by Karen White
I wouldn’t say that I was particularly happy, or as successful as I’d have liked to be, but there was nobody in my life to ask me whether I was. Nobody to hold up a mirror to make me see whom I had become, or to see the person I’d been who had never really believed she could be anything more than ordinary. My mother had once told me that she didn’t know that particular sorrow, the sorrow of being ordinary. But I did. And I relished it, if only because it made me not her.
I opened the large bottom drawer of my desk, listening to the clink and slide of dozens of mismatched keys and padlocks I’d collected over the years, my hope of finding a matching key and lock one of the stupid little games I played with myself. I’d just grabbed a fistful of keys when I heard the front door of the building open, the bell clanging ominously in the empty space. It was Sunday, the offices and gallery below were closed, and nobody was supposed to be there. Which was precisely why I was there, unconcerned about the vintage jeans with frayed bell-bottoms that sat a little too low on my hips, flip-flops, a 1960s tie-dyed T-shirt, and hair pulled back in a ponytail that made me look about ten years old.
“Georgia?” Mr. Mandeville called up the stairs. The gallery was an old cotton warehouse on Tchoupitoulas, and every word bounced and ricocheted off the brick walls and wood floors unencumbered by rugs or wall coverings of any sort.
I stood to let him know where I was, then froze as I heard another male voice and two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs.
“Georgia?” he called again.
Knowing he’d probably seen my car in the small parking lot behind the building, I sat down behind my desk, hoping to at least hide my flip-flops.
“I’m in my office,” I shouted unnecessarily, their footsteps coming to a stop outside my door. “Come in.”
Mr. Mandeville opened the door and stepped through, then ushered his companion inside. The tall ceilings and windows dwarfed most people, including my boss, but not the visitor. He was very tall, maybe six feet, four inches, with thick and wavy strawberry-blond hair. As a person who studied objects of beauty for a living, I decided that’s what he was and didn’t bother to hide my scrutiny.
He was lean but broad shouldered, the bones in his face strong and well placed, his eyes the color of cobalt Wedgwood Jasperware. As they approached, I stood, forgetting what I must look like, and allowed my gaze to rove over the full length of him like I would a Victorian armoire or Hepplewhite chair. I’d started to grin to myself as I realized I must be one of a very small number of women who’d compare a handsome man to a piece of furniture.
He must have caught my grin, because the man stopped about five feet from me, a pensive look on his face. It took me a moment to realize that he was studying me with the same examination I’d just given him.
I sat down quickly, chagrined to know that I wasn’t as immune as I believed myself to be.
Mr. Mandeville frowned slightly at me seated behind my desk. I knew he had issues with my insistence on solitude and working long hours. He was a family man who thrived on noise and bustle and the adoration of his employees and extended family. But he’d never had concern over my manners. Until now, apparently.
“Georgia Chambers, please meet a prospective client, James Graf. He’s come all the way from New York City to see you. He was so excited to meet you that he made me bring him straight here from the airport.” He sent me an accusatory glare as we both understood my lack of a cell phone meant he hadn’t been able to give me advance warning.
James tucked a parcel under his left arm to free up his right as he extended his hand toward me. I half stood, painfully aware of my low-slung jeans. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His hand was large and swallowed mine in a firm handshake. I slid my fingers from his and sat back in my chair. Turning toward Mr. Mandeville, I asked, “What’s this about?”
“James is in the process of settling his grandmother’s estate and came across a set of china that he believes might be valuable. He Googled china experts and found your name.”
The visitor continued. “But I couldn’t find a phone number for you, so I reached Mr. Mandeville instead. I offered to e-mail a photo, or speak with you directly, but he explained that you prefer to look at pieces in person, to hold them to get a real ‘feel’ for them. And that an e-mailed photo is something you’ve never considered working with.”
He said it without the usual derision I was accustomed to hearing when people learned I had yet to move into the twenty-first century.
“She also declines to use a cell phone,” Mr. Mandeville added.
The man looked at me with assessing eyes, and just for a brief moment I thought that he might understand why a person would choose to live surrounded by other people’s things.
Then he said, “I couldn’t imagine.”
He was right, I knew. But I could almost believe that I’d seen something in his eyes that seemed a lot like longing for a world he hadn’t even known existed.
“Do you know anything about antique china, Mr. Graf?”
“Not a thing, I’m afraid. And please call me James.”
I nodded, taking in his well-tailored suit and Hermès tie—possibly vintage. He wasn’t a Jim or Jimmy, had never been one. He was mid-thirties, but had a youthful air about him that didn’t seem like a Mr. Graf at all. He looked like a James who sailed a lot and was probably on the rowing team at Dartmouth or Yale or wherever up north he’d gone for undergrad. His hair was a little too long for the Wall Street stereotype, but I would’ve bet my collection of Swiss watch parts that he belonged to the fast-paced financial world of constant texts and two cell phones to manage the craziness.
He narrowed his eyes and I realized that I’d been too busy cataloging him to be aware that I had been staring again. Flustered, I slid the items on my desk to the side, then reached for the brown corrugated box. “May I see?”
“Of course.” He handed the small square box to me, and I placed it in the center of my desk.
I picked up ivory-handled scissors—from an auction in Louisville, Kentucky—and slit the single layer of packing tape that held the top flaps in place. He’d carried it on the plane, then, not entrusting its safety to anyone else. I imagined it must mean something important to him. He’d said it had belonged to his grandmother.
I began sifting Styrofoam peanuts from the box. “Did you eat from this china when visiting your grandmother?” I wasn’t sure why I asked, why I wanted to know more about the life of the inanimate object I was unwrapping.
“No,” he said, almost apologetically. “We never used it. It was kept in a place of honor in her china cabinet ever since I can remember from when I was a little boy. She’d dust all of the pieces and carefully return them to their spots on the shelves, but we never used it.” There was a note of wistfulness in his voice, a hint of loss and longing I wasn’t wholly convinced was about his grandmother or her china.
“It’s Limoges,” said Mr. Mandeville, as if to validate his presence. He was a great businessman, and had a fond appreciation for beautiful and expensive antiques, but what he knew about fine porcelain and china could fit onto the head of a straight pin.
My eyes met Mr. Graf’s—James’s—and we shared a moment at Mr. Mandeville’s expense, distracting me enough that I almost missed the white handle of a teacup emerging from the sea of Styrofoam.
Using my thumb and forefinger, I gingerly lifted it from the box, then sifted through the remaining peanuts and found the saucer. “It’s Haviland Limoges. Haviland and Co., to be exact—not to be confused with Charles Field, Theodore, or Johann Haviland Limoges.”
I felt Mr. Mandeville beaming at me. “I told you she was good.”
James leaned in closer. “You can tell that without looking at the bottom?”
I nodded. “You can tell by the blank.” I ran my finger along the scalloped edge of the saucer. “That’s another name for
the shape of various pieces in the pattern. I can tell by the edges of this saucer that it’s probably blank eleven, which is a Haviland and Co. shape. It’s evident by the scalloped border with embossed dots along the edge. It’s very similar to blank six thirty-eight, but because I have the teacup, which is completely different in both blanks, I know for sure it’s number eleven.”
The visitor smiled. “I had no idea it would be this easy.”
I tried not to sound smug. “That’s actually the only easy part in identifying Limoges china. David Haviland, who founded Limoges in 1849, never saw the need to put his pattern names on the pieces he manufactured—that’s why there isn’t one on the bottom of your teacup.” I held it up to prove my point. “Which becomes problematic . . .” My words trailed away as I studied the brilliant colors of the pattern, noticing for the first time the bee motif in bright gold and purple, with fine green lines and loops showing the trajectory of the bees in flight as they danced along the scalloped edges of the saucer. It was extraordinary and unique. So memorable.
I looked up to find both men watching me, waiting for me to continue. I cleared my throat. “Which becomes problematic when you learn that since the company was founded it has produced almost thirty thousand patterns under five different Haviland companies on several continents.”
“Do you know this pattern?” James asked, and I got a brief whiff of his cologne. Something masculine. Sandalwood, I thought.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I flipped over the teacup, seeing the familiar Haviland & Co. marking. I swiveled my chair and reached for the bookcase behind me and pulled out a thin book with a spiral binding, one of a six-volume set. “But if it’s been identified, it will have been given a Schleiger number and will be cataloged in one of these books.”
“And if it’s not in there?” Mr. Mandeville asked.
“Well, it could have been a privately commissioned pattern, or such a rare one that it never made it into the catalog. Mrs. Schleiger was a Nebraskan trying to fill holes in her mother’s set of china and was appalled at the lack of pattern names on most of the Haviland china, and did her best to identify as many as she could—hence the name ‘Schleiger number.’ But the scope was too great to include every pattern ever created.”
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 t
o 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.
chapter 2
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
Maisy 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.
