Flight Patterns (20 page)

“I dreamt—marvelous error!— / that I had a beehive / here inside my heart.

And the golden bees / were making white combs / and sweet honey /

from my old failures.”

Antonio Machado

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

B
ees buzzed and flitted around my head. I counted each one as I'd done as a child, lulling me into a sweet space where I couldn't see my mother's tortured face or hear my sister's bitter and accusatory words. Or remember the person I had once been, and who I was afraid still lurked inside of me.

Without my grandfather and the hives that had been moved to the swamp, the apiary seemed more than just diminished, like a child labeled with a failure to thrive. I couldn't help but think this change was irreversible, somehow permanent. A turn of the tide that could not be pulled back.

At the base of the bee box in front of me, a bee—larger than most—lingered on the platform in front of the exit. Making sure it
was clear my intent wasn't to block the bees from entering or leaving the hive, I leaned in from the side and scooped up the bee, cupping it inside my closed palms.

“Won't it sting you?”

I hadn't heard James approach, but I'd sensed his presence. There was something about the apiary that had always heightened all of my senses. Maybe because it was the only place I'd known as a child where Maisy wouldn't follow me or interrupt.

“It's a male—a drone. They don't have stingers.” I stepped back from the hive so that I stood next to him. “My grandfather showed me this when I was a little girl—they just buzz in your hands like a little rattle. But they can't hurt you.”

I touched my closed hands to his and, without being asked, he cupped his hands. Careful not to hurt the bee, I transferred the drone to James. He smiled broadly. “Neat. But how can you make sure you're not picking up one with a stinger?”

“Well, you can usually
see
the stinger, but if you're that close, it's probably too late anyway. The drones are bigger—not as big as the queen, but bigger than the worker bees.”

“So they're strong enough for the fatal aerial love dance with the queen if they're chosen.”

“Exactly. You're a good student.”

His smile dimmed as he opened up his hands and let the bee fly away. “If only people were that easy to figure out.”

I lifted my brows, waiting for him to say more, but he didn't.

“Did you need to ask me something?” It had been a day since they'd found my grandfather's truck and Birdie had had her episode. Birdie hadn't left her room since, and my grandfather's agitation and Lyle's inability to tell us anything more had kept Maisy and me on edge.

Even though James now wore a short-sleeved golf shirt and cotton twill shorts, he didn't look like a native. I'm not sure whether James Graf would look like a native in his hometown, either. There was an aloofness about him, almost a carelessness, that spoke of someone not
quite aware of the world around him or other people's reaction to his presence. It was strangely appealing, the foreignness of him, the otherworldliness. If I'd been up to the challenge, I would have tried to unravel him, to understand what motivated him. There was more there than the loss of his wife. There was a depth to his despair that only similar dark souls could recognize.

“Not really. I needed a break from the Internet. I've been searching for anything I can find about Emile Duval. I did find out where he apprenticed to another porcelain painter—in a small town in Provence called Monieux. It would make sense that if he was commissioned by a private client, they had probably seen his work and most likely lived in the same area. It's a stretch, but a place to start. I figure after lunch I'm going to start doing an online search for wealthy families from near Monieux who lived there during the late eighteen hundreds—people who could afford to commission a set of one-of-a-kind china.”

I grinned up at him. “If I'm not careful, you're going to be after my job. That's pretty much along the same lines as I was thinking. And if we can identify the artist, that would be very good news for you, as that will certainly affect the value in a positive way.”

He didn't smile back. “Actually, I did want to talk with you about something else. . . .”

“Yes?” I swallowed back the lump that had lodged itself in my throat at the thought that he was about to tell me that it was time for him to go back to New York. He needed to go back to his life, and the online research he was doing here could certainly be done anywhere. Yet in the short time since I'd known him, I'd come to rely on his calm, solid presence. It was as unfamiliar to me as snow, yet comforting in the way a person gravitates toward a favorite sweater. The thought of him leaving now made me feel somehow bereft.

“It's Lyle.”

I felt a huge relief, until I realized what he'd said. “What do you mean?”

James shrugged. “When I was standing in the foyer wondering if
I should run upstairs after you and Maisy or join Lyle, I overheard one of his questions he directed at your grandfather. He wanted to know if your grandfather remembered if there was anything important he'd left in the truck when it was stolen. Your grandfather didn't respond—and I imagine Lyle didn't expect him to—which made me wonder why Lyle would think it important enough to come ask.”

“Or why Lyle would want to keep that private. He's referring to a truck that was stolen sixty-two years ago.”

“That made me curious, too, and because I have a lot of time on my hands I started sticking my thoughts where they don't belong.” He squinted at me in the bright sunshine. “There's definitely more to this story, and I'm guessing that Lyle didn't say anything because he's trying to protect Maisy. He still loves her, doesn't he?”

I nodded. “He always has.” I watched as a bee circled us before heading for the hive.

“Does that bother you?”

I met his gaze with surprise. “No. Of course not. Lyle and I were very close—best friends, really. It didn't occur to me until it was too late that Maisy might not have appreciated it. But they do love each other, regardless of what's going on in their marriage right now, and they've raised a wonderful daughter together. Maisy has . . . trust issues. I hope they can find their way back to each other.”

Sweat dripped between my breasts under my vintage orange nylon shirt. I pulled it away from my chest, feeling overheated and embarrassed under his scrutiny. I'd never cared what people thought about me, most likely because Birdie had cared too much. But I realized with some surprise that James's opinion mattered to me, no matter how much I wished it didn't.

I began to walk back to the house. “I'm going downtown to do some antiquing—see if I can find something unexpected.”

“Maybe a new lock or key?”

I shielded the sun from my eyes with my hand as I looked back at him. “Maybe. I always like to think in possibilities.”

He smiled softly. “That's a good perspective to have.” He looked back at the hives for a moment before turning back to me. “If it's all right, I'll come with you. I need a break from my laptop and Limoges artists and towns with French names. I'll treat you to lunch.”

“You need a break from all of us, I should think. I'm Birdie's daughter and it's still hard for me, even though I should be used to the craziness. I can't imagine what this has all been like for you.”

His eyes darkened. “It's nothing that I'm not familiar with. I understand fragile minds.”

Yes,
I thought.
Yes, you do.
I would have known this about him even if he hadn't told me. It was in the creases on the sides of his mouth, and the hollowness behind his smile. It was in his sensitivity, his ability to know the right thing to say and do.
Yes
, I thought again.
You understand a fragile mind.

I slid my moist palms down the sides of my maxiskirt, feeling suddenly out of breath. “Sure. I'd like the company.” I began walking again, but stopped when I realized he hadn't moved.

“My wife had an affair. I found out when I went through her text messages after she died.”

I didn't look at him. Words filled my head and were quickly dismissed as an adequate response.
I'm sorry
.
That's awful
. There was nothing I could say that would make it better for him. I'd known loss and betrayal, but this grief was his own, a shirt made just for him. There was no room for empty words that did nothing to cushion or erase.

I'd been so young when my father died, but old enough to know that death meant he was never coming back. Aunt Marlene had looked at me with my father's eyes and then scooped me up in her arms and hugged me for as long as I needed it without saying anything. Even without words, I'd known that she understood my grief, but that she wasn't going to pretend she could make it better. All she could do was let me know I wasn't alone.

Before I could think twice I turned and walked toward him, and then, standing on my tiptoes, I put my arms around him and placed my head against his chest. I heard his quick intake of air, his startled
surprise that made his heart thump next to my ear. And then I felt him relax, his bones softening into mine, his chin resting on the top of my head. “Thank you,” he said as his arms came around me.

I hugged him a little tighter, knowing that for perhaps the first time in my life I had done something right and good.

The back door banged shut, jerking us apart as Becky ran across the yard toward us. “Mrs. Love is here to see Grandpa, but Mama took him to the hospital for his physical therapy, so she wants to see you.”

Not really sure why I was feeling embarrassed or guilty, I avoided looking at James as I walked toward the door. His long strides meant he beat me to it and held the door open for Becky and me, the latter rolling her eyes to let us know that she'd seen us hugging.

Florence stood awkwardly in the foyer, looking out of place indoors and away from the sunshine and her bees. She wore her ubiquitous bee earrings, and although she was smiling, her eyes were worried. She greeted us both, and after she declined my offer of something to drink, we headed out to the back porch to catch the late-afternoon breeze that blew in from the bay.

After we seated ourselves in rocking chairs, James spoke first. “I can't thank you enough for the tupelo honey. I understand now why honey is called the ‘nectar of the gods.'”

He grinned as Florence's cheeks turned a bright pink. “You're more than welcome. So glad you enjoyed it. You might want to make it last. Doesn't look like it's going to be a good harvest this year. This dang rain—it's only good if you're a duck.”

She smiled a little at her own joke before her face turned serious. “I need to speak with your grandpa. I know he can't communicate so good right now, but I just wanted to let him know what I saw, so that he's not blindsided by the police. Although I'm assuming they've been here already?”

I nodded. “Lyle stopped by and told us they'd found Grandpa's truck, but would only speak with Grandpa, so we're not sure what was discussed, and neither of them has told Maisy and me anything.”

Florence nodded. “It's just, well, as his friend I wanted to make sure he knew.”

“Knew what?” I asked, gooseflesh pricking at the back of my neck.

She pursed her lips together. “I'm only telling you because you're his granddaughter and you love him. And he's been a good friend to me.”

I didn't say anything, waited for her to continue.

“It was me and my guys who found the truck. I made the men stay back, because I'm smaller than they are, just in case I needed somebody to rescue me, but I went up close to look inside.” She swallowed. “There was . . .” She paused, shook her head as if trying to unravel something twisted tightly inside. “A person.” She stopped, perspiration beading her upper lip.

“A person?” I asked.

“What . . . what was left of one. A skeleton. Still wearing clothes. I thought it was a real live person at first, because of the clothes.”

For a moment it felt as if I were swimming in the ocean and I'd just reached a cold spot. I took a deep breath to reassure myself that I could. “Could you see anything else—if it was male or female?”

Florence looked away toward the water for a moment, her hands gripped together in her lap. “Definitely a man. Wearing overalls and a cap.”

“Oh.” Somehow it wasn't what I'd expected to hear.

“I stuck around after the police got there—my uncle and my brother were both police chiefs, so I know lots of the officers, and they're kinda used to seeing me around places most girls shy away from. Anyway, this probably shouldn't be repeated, since it's an open investigation, but they're saying that it's probably the person who stole the truck and that he got lost in the swamp trying to get away. But you know how rumors and conjectures get started.” She gave us a tight smile. “I just wanted y'all to know before the stories reached you.”