Flight Patterns (4 page)

Maisy sat down on the ground near her mother's chair and leaned against it. She remembered other times here, under this tree, other spring mornings before the Florida sun scorched the earth and burned the skin. When she and Georgia had been as thick as bees in a hive. If only she didn't know how badly it hurt to be stung.

“Georgia's coming home for a visit,” she announced without preamble. “Just for a little while. She said she wants to make sure for herself that the soup cup you and I looked for isn't here. She says her boss needs her to make sure.” She wanted to add that the real reason was because Georgia didn't trust them to do a thorough job. But then that would mean that Georgia
wanted
to come back to Apalach, and they all understood why that couldn't be true.

“The soup cup?” her grandfather repeated, an odd note in his voice.

She sent him a sharp look, wondering whether he could have already forgotten. “Yeah—remember? Georgia called you the day before yesterday and we looked all over the house for it. You said it was probably just another stray piece of junk Grandma brought home and we got rid of long ago.”

He regarded her steadily, but his eyes were empty, sending a cool shudder down her spine.
He's ninety-four,
she reminded herself.
That's why he doesn't remember; that's why his eyes are so blank.
But there was something else, something behind his eyes. Something he didn't want her to see.

Maisy looked away, toward the house that held so many memories that she sometimes imagined she could hear the old nails and joists at night groaning with all the secrets they contained, and thought again of Georgia, and how she was coming home to the place she'd promised she'd never return to.

“Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.”

John Keats

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

T
he wooden floorboards complained like the bones of an old woman as I walked from the small kitchen in the back of my shotgun cottage straight through to the front room, where my dining table sat littered with china catalogs and reference volumes. I sat down in the rustic farmhouse kitchen chair I'd found at a garage sale somewhere between Mobile and Pensacola and placed my steaming cup of coffee on the coaster beside my notebook. A classic jazz standard drifted from my circa-1980s clock radio, the dial permanently stuck on WWOZ FM 90.7. If I ever decided to listen to different music, I'd have to buy a new radio.

After rolling my shoulders, I returned to volume two of the Schleiger books, my eyes already feeling the strain from looking through the first one. It was harder because I didn't have the cup and saucer to reference, and I had to go on memory. Not that I really needed to stare at them to remember. The pattern seemed to be imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, like the light from a camera flash.

I wasn't procrastinating about leaving. Not really. I felt sure that Maisy was desperately looking through the house one more time, as eager as I was to find it and probably for much the same reason, and would find the piece of china so that I wouldn't have to go down to Apalachicola.

The 1880s wooden school clock chimed eight times on the wall behind me just as a firm knock sounded on the front door. I sat back in my chair, deliberating on whether I should answer, when the knock came again, followed by a male voice. “Miss Chambers? Georgia? It's James Graf. I'd like to talk with you.”

I looked down at my clothes, mortified to realize I was still wearing my pajamas, albeit vintage silk men's pajamas from the twenties. I'd half risen from my chair, ready to dash to my bedroom, when he called through the door again. “Just five minutes of your time—I promise.”

With a sigh of resignation, I went to the door and unbolted the six locks that laced it like a corset. James was dressed in khaki pants and a long-sleeved shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and he carried a bag that looked suspiciously like the ones from the Maple Street Patisserie that I usually brought to work.

He held it toward me like a peace offering. “Mr. Mandeville said you were particularly fond of the chocolate croissants, so I stopped by on my way over.”

My stomach rumbled as I smelled the pastries inside the bag, and tried to remember the last time I'd eaten. It was always this way when I was lost in the hunt for a singular piece of a collection, an unbroken lid, a missing key.

“Thank you,” I said, hesitating only briefly before I took the bag. “I thought you'd be back in New York by now.”

James smiled, and I liked the way the sides of his eyes crinkled easily, as if that meant he smiled a lot. “I need to ask a favor.”

I stepped back into the room to allow him to enter. “I don't have a lot of time. I was hoping to get through one more Schleiger book before I head out of town.”

I motioned for him to sit at one of the mismatched chairs around
the table, then excused myself to get coffee and plates. When I returned, I found him examining the small collection of antique locks under glass in a vitrine in a corner of the room. The collection was added to only when I matched a key to a lock, leaving a lot of empty space on the royal blue velvet cushion I'd placed inside.

“Nice collection,” he said, looking up. “Who would have thought that something as utilitarian as a lock could also be so decorative?”

“That's why I collect them,” I said, setting down a steaming cup of chicory coffee on the table, then placing two mismatched plates of Meissen china next to them. “I've always thought that creating and appreciating beautiful objects is what sets us at the top of the animal kingdom.”

He sat down, his blue eyes quietly appraising. He slid the chair out to accommodate his long legs before picking up the bag and opening it, then offering it to me. He selected a croissant for himself, then sat back in his chair, his head tilted. “Miles Davis?” he asked.

I smiled. “Either it's a big favor and you've done your research, or you know your jazz.”

He shrugged. “I'm a recent convert. I find it very soothing.”

His noncommittal answer lifted my antennae. “Life pretty rough right now?” I asked. I was prying, but I couldn't stop myself. There was something unsettled about him, something
missing
. It took all of my willpower not to reach over and shake him to see what came loose.

“You could say that,” he said carefully. “I live and work in the city. There's a reason they call it the city that never sleeps. It's just a bit . . . much for me right now.” An unconvincing smile crept across his face.

I took a sip of my coffee, trying to tell myself that it was time to back off. But knowing when to quit had never been one of my virtues. “What do you do for a living?”

“Real estate development. It's my father's firm. My sisters work for him, too, in various capacities.”

“Sisters?”

His smile was more genuine this time. “I've got four. I'm the youngest.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, before I could stop myself. Before he could
question me, I quickly changed the subject, skirting around the subject of the favor he needed to ask. Whatever it was he needed, I was pretty sure I didn't have enough left in reserve to give. “Have you inventoried your grandmother's china? It's important to know if it's complete.”

“What do you mean by complete?”

I sighed, reminding myself that he was a male and wouldn't necessarily know what a place setting was. “Do you know how many dinner plates, bread-and-butters, soup cups?”

“Oh, you mean place settings? My oldest sister thought I might need to know this, so we counted everything together. There are twelve mostly complete six-piece place settings, with just a few pieces missing here and there.”

“Any serving pieces?”

He looked at me as if I'd stopped speaking English.

“Ask your sister and let me know.” I pinched a bite of my croissant, suddenly seeing a younger version of my mother's face as she pressed her fingers to her lips.

“That's good, right?”

It took me a few moments to realize that he'd asked me a question. “Yes, of course. The more complete a set, the more valuable. Unless somebody is trying to match pieces to an existing set, most clients are looking for something already complete.”

He took a bite out of his croissant, then wiped his hands on a napkin. His assessing gaze returned to me. “I'd like to come with you. Down to Apalachicola.”

I stared at him for a long moment, wondering whether he might be joking. But his eyes were earnest, pleading almost. I looked down, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. That is an incredibly bad idea, for lots of reasons, the main one being that I don't need your help.”

“You said yesterday that maybe you've seen the pattern before, in your grandfather's house. Was it just the one piece or were there more?”

I wondered for a moment whether he hadn't heard me, or if he had a lot of experience arguing with his four sisters and was deliberately ignoring my protest. Annoyed, I said, “I only saw the one piece, and I
only saw it that once. My grandmother probably found it in a shop somewhere and purchased the single piece because of the pattern since my grandfather is a beekeeper. She might have thought that he would appreciate the bee motif. And both my grandfather and sister have already looked for it and not turned up anything. Obviously it's going to be a wasted trip for me, and there's absolutely no reason why you should—”

“But somebody in your family might know where the piece came from. And there could be more,” he pressed.

I took a quick swallow of my coffee, scalding my tongue. “There could be, but I'm sure I would have seen other pieces if they existed. I lived with my mother and grandparents in their home for most of my life.”

“And the piece you found was a plate?”

It was my turn to scrutinize him, to study him as I might a scarred and dusty console, its secrets buried under a century of dust and neglect. There was more to James Graf than a bored businessman searching for the provenance of his grandmother's china, something hidden beneath the patina of thick, wavy hair and dark blue eyes.

I took my time tearing off another bite of my croissant, then slowly chewing. “No. It was an individual soup cup.” The memory of it made me temporarily forget why he'd come, and what he was asking of me. I spoke slowly, remembering. “A bee had been painted beneath each finger hole, and I recall thinking that they looked so real that they would sting if you put your finger too close.” I met his eyes. “I wish I'd thought to turn it over at the time to read the marking. Sometimes an importer would add his own stamp to the bottom of china pieces, which can make it even more attractive to a collector. It would also tell me if it was part of your grandmother's set or not. Going on my memory of the pattern, I'd say yes, but it's not definite.” I straightened. “Not that it matters. The soup cup is gone or my sister and grandfather would have found it. I'm only going as a courtesy to Mr. Mandeville.”

He took a sip from his coffee, a frown on his face as he stared into the cup.

“It's chicory,” I said in apology. “It's all I drink, but I probably
should have asked. People who aren't used to it say it's like drinking dishwater.”

James smiled, and I saw again the creases on the side of his face that seemed so out of place with the serious man I'd first met. “It's fine, really. An acquired taste, probably.”

He set down his cup and sat forward, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table. He was looking around the small room, at the collections of random items that had found a home with me. Even the lamps on either side of the Victorian couch were made from mismatched candlesticks. Ever since I was small, I'd been attracted to unwanted objects, ordinary items that held some purpose or beauty if one cared to look close enough.

With a serious look, he said, “I know my request to come with you to Apalachicola is an odd one. And I really don't want to bribe you with my business to get you to agree. As I've already mentioned to Mr. Mandeville, my grandmother's estate could be very lucrative for you both.”

That smile again, and I wondered whether he knew how devastating it was, and how it had begun to make his case long before he'd spoken.

He continued. “I want you to know how . . . important this is to me. How much I need to immerse myself in this search.”

“You were close to your grandmother?” I softened toward him, thinking of my own grandfather, imagining I could feel the warmth of my hand in his, smell the scent of sweet honey that seemed to saturate his skin. I thought of how much I missed him, and how our separation had hurt us both.

“I was. She'd been suffering with dementia and in a home for the last eight years, so her death was not unexpected. But that's not why I'm doing this.” He tightened his hands into fists and then spread them wide on his knees. “I already mentioned that I've taken a leave of absence from my job. I'm in desperate need of a . . . distraction.”

My spine stiffened. “My job isn't a ‘distraction,' Mr. Graf. It's a serious business that takes all of my concentration, which is why I do it alone. Your presence would be a distraction for me. I haven't been home in a long time, and there's a reason for it. If I have to go, I'd rather go alone.”

He regarded me closely. “Do you have a lot of skeletons in your closet, Georgia?” He wasn't obvious about it, but I'm sure he'd noticed the shadows under my eyes, and was wondering how somebody so ordinary could have any spectral skeletons.

More than I can count.
“My answer is no, okay? I'll leave some catalogs with you so you can go through them and see if you can find the pattern, if that would make you feel better, and you can be part of the search. We'll meet when I get back, and compare notes.”

I stood and began clearing the table, and noticed how he stood, too, out of courtesy. I imagined his mother or grandmother or sisters having taught him that, or another female in his life. Maybe he was married, then. He didn't wear a ring, but not every married man did anymore. As proof, I had a collection of discarded wedding bands in a shadow box in my bathroom, displayed like trophies.

He picked up the coffee mugs and followed me into the kitchen, placing them carefully in the sink. He looked out the tall window and into the yellow clapboard side of my neighbor's house, his hands gripping the edge of the sink. “I suppose I could make good on my threat to take my business elsewhere, but I really don't want to.”