Flight Patterns (33 page)

“I'm not stopping you from continuing the investigation,” Georgia said. “I think we've reached a dead end as far as the man and the truck are concerned, but I know you need to do your job. Either way, it won't make a difference to the value I assign to the china. And I do need to get back.”

Maisy wondered whether anybody else had heard the last word that Georgia had almost tagged onto the end of her sentence.
Home.
New Orleans was where Georgia lived now, but it would never be home. Yet she'd spent all those years away because Maisy had asked her to. For the first time Maisy wondered what it would have been like if she'd been the one sent away, and all she could feel was a bruise on her heart.

She felt Lyle behind her, and the old insecurities, never buried too deep, resurfaced. She found herself saying words she hadn't planned. “You're right. I think Birdie and Grandpa will appreciate a return to normal. Let me know if you need help packing up.”

Georgia did her best to mask her hurt, but Maisy saw it, felt the stab of guilt. She expected Georgia to say something back, words painted with poison and aimed in the perfect spot to do the most damage. But she didn't, making Maisy wonder whether at least one of them had actually managed to grow up.

Instead, Georgia turned toward Caroline, although it was clear she was directing her words at James. “I'm sure I'll see you before I leave, but just in case, I wanted to let you know what a pleasure it's been meeting you. I have a mailing address to send my report, so you can expect that in a few weeks.”

She tilted her head in James's direction without speaking to him directly. “I'm assuming you'll be flying back to New York with your sister instead of driving to New Orleans. If we find out anything more about the history of the china, I'll let you know.”

For the first time in the few short weeks she'd known him, Maisy saw raw anger on James's face. “Is that it?” he asked, taking a step toward Georgia and forcing her to meet his gaze. “Just, ‘Good-bye; I'll let you know'?”

“James, this really isn't the time or place.”

“What? You'll call me? You've got my number on your cell phone?”

Georgia opened her mouth to reply, but James cut her off. “Don't bother. But I did want to thank you for letting me come down here. These few weeks have been illuminating, to say the least—and not just because of the fascinating world of my grandmother's china.”

Maisy flinched before the next words came out of his mouth, and
saw Georgia do the same. “Mostly I want to thank you for confirming that I'm not the most emotionally crippled person I know. At least I know to ask for help.”

He stepped past Lyle to get to the door. “Good night, everybody. Caroline—I'll wait for you outside.” The door closed behind him with a gentle snap; he was always the gentleman.

Carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone, Georgia said, “I'm going to run a bath for Birdie.” She ran up the stairs, followed a few minutes later by the sound of water running through the pipes of the old house.

“I guess I'd better go,” Caroline said. She walked to Maisy and placed the soup cup in her hand. “Give this to Georgia, would you, please? I'm not quite sure whom it belongs to.” Lowering her voice, she added, “And it will give James a reason to call and ask about it later.”

She smiled and said her good-byes, following her brother out the door.

“You're just going to let her go?” Lyle asked softly.

Maisy lifted her chin, angry that his words echoed her own. “Georgia's old enough to make her own decisions.”

His look of disappointment hurt more than any harsh words could have. He picked up his hat from the hall table and settled it on his head. “Yeah, well, and you're old enough to know better.” He opened the door. “Please tell your grandfather that Ricky needs to ask him some questions as soon as he can scribble something on a page. Like where he went in France during his trip. And who he might have met. Somebody sent that postcard to an obscure estate in southern France, and there just aren't many candidates besides Ned.”

“I'll be sure to let him know.”

Lyle paused in the glow of the porch light, and it took everything Maisy could hold together not to ask him to stay. “Good night, Maisy.”

“Good night,” she said, closing the door before she changed her mind.

She moved into the house, turning off lights, leaving one on in the
foyer so Georgia could let herself out. The rush of running water stopped as Maisy crossed the foyer to her grandfather's room. The distinctive sound of whispered words brushing against one another drew her up short. It had been Birdie's voice; Maisy was sure of it. And then her grandfather tried to speak, a rush of air and syllables, the words unmistakable:
I'm sorry.

Queen honeybees are able to sting repeatedly, but queens rarely venture out of hives and would be more likely to use their stingers against rival queens.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

I
'd left Apalachicola just as I'd done nearly a decade before, without saying good-bye and without looking back. I'd learned that from Birdie, from all the times she'd left us behind. I'd consoled us by saying she'd left to save us, because saying good-bye was the worst kind of hurt. At least this time, in my case, it was true.

Caroline had called to say that she and James had made an early flight and had left before sunup to drive back to the Panama City airport. I'd been hurt and relieved in equal measure, wondering at the hollowed-out feeling when I packed up the Limoges books, the sense of being haunted as I looked over my shoulder expecting James to be there. It unsettled me, made me cower under the minutiae of packing up.

I spent my last night at the house eating a short and silent dinner in the dining room with my grandfather, Birdie, Maisy, and Becky, the table cleared now of all my catalogs. One corner of the dining room was stacked with the now-organized papers we'd pulled from the china
cabinet, the photos, the miscellanea of a family condensed into stacks of memories that would remain silent until opened. My gaze kept straying to the corner, a thought scratching at the back of my head, like the
drip-drip
from an old faucet. It would spring into my awareness after long moments of forgetting, the sound suddenly as loud as a bullet from a gun.

I kissed Grandpa and Birdie good night, but didn't tell them good-bye. That would have been like admitting defeat, to acknowledge that I'd been there and fled again without anything changing. Birdie was silent, her eyes darting from side to side as if following the thoughts inside her head, but seemed clearer than I'd seen them in years. I knew she could speak; Maisy had told me that she'd heard her whispering to Grandpa. I imagined I saw her lean forward, prepared to say something. I wanted to go to her and force her to talk to me, to explain our lives. To tell me what Grandpa was sorry for.

Sometimes all we need to do to forgive our parents is to understand their own childhoods.
James was probably right. But I was an ordinary person, with ordinary reserves of strength and courage. I was pretty sure I didn't have enough of either to dig through the mountain of Birdie's past to get to my own.

Grandpa took my hands as I straightened, as if he knew I was saying good-bye. He stared at me solemnly, as if he wanted to tell me something important. I grabbed the pad of paper and pencil that he'd been working with during his PT sessions, then placed the pad in his lap and the pencil between his fingers.

I waited patiently, listening to the scratch of the pencil against paper.
Drape hives.

I read the words out loud. “You mean drape them with black? But no beekeeper has died, Grandpa. And you're getting better. We don't need to worry about that, okay?”

He shook his head and wrote two more words.
Bad luck.

I drew my brows together. “I'm not sure I understand. I know it's bad luck if the hives aren't draped after the death of the beekeeper. I won't forget if that's what you're worried about. But that's a long way away. You just need to focus on getting back your strength.”

He opened his fingers and let the pencil fall to the floor, and Birdie sat up straight, watching him closely. As if they each expected the other to speak.

Maisy tapped on the open door before stepping inside. “That's an old wives' tale,” she said dismissively. “It's time for Grandpa to go to bed.”

“I was just saying good night.”

He'd already begun to raise himself from his chair, resisting Maisy's offer of help.

“Good night, Maisy,” I said.

Her look told me she knew I was leaving and was doing it the easy way, without saying good-bye. For a brief moment I thought she would ask me to stay, even hoped that she would. But the moment passed, the unsaid words like ghosts floating in the space between us.

If you want things to change, you have to stop waiting for someone else to make the first move.
I knew Marlene was probably right, but I saw the hurts between Maisy and me as something impenetrable and insurmountable, rendering us both paralyzed.

“Becky wants you to say good night. She's out on the back porch getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, so don't keep her waiting.”

I nodded, but before I left the room, Maisy called me back. “Georgia—wait.”

Our eyes met, but neither one of us said anything, our words trapped behind too much stubbornness and too many years of hurt to count. I turned around and left the room without looking back.

I found Becky rocking in one of the old chairs. The moon was pregnant with light, its fullness mirrored on the rippling surface of the bay.

“Mama said I could look at the moon for a little while longer. It's so pretty tonight.”

“It is,” I agreed, sitting on the top step in front of her.

“When I was little, Mama told me that the whole world looked up at the same moon each night. She said that's how I could always stay close to you. I think she does the same thing.”

I spoke past the lump in my throat. “Why do you think that?”

“Because sometimes when we'd come outside to see the full moon, she'd get sad.”

I took a few deep breaths so I could speak. “It's time for you to go to bed. I wanted to say good night before I left.” I stood and pulled her out of her chair, exaggerating the effort it took to lift her light frame. I hugged her to me, marveling at the sturdy feel of her, the smell of baby shampoo and nail polish. She was smart, and kind, and a great tennis player. And loved by two parents who had created the wonderful person she was. I hoped Maisy never told her the truth about who had given birth to her. That had been the easy part.

I kissed the top of her head. “Don't let the Madisons of the world ever make you think you're less than you are. When I first had to give talks in front of a large group of people, my boss gave me great advice. He said to imagine them naked. That way I'd have no reason to feel self-conscious.”

Becky giggled. “I'll try.” Her face became serious. “I think you should get a cell phone.”

I frowned. “Why would I do that?”

“So I can call you whenever I want to. Or text you. Since you probably can't text, you can just send me a smiley face so that I know you're thinking about me.”

“But I think about you all the time without having a cell phone.”

“Except this way, I'd know.”

I sighed. “I'll think about it.”

“My phone number is the same as the house except it has a one at the end instead of a three.”

“Easy enough to remember,” I agreed.

“Please?” she said, and I knew it wasn't a casual request. I remembered how much I'd needed my aunt Marlene growing up, somebody who was related but removed enough from the complexities of my family life.

“All right,” I said, not regretting it as much as I thought I would.

We walked into the house and I said good night, not waiting long enough to see her disappear into the hallway upstairs, already feeling
like an outsider again as soon as I'd made it to the driveway. The next morning I awakened before the sun, loaded my packed bags into the trunk, and left a note for Marlene, avoiding her look of recrimination that would hurt more than anybody else's.

It took me a week before I found myself standing outside the brightly lit Apple Store at the Lakeside Shopping Center near New Orleans, looking through the glass trying to find an employee who looked close to my age. I didn't want to be made to feel inferior to someone half my age explaining how a phone worked.

There appeared to be no one inside over the age of twenty-five. With a deep sigh I entered the store, my eyes blinking under the glowing fluorescent lights that bounced off of silver laptop covers and walls of neon phone accessories. I was so out of my element that I nearly turned around and left. But all I had to do to keep my feet rooted to the floor was remember Becky's plea.

Three hours later I walked out with a phone as large as my head (so I could see the letters better, according to Tyler, whose sketchy attempt at beard growing just magnified his youthfulness), and with a rudimentary knowledge of what an app was and how to dial a phone number. He'd also helped me store the three phone numbers I knew: the house, Becky's, and Marlene's. And then I asked him to add Maisy's, but only because Becky had given it to me before I left. Just in case, she'd said. Tyler showed me how to add more, but I couldn't think of who I might call on a regular basis.

When I got back to the office, Mr. Mandeville was waiting for me, a look of excitement on his face. “Caroline Harrison has called for you twice. I'm hoping this means they would like us to appraise and sell some of the larger lots from her grandmother's estate. I would send you, of course, since you already have a rapport with the client.”

I was unprepared for the surge of excitement that was immediately replaced with panic. How could I see James again? He'd kissed me and I'd run away, because fleeing was the only thing, besides valuing old china and furniture, that I was any good at. James had stirred up emotions that had long lain dormant, and for good reason. I was
damaged beyond repair, a padlock without a key. He was healing from a reeling loss, and the last thing he needed was someone with as many scars as he had.

What's your price for flight?
I could hear him asking me that now. And I had a ready answer: self-preservation in exchange for a life that was more than ordinary.

“You can use the phone in my office,” Mr. Mandeville offered.

“Actually, I'll call back on my cell phone.” I ignored his look of surprise. “Do you have the number?”

He handed me a small pink message form. “Let her know that we are willing to negotiate our rate if the estate is large enough.”

“I'll make sure she knows,” I said, hastily retreating to my office and closing the door. I looked down at the paper and painstakingly entered her name into my address book and then her phone number. After I'd saved it, I hit the call button.

“James Graf.” I was unprepared to hear James's voice on the other end and considered hanging up.

“Hello?” he said, a touch of impatience in his tone.

“James, hi. It's Georgia. I thought I was returning Caroline's phone call.”

He was silent, and I imagined him hanging up on me. Not that I would blame him. “Hello, Georgia. This is my cell number, actually. I know Caroline's been trying to reach you. She must have left my number for you to call back.”

I blushed, realizing why she'd done that, and also embarrassed at the annoyance in his voice.

“Yes, well, if you could tell her I returned her call and to call me back on my cell.”

“Your cell?”

“Yeah. I told Becky I'd get one so she could reach me. She said I could text her, too, but I'm not sure about that.”

“Sounds like Becky.” I heard the smile in his voice.

“Let me give you my number.” I started with the area code, but he cut me off.

“No need. It's already stored on my phone and I can share it with Caroline. And I know what she wanted to tell you, if you have a minute.”

I stared into my open desk drawer, the one filled with all of the loose keys I'd been collecting. “Sure.”

I listened as he shuffled papers in the background. “She made me take notes so I wouldn't forget anything. And then told me I was in charge of keeping this and any new information together in one place.”

Despite everything, I found myself smiling. It was something an older sister would do, something I would have done with Maisy when I was still a part of her life.

“I think she mentioned how our other sister Elizabeth is big into genealogy and had already gathered quite a few family documents. Elizabeth and Caroline pulled out all the papers this past weekend, looking for any mention of the china, remembering how our family had brought it with them when they emigrated in 1947 from Switzerland. We think they found something significant.”

I looked at the surface of my desk, covered with facts and figures regarding my estimate of the custom Haviland Limoges pattern, the blank spaces where I needed to insert photos, but I hadn't yet called Caroline to request them. A chill swept over me all of a sudden as I remembered something Marlene had said to me the first time I'd left Apalachicola.
The past is never done with you, no matter how much you think you're done with it.

“And?” I asked.

“They found the immigration papers from our family's entry into Ellis Island. Giovanni and Yvette Bosca, arriving with their seven children, including their eldest daughter and her husband—a Swiss national—and another child Yvette claimed was her deceased sister's seven-year-old daughter, Colette. Colette Mouton.”