Flight Patterns

by Karen White

  “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 m
y 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.”

  “As much as I’m sure we’d regret it, I’m equally certain that we’d survive.”

  James turned around and faced me, his eyes unreadable. “I’m just not sure that I will. I was looking for an excuse to get away from my life for a while when my sister suggested I find out more about my grandmother’s china. I’ve recently suffered a personal loss, and it was either this or check myself into a mental hospital. I chose the china.”

  I looked at his perfect face and form, his intelligent eyes and capable hands, and felt the old bitterness arise in me. “What happened? Did your girlfriend leave you?”

  Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “No, actually. My wife died.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly, with no emotion, but I felt his words like a fist to my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, identifying now the regret I’d seen in his eyes when we’d first met.

  “Do you understand, then?”

  I nodded slowly, wishing that I didn’t know the need to hide myself in ordinary objects that had managed to get lost along the way. “Yes,” I said. “But . . .” I thought of my grandfather and Birdie. And Maisy. All the unfinished business I had left behind. How I wasn’t ready to face it again, especially not with an audience.

  “You won’t even know I’m there,” he pressed. “Unless you need my help looking at catalogs or moving large boxes in the attic.” He gave me a small smile that did nothing to erase the pain in his eyes. “And I won’t make you tell me anything that you don’t want to share.”

  I almost laughed. “That’s not what I’m worried about. It’s a small town. People will make it their business to tell you everything you want to know, and a good part of what you don’t.”

  A genuine brightness lit his eyes. “I’m from New York. I’m very good at rebuffing people.”

  I sighed, knowing I’d lost more than just this argument. “Fine. I’ll let Mr. Mandeville know. I was planning on leaving tomorrow and will stay with my aunt. There are a few hotels and B and Bs in town and I’m sure you can find them online. I’m thinking two days, tops.”

  “That’s better than nothing,” he said.

  “And I’m still hoping to get a phone call from my sister to let me know she’s found it and we don’t have to go. She’s as eager to keep me here as I am to stay.” He didn’t ask me to explain, and I was glad to know he’d been serious about not making me tell him anything I didn’t want to share. I led him to the door. “Thanks again for the croissants.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me come along.”

  I pushed away the swelling of regret I felt rising like bile. “Nine o’clock sharp. Be on time, because I won’t wait.”

  We said good-bye and I closed the door before I could change my mind. I shut my eyes for a moment, remembering my mother’s face as she pressed her finger to her lips, took the small cup from my hands, and told me to keep a secret. I imagined now the buzzing of the bees painted into the china, held down by my years of silence. And how I was getting ready to finally set them free.

  chapter 4

  He who would gather honey must bear the sting of the bees.

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Georgia

  I was carrying the box of china catalogs out to my car when a taxi pulled up behind me at the curb, a good twenty minutes early. It meant James had taken seriously my threat to leave without him, or he was naturally punctual. Since he’d grown up with four sisters, I could only imagine the sort of friction that must have caused.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said, rushing toward me as the taxi pulled away.

  “I’ve got it,” I said, lowering the box into the trunk, sounding peevish. I was disappointed that he’d really shown up, and angry with myself for allowing it. But even after tossing and turning all night, I hadn’t come up with anything else to stop what only promised to be a massive train wreck. I’d tried to explain it to Mr. Mandeville when I’d spoken with him the previous day, but I couldn’t without going into specifics. And that was something I was not yet prepared to do. It was like standing on the beach staring at an oncoming wave, knowing sooner or later I was going to get wet.

  “Wow. Is this your car?” James stood back to get a better look at my white 1970 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible, his expression like that of a ten-year-old boy who’d just been given a new bike.

  “It was my grandmother’s. My grandfather gave it to me when I got my driver’s license at sixteen.”

  He nodded appreciatively, taking in the bright chrome bumpers and the angular fins on the back. “I was going to offer to pay for gas, but now I’m thinking that I can’t afford it.”

  I surprised us both by laughing. I didn’t want to enjoy his company. But my learning about his wife had formed a tentative bridge between us, a loose connection of loss and memories. It wasn’t that we wore badges on our sleeves announcing our emotionally crippled status. It was more a wariness shown in the eyes that only the fellow wounded could recognize.

  I sobered quickly. “I like a big car so that if I pass any garage sales along the way and find a stray piece of furniture, I can bring it back with me. And I always stop.” I sent him a pointed look, a last-ditch effort to make him change his mind.

  “Sounds like fun,” he said, returning to the curb and picking up a leather duffel bag. “I travel light, so there will be plenty of room for any garage-sale finds.” He tucked the bag next to my own small suitcase in the voluminous trunk, as if to emphasize the fact that even if I found a giant chifforobe, it would still fit.

  “Did you bring the teacup and saucer?”

  He nodded. “Packed securely in my bag.” He studied me again with those blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “I like your outfit.” I figured a man with four sisters would probably be used to noticing such things and wouldn’t think twice about saying it to somebody he barely knew. But still I felt pleased.

  I flattened my hands against the bright floral fabric of the A-line dress. “Thank you. It’s vintage. Circa 1960.” I was about to tell him about the great vintage clothing store I frequented on Royal Street but stopped myself in time. I wasn’t comfortable with relationships with the current and living, and didn’t want to invite any interest.

  With no further distractions or reasons to delay, I returned to the house to lock up. As I slid behind the steering wheel and stuck the key in the ignition, I said, “Just don’t expect to drive her. Nobody but me is allowed.”

  “Good. Because I don’t know ho
w.”

  I slammed my foot on the brake, making both of our heads snap back. “What?”

  “I mean, I know how—I took lessons so I could get a driver’s license—but I’ve never owned a car. I’ve never needed one—way too complicated to park them and to navigate the city, especially when there are so many other options.”

  “But what if you want to get out of the city, drive to the country or the beach for the weekend? Do you rely on your friends?” I was remembering my own childhood in Apalachicola, where the most popular kids were those with a driver’s license and a big enough car. My nose and cheeks stung with remembered sunburns from visits to St. George Island, my trunk full of coolers and all of us pooling our loose change for gas.

  He cleared his throat. “We, uh, had a driver for those kinds of trips. My mother said she felt better knowing we weren’t behind the wheel, so it worked out for us.”

  I looked at his neatly pressed knit shirt and Rolex—definitely not vintage—and couldn’t picture him shirtless and sitting in the sand with a beer bottle raised to his lips and singing along to an AC/DC song blaring from the open doors of a pickup truck. And that was a good thing. The more uncomfortable he felt in Apalachicola, the sooner he’d be ready to leave.

  I put the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. “So if I have a flat, I’m on my own.”

  He held up his phone. “That’s what this is for. Help is only a call away.”

  I resisted an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “Assuming your battery hasn’t died and there’s cell coverage in the middle of Alabama, which is never a guarantee. Which is why I know how to change my own tires. And have on multiple occasions.”

  “I’m impressed. You’re pretty petite. I wouldn’t think you’d be strong enough.”

  I met his gaze. “People aren’t always what they appear to be.”

  He faced forward again, staring at the pocked asphalt on St. Charles Avenue as we merged into traffic heading toward Carrollton. “I know,” he said. “I just need reminding every now and again.”