Flight Patterns

by Karen White

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.”

  She stood as if to leave, but hesitated.

  We stood, too, and after a moment she said, “There’s something else. I wanted to ask your granddaddy if he remembered a man who showed up in town right before his truck was stolen. I was just a little girl, but I remember it because my daddy had a story about it that he used to like to tell me. He was selling honey at the farmer’s market and a man approached him, said he was looking for your granddaddy. Daddy had never seen the man before—and you know how it is here. Everybody knows everybody. Anyway, the stranger knew your granddaddy by name—said they’d met before the war.”

  “And this was the same week the truck was stolen?”

  “Yes. And I know it because it was the week of my fifth birthday. The man gave Daddy a jar of
honey—his own he’d harvested from wherever he was from—I can’t remember if Daddy never told me or if I’ve just forgotten it, but he said the man had an accent, so probably not from around here. Mama made me buttermilk pancakes for breakfast on my birthday, and I put that honey on them. It was some of the best-tasting honey I’ve ever had—not including tupelo, of course.” She licked her lips as she thought for a moment, as if she were tasting the honey again. “I remember it tasted like lavender.”

  She smiled at us again, sliding her palms against her shorts as if mentally clearing her to-do list. “I should be going. Please tell your granddaddy that I was here asking after him.”

  “I will. Thank you for coming, Florence.”

  She headed toward the steps but paused at the top. “I almost forgot. And this is definitely something you shouldn’t repeat. But . . . I was still there when they opened up the truck and could see what they pulled out. They found two jars of honey in a knapsack inside. It didn’t have a label, but it’s too dark to be tupelo honey—although if it’s been there for over sixty years, who knows what color it used to be? But that’s what made me remember the stranger—the honey.” With a final wave, she stepped off the porch and onto the walkway toward the front drive, her bee earrings swaying.

  I sat down in a rocking chair, breathing deeply of the salt air and the green scent of sun-baked needlegrass, but could see only an old pickup truck drowning in swamp water, and a faceless man holding a jar of lavender honey.

  chapter 21

  “He who wants to lick honey must not shy away from the bees.”

  Scottish proverb

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Maisy

  Maisy was pushing her buggy through the produce aisle at the Piggly Wiggly, heading toward the checkout, when she heard her name called. She turned to find Caty Greene, the librarian at the municipal library, walking quickly toward her. Miss Caty, as everyone called her, was a transplant from somewhere up north, but she’d been in Apalach for so long that Maisy no longer remembered from where. She had quickly assimilated into her new home, her fast-paced gait the only giveaway that she wasn’t native.

  Miss Caty was reaching into her oversize satchel as she approached. She wore dangling oyster-shell earrings and a matching necklace on a blue silk cord—both of her own design. Maisy had several pieces of her own that she’d purchased over the years at Caty’s stand at the weekly farmer’s market.

  “Your house was my next errand, so I’m glad I ran into you. Saved me a trip.” She smiled as she pulled out a thick stack of white paper, rubber-banded both ways to keep any errant pages from slipping out.

  She smiled as she waited for Maisy to take the stack. “It’s about the china your sister is looking for. She stopped by a few days ago asking me if I had access to various databases.” Miss Caty looked at the ceiling as if asking for divine guidance. “I’m a librarian. Of course I can access pretty much any obscure information one might need.”

  “Of course,” Maisy said, taking the stack with both hands, noticing tiny cursive handwriting photocopied onto the first page. “What is this?”

  “Georgia gave me the name Château de Beaulieu, an estate she found in her research near Monieux, France, and asked me to see if I could find any sort of paper trail—business transactions, marriages, legal proceedings, that sort of thing—from the second half of the nineteenth century that made mention of it.”

  Maisy’s eyes widened. Georgia hadn’t mentioned this angle to her. Her first impulse was to feel slighted, the old feeling of being left out a familiar one. But it was quickly replaced with an odd pride in her sister. It was a unique track to the answer to the question of the china’s provenance, one that would never have occurred to Maisy.

  “And you found something,” Maisy said, eyeing the thick stack.

  Miss Caty nodded sagely. “I would say so. There’s a small museum in Monieux that has done an excellent job of digitizing all of the old records from the town’s archives that have survived both world wars and a terrible fire in the early thirties. It only took a few clicks before I was directed to their database, and then shortly after that I turned up what looks like an estate manager’s account books listing all expenditures at Beaulieu starting from around 1855 through 1939.”

  Maisy carefully set the stack in the top of her buggy. “Thank you, Caty. I know Georgia will appreciate it.”

  “No problem. It’s what I do.” She smiled. “And tell Becky that I’ve just received those biographies of female tennis players that she asked for. Come by anytime—you know where to find me.”

  They said good-bye, and then Maisy headed for the checkout.

  The smell from the store’s smokehouse drifted across the parking lot as Maisy loaded her grocery bags into the trunk of her car. She looked up in surprise as someone grabbed hold of one of the bags in her hand. It was Lyle, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and looking so much like the boy she’d known in high school that her heart did the old familiar flip.

  “Let me help you,” he said, lifting the bag from her hands and neatly placing it into the trunk.

  “That’s the milk. Make sure it’s not on its side.”

  “It’s not,” he said without looking.

  They continued loading the car without speaking. When they were finished, Maisy fished in her purse for the keys while Lyle returned the buggy to the corral. She slid behind the steering wheel and turned on the A/C, letting the cold air blast her in the face. She’d need cooling off even if it weren’t almost summer.

  He reappeared at her open door. “I’m guessing you’ve heard.”

  Maisy nodded, unable to meet his eyes. Because every time she did, she thought of him in the cemetery telling her that he visited Lilyanna Joy there often. And that he still loved Maisy.

  “Yes. From Florence via Georgia. She was there, so we got a firsthand account before any embellishments were added.” Maisy grabbed hold of her old anger so she could look into his face. And immediately regretted it.

  “I’m sorry that the story about your granddaddy’s truck got leaked before I could get a better handle on it. I wanted more time to gather the facts. It’s an ugly story, and I was trying to shield you and Becky. I should have known better.”

  “I don’t need you to shield me, Lyle. And I can take care of Becky.” She lowered the window, then shut the car door, needing the separation from him. “Granddaddy isn’t doing too well. Will you need him for your investigation?”

  “Actually, I’m officially off the case. On account of Ned being my wife’s grandfather. If they need a statement, they’ll send somebody else. But unofficially I did pull the original police report, and it looks like your basic car theft. In his original statement, Ned said he left the truck in the driveway overnight and in the morning it was gone. He got the insurance check and bought a new truck. Looks like a closed case to me. If the poor guy who stole it got stuck in the swamp, then I guess justice was more than served. Won’t know a lot until the coroner determines the cause of death, and that could take weeks—if at all. The truck’s been in the swamp for over sixty years, so there’s a lot of deterioration of evidence. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thank you.” Maisy turned the key in the ignition.

  “One more thing,” he said, placing his hand on the door as if to prevent her from closing the window. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Tupelo Honey Festival in Wewahitchka on May sixteenth. Becky asked me to take her, but I thought it would be fun if we went as a family. Just like old times.”

  She was already shaking her head before he finished speaking. “I don’t know, Lyle. She works with her new tennis coach on weekends now. . . .”

  “The coach is flexible on time and date if we need to move it. Or we can go after her session on Saturday. She’s doing so well in school, and working hard on her tennis. I think she’d appreciate us both bein
g there. We’re still a family, you know.”

  A memory of the last festival she’d been to turned the blood in her veins icy cold. It had been the Seafood Festival, but it didn’t matter. The association poisoned all festivals for her. She opened her mouth to speak, unable to stop the words even if she’d wanted to. “Should I ask Georgia if she’d like to go?”

  She watched as anger flashed over Lyle’s face. He leaned down toward her, his face only inches away. Narrowing his eyes, he said, “Only if you’d like her to join us. I’m just inviting you.”

  He straightened, then slid out the pair of Ray-Bans he’d left tucked into the neck of his T-shirt and placed them on his face. “Just let me know,” he said as he tapped the flats of his hands on her door and walked back to his truck. Maisy watched just for a moment, then slowly slid her window up and drove away, careful not to look into her rearview mirror, afraid that she’d see him watching her. And just as afraid that he wasn’t.

  The house was quiet when Maisy returned home. As she unloaded the groceries and put them away, she was surprised to find the dinner dishes loaded into the dishwasher and the pots and pans already scrubbed and drying in the dish drain. She smiled to herself, knowing Becky had done it without being asked, and wondered whether it was to sweeten Maisy up to get her to say yes about going to the festival with Lyle.

  Or maybe she’d done it because even though she was teetering on the threshold of tweendom and was adept at getting on Maisy’s last nerve, she was still a good kid who loved her mama. Maisy folded up the grocery bags and stuck them in the pantry, then went to find her daughter to thank her.

  The door to her grandfather’s room was slightly ajar as she passed it, the sound of a woman’s voice coming through the opening so quietly Maisy thought she must be imagining it. Tapping lightly, she pushed it open to reveal her grandfather sitting up in bed, Birdie in the chair next to him. She held the broken saucer, and was leaning forward as if she’d just whispered something in his ear.