Flight Patterns (6 page)

“So let me come with you. I can check in later.”

I frowned. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He was serious again. “Because I come from a large family that I only really learned to appreciate when I had to face the worst thing I've ever had to face in my entire life.” He smiled softly. “Isn't home supposed to be the one place where they have to let you back?”

Despite myself, I felt part of my mouth turn up. “I've heard that. I guess I'm about to find out if it's true.”

I pressed my foot on the brake and stuck the key back into the ignition. “Just promise me one more thing.”

He faced me with an expectant expression.

“Promise me that you won't listen to anything my sister, Maisy, says about me.”

“Are they all lies?”

I turned the key in the ignition. “Sadly, no. Most of the things she says are true.”

The male drone's sole purpose in life is to mate with the queen. The successful male will die during the midair act, and the unsuccessful drone will be kicked out of the hive to starve to death.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Maisy

M
aisy looked up from where she sat in the study of the old house, grading papers. The sight of Georgia's Cadillac convertible didn't surprise her. She'd seen it often enough during her girlhood at its place at the end of the driveway that it was what she dreamed of when she imagined her sister finally coming home.

She held her breath, listening. The sound of the bay through the window screens facing the back of the house seemed to intensify, as if it had been holding its breath, too, and was finally allowing an exhale. Maisy had even imagined during those long years of absence that the house had contained an air of expectation, each room she entered feeling as if someone had just exited.

She stood, then methodically slid her chair under the desk, as if by slowing her movements she could postpone the inevitable.

She found her grandfather and Birdie in the living room watching one of the twenty-four-hour cable news stations, a woman with bright
blond hair and impossibly white teeth saying something about gas prices and spring break. Birdie's eyes were focused on the heavy Victorian wood paneling on the wall behind the television. Maisy often wondered what her mother saw inside her head, and if it really was so much better than the reality of the life that swirled around her. Despite visits to numerous doctors, and a drawer full of prescription bottles, nothing had ever helped. Her mother had simply decided to check out, a constant condemnation of the family that had failed to interest her enough.

“Georgia's here,” Maisy said, letting them know so they could take over the homecoming and allow her to escape upstairs.

Her grandfather's hands clutched the arms of his chair as a deep-seated smile settled over his face. “That's good news.” He turned to Birdie. “Georgia's home. Isn't that good news?”

Her mother continued to stare at the wall while Grandpa switched off the TV and stood, the process taking longer than even a few short months ago.

“I'll be upstairs, checking on Becky's homework,” Maisy said, already backing out of the room. She'd made it to the bottom of the carved wooden balustrade—with two bite marks still on the edge of it from a lost bet she'd once made with Georgia—when she heard a male voice from the other side of the front door. Curious, she paused, and by the time she'd made up her mind to run up the stairs, she'd already seen the watery image of her sister through the stained-glass sidelights and knew she'd been spotted. She waited to see whether Georgia would turn the handle, as if she thought of the monolithic Victorian house as still her home.

Instead, there was a light tap on the door. Maisy glanced toward the living room, where she heard her grandfather trying to cajole Birdie into leaving her chair. With a sigh of resignation, Maisy moved to the door and pulled it open.

The first thing she noticed was that Georgia hadn't changed at all. Still breathtakingly beautiful. Still small and delicate-looking, her blond hair straight and shiny, her dark brown eyes not lined by makeup
that she didn't need anyway. She wore a ridiculous floral-print dress that dwarfed her, made her look insufficient and vulnerable, two things she knew her sister wasn't. Maisy wondered whether that had been the intended effect.

“Hello, Georgia.” Maisy's gaze moved behind her sister, looking at the tall man with the piercing blue eyes for the first time. She stared at him a moment longer than necessary, trying to place him. He wasn't the type of man Georgia had always been attracted to. This man was attractive, but not in the broad-shouldered, long-haired, overtly sexy way that had always annoyed their mother and turned Georgia's head. And she was pretty sure Georgia hadn't slept with him. Not yet, anyway. It was in her sister's eyes, a look that was devoid of shame and self-recrimination.

“Hi, Maisy.” There was an odd note of expectation and anticipation in Georgia's voice. After an uncomfortable pause, she said, “This is James Graf.” Georgia stepped aside to allow Maisy a better view of the stranger. “He's the client I mentioned on the phone.”

Maisy wondered at Georgia's story, even imagining her to have made it all up just so she'd have an excuse to bring in a buffer; somebody to deflect the blows. She just as quickly dismissed the thought. Georgia was impervious to hurts of all kinds—both those she inflicted on others and those intended for her. She'd always known how to shed arrows the way ducks shed water, walking away unscathed and unconcerned with the carnage left behind.

Maisy nodded at the man and was about to step back to allow them entry when James held out a big hand to shake hers. “It's a pleasure meeting you. Georgia has said a lot of good things about you.”

Maisy caught a sharp glance Georgia directed at her companion, but he didn't seem to notice. He stepped back to look at the Queen Anne Victorian house, with its wedding-cake-white trim, hipped roof, and asymmetrical round turret on its left side, taking in the bay, side yard, and apiary. She and Georgia had always called it a castle, the wide expanse of water behind the house their personal domain. It sat on the bay side of Bay Avenue, a wide vista of water visible from every
window at the back of the house, the front with its circular drive of crushed oyster shells welcoming visitors.

“This reminds me a lot of my grandmother's home on Long Island. A real architectural masterpiece.” He smiled broadly at her.

“Thank you,” Maisy said slowly, warming slightly. “So, you're from New York?”

“Yes. Born and raised. You have a very beautiful town here.”

She glanced at her sister, waiting for Georgia to fill her in on the full story and reason for the visit. As expected, Georgia was looking past her.

“Georgia.” Grandpa came up behind Maisy, Birdie clinging to his arm, her long red nails digging into his sun-darkened skin. He opened up his free arm. “Welcome home.”

Maisy pretended not to see the moisture in her grandfather's eyes as he hugged Georgia, or the way Birdie stared at her oldest daughter like a princess at a tiara. She was about to excuse herself and head upstairs when Becky burst out of her bedroom and ran down the stairs.

She skidded to a stop. “Aunt Georgia?”

Georgia looked at the young girl and it was almost as if the two were staring at their own reflections: both small and delicate-looking except for their determined jaws and a way of looking at a person that made you know they were paying attention.

Their grandfather released his hold on Georgia. “Sweetheart, this is your niece, Becky. You haven't seen her since she was just a little thing.”

Georgia stepped toward the girl. “Becky?”

Becky answered by throwing herself into Georgia's arms. “I'm so glad to meet you! Mama said it would be a snowy day in hell before you ever showed your face in Apalach again.”

James coughed into his hand as their grandfather frowned and said, “Watch your language, young lady.”

Georgia's hands fluttered like uncertain butterflies before enveloping Becky in a hug. “It's good to see you,” she said, her voice thick. “It's been a very long time.”

Becky looked into her aunt's face, their eyes almost level. “We're practically the same size.”

“Yeah. I noticed that.” Georgia's voice broke and she swallowed hard.

Maisy took hold of Becky's arm and pulled her away from her aunt, trying to tell herself it was Becky's use of a banned word that was getting her sent back to her room. “That's enough, young lady. Go upstairs and finish your homework. I'll call you when it's time for dinner.”

Becky resisted. “Is Aunt Georgia staying for dinner?”

“No—” Maisy began.

“Yes, I think I will,” Georgia interrupted before turning hesitantly toward James. “If there's enough for two more.”

“Of course there is,” her grandfather said, reaching out his hand toward James to shake. “I'm Ned Bloodworth.”

“Nice to meet you, sir. James Graf. I'm a client of Georgia's, and I'm afraid I've intruded on your family reunion.”

“You're not intruding,” Georgia and Maisy announced together, equally grateful for his presence.

Maisy glared at her sister before facing the visitor. “You're not intruding, Mr. Graf. We're having lasagna, so there's more than enough for all of us. We'd love to have you stay.” She'd included Georgia in the “we,” knowing they both welcomed the buffer of a stranger at the dining table.

Birdie stepped forward, and for a moment Maisy thought her mother was trying to get a better look at the newcomer. But then Birdie flipped her hair over her shoulders and smoothed her yellow sundress as if to accentuate how small her waist and how rounded her bosom still were. Something like annoyance flickered in Georgia's eyes. It was the one thing they'd always had in common, a shared disdain over their mother's behavior in front of a good-looking man.

“Hello, Birdie,” Georgia said, not moving closer to hug her or offer a kiss on the cheek, and Birdie didn't seem to expect it. “It's good to see you.”

Birdie's gaze slid over to her daughter, lingering on the high cheekbones and strong brow that were so much like her own. So much like Becky's. But like a child quickly having lost interest in a new toy,
she returned her gaze to James, who was making heroic attempts not to notice her scrutiny.

“James Graf, this is my mother, Susannah Bloodworth Chambers Harrow. But everybody calls her Birdie.”

Georgia must have already told him about their mother, because he didn't offer his hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Birdie. You have a beautiful home.”

Her eyes drifted past him, to a spot behind his shoulder. Without a word she left the room, sending one last glance over her shoulder toward him. A hummed melody drifted back, and it took Maisy a moment to determine it was “Try to Remember” from
The Fantasticks
. It was a favorite of Birdie's, and Maisy had once looked it up and found that
The Fantasticks
was the longest-running musical in the world. But it hadn't explained why her mother was the way she was. She'd never bothered to look anything up again.

“What do you know about bees, James?” Grandpa asked. His face was serious as he said this. Beekeeping wasn't a commercial enterprise for him, but it was more than a hobby, too. He always made sure people knew this from the beginning. Maisy had learned as a child that her grandfather's bees were his way of figuring out life and all of its complexities.
There are no problems in life that can't be solved by studying the ways of bees.
He'd said it so often that for a while she actually believed it. Until life became too unruly to be explained by buzzing insects whose behavior always seemed single-minded at best.

James's smile was genuine. “Not very much, sir. But I'm always willing to learn.”

Georgia sent him a worried glance, but James just grinned.

Grandpa put an arm around the younger man's shoulders. “Maybe there's a beekeeper in you. The world needs more of us, because bees are dying out. Did you know that Einstein said that if bees disappeared off the face of the Earth, man would only have four years left to live?”

“No, sir. I hadn't heard that.” With a backward glance at Georgia, James allowed the old man to lead him toward the backyard,
leaving Maisy and Georgia alone, the air swirling between them with unspoken words.

“She's beautiful,” Georgia said softly.

Maisy straightened, trying to rein in the anger that always seemed so near the surface. “Becky is a bright girl who is great at math and a starter on the girls' basketball team. We don't focus so much on physical appearance. You of all people should know why.”

Georgia swallowed back something she wanted to say, as if she'd been practicing this reunion and knew what she needed to do to make it go right. As if a person could practice something as messy and haphazard as the wind.

“Let me help with dinner. Can I fix a salad?”

“I don't need your help, Georgia. It's been a long time since I did, and I don't expect to need you anytime soon.” Maisy turned toward the kitchen, wanting to put as much space between her and her sister as possible.

“I'll set the table,” Georgia said. It had always been the chore they'd taken turns with, along with the cooking. They'd gradually taken over all household chores for their grandfather, who'd taken care of them since their grandmother's death, when she and Georgia were in their tween years. It had never occurred to any of them to expect Birdie to help, because their grandmother had always done everything for her daughter, had doted on Birdie to the point of making Birdie seem helpless. Their grandmother's death hadn't changed that at all.