Maisy brought down the flyswatter. When she lifted it, the bee slid to the floor, completely still.

“Did you kill a bee?” Becky asked with the same sort of drama one might use if a person had unexpectedly died.

“It kept buzzing around me. I was afraid it was going to sting me.”

Becky pried the swatter from Maisy's hand, then used it to pick up the dead bee. “A bee in a house means a visitor's coming. But if you kill it, the visitor will bring bad luck.”

Maisy watched as Becky carefully carried the small corpse to the back door, then flung it into the grass. She rehung the swatter on the doorjamb before facing her mother. “Do you think that's t-true?”

Becky stuttered only when she was nervous or upset, and Maisy felt worse for causing that than for killing the bee. “Of course not, sweetie.”

Becky stared at her for a moment. “I'll g-go get d-dressed.”

Maisy listened as the creaks in each step marked Becky's slow path up the stairs.

When Maisy returned to the backyard, bringing her mother's wide-brimmed straw hat, her grandfather had pulled up a worn lawn chair next to Birdie. To any bystander, it would look like they were having a two-way conversation. But as Maisy approached, she could hear her mother humming a show tune as her grandfather talked about the recent heavy rains and how they might affect the upcoming tupelo honey harvest.

“I thought you might want this,” Maisy said as she set the hat on Birdie's head, adjusting it just so. Even at her age, Birdie was a vain woman, protecting the beauty she'd been famous for. Her skin, sheltered from the sun by an overprotective mother since she was a child, had few lines, and her dark eyes hadn't faded to a lighter hue. Every morning she painstakingly applied her makeup, purchased on regular trips into Jacksonville she made with Maisy.

Since Birdie no longer communicated in normal ways, Maisy was often asked how she knew what her mother wanted. People didn't understand that she'd had a lifetime of studying her mother, trying to decode her. Trying to understand how a woman with no maternal instincts could have hoped to raise two daughters. Trying to piece together the woman her mother had been before her life had jolted off the rails one final, permanent time ten years before, sending her into a dark place from which she didn't appear to want to return.

The clues were everywhere in picture frames around the house of the beautiful Birdie in various costumes from school plays and regional theater productions that had been her life for most of her youth. They were there in the thick photo albums stuffed with old Polaroids of her mother with her first husband, handsome in his army uniform before he left for Vietnam in 1965, and then of Birdie holding baby Georgia in a christening gown. It had only recently occurred to Maisy that there weren't any photos of her own father, Birdie's second husband, or more than the requisite school photos of herself. It
almost seemed as if they were an afterthought, a failed attempt at a second chance.