by Karen White
Becky hurriedly placed her dishes in the dishwasher before swiping her face on a napkin. “Mr. Banyon’s.”
Maisy casually eyed her sister. “Wasn’t Danny Banyon a friend of yours, Georgia? Why don’t you go say hi while Becky runs upstairs to brush her teeth?”
Georgia’s face paled, the only color her dark brown eyes and two bright splotches of pink on her cheeks. “Sure,” she said, lifting her chin in a move that would have made Birdie proud. And managed to fill Maisy with shame.
Grandpa reached out his hand and grabbed Georgia’s wrist as she walked past. He grunted something unintelligible, but his intention was clear.
Without looking at either one of them, Maisy stood. “Go on, Becky. Run upstairs and brush your teeth. I’ll let them know you’re on your way.” Without waiting to see whether Becky would do what she was told, Maisy went to the front door.
Before she could turn the knob, Georgia caught up to her and grabbed it out of her hand and pulled it open, not even pausing to catch her breath before speaking to the two figures standing on the other side. “Hello, Danny. It’s so good to see you again. Becky’s brushing her teeth, so she’ll just be a few moments.” She smiled at the pale little girl standing at his elbow. “And this must be Brittany. Becky has told me so much about you. You’re best friends, right?”
The little girl nodded shyly as Maisy studied Danny. He was staring at Georgia openly, an odd glint in his eyes hinting at their previous relationship—if it could be called that, and the oddest feeling of needing to wipe the smirk off his face rose up in Maisy. But before she could say anything, Georgia reached her hand out to him to shake. “It’s been a while. Good to see you again.”
Danny looked at her hand with an expression that said he thought she was joking, but when she didn’t remove it, he took it. “Good to see you, too.”
“And this is your little girl—she looks just like you.” Georgia turned to Brittany. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
She nodded vigorously. “I have a little brother who’s six and another sister who’s three. And my mommy’s going to have another one around Thanksgiving. I hope it’s a girl, because I don’t want another brother.”
Georgia grinned. “So you think sisters are easier?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just wait a few years,” Maisy said quietly.
Ignoring her, Georgia said, “Congratulations, Danny. I’d heard you married Susan Zinn. I always thought you made a cute couple.”
He grinned, exposing white teeth and a single dimple on his left cheek that used to make the girls have thoughts that would shock their parents. Even being four years younger, Maisy hadn’t been immune. “Thank you. What about you? Husband or kids?”
The pause was almost imperceptible, but Maisy noticed it. “No,” Georgia answered. “I don’t think I’m cut out for domestic bliss. I guess you could say I’m married to my work.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve spoken with your grandfather a few times about your job. He’s real proud of you. Like I try to teach my children, do whatever makes you happy.”
Georgia smiled as if in agreement, but the light had left her eyes.
Becky bounded down the stairs, grabbing her backpack from the hall table as she headed for the door. She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, an exercise her speech pathologist had suggested and that seemed to work in most situations. Then Becky hugged Georgia and almost as an afterthought threw her arms around Maisy and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek.
Maisy and Georgia stood together watching them walk away, unsaid words darting between them like angry bees. Maisy turned to go inside and Georgia followed her, closing the door softly behind them. Maisy headed back toward the kitchen to clear the dishes, but Georgia’s voice called her back.
“Maisy?”
Something that felt like hope bloomed somewhere in her, surprising her with its suddenness and intensity. As if she’d been waiting for something for so long that she’d forgotten why.
She turned around. “Yes?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask. When Becky was going through all of Granddaddy’s papers, did she find any mention of the name Adeline?”
Disappointment thickened her throat. She shook her head, forced herself to swallow. “No. She didn’t have time to go through them all, but I finished looking through them and didn’t see anything. Why?”
“When I arrived this morning, I went upstairs to ask Birdie what she wanted for breakfast. She was still asleep, but seemed to be having a nightmare. She wasn’t talking—but singing that name over and over. To the tune of that French song.”
Maisy frowned. “We should ask Grandpa.”
A sound made them both turn toward the back hallway leading from the kitchen, where their grandfather stood leaning heavily on his walker. He grunted, the word “what” buried in the sound.
“About someone named Adeline,” Georgia said. “Birdie’s sung it several times, like she’s calling for her. Like it was someone she once knew and not part of a song lyric.”
Grandpa stared back at them, unblinking behind his smudged eyeglasses. Finally he shook his head.
“Can I get you some water?” Maisy asked, already halfway to the kitchen.
Ignoring her, he began to clump his walker into the kitchen and toward the back door, the most direct route to his remaining hives.
Georgia looked past Grandpa’s shoulders toward Maisy and raised her eyebrows, communicating in the way that sisters did where no words were required. There were so many things they needed to talk about with him, and this was as good a time as any.
“You want to go see your bees? Let me grab a glass of water for you and help you down the steps.”
Leaving the dirty dishes in the kitchen, they managed to get their grandfather and his walker down to the backyard and settled in a chair under the large magnolia tree. His chair faced his beloved apiary, his eyebrows knitted as he looked at the two remaining bee boxes.
Maisy pulled her chair close to his. “Florence stopped by yesterday while you were at therapy. She said she might stop by again today, but to let you know that she’ll probably be bringing the hives back early. She said the tupelo harvest was just pitiful this year, and she doesn’t want to starve the bees. She’ll extract the honey for you, but she says not to expect more than two or three jars.”
He didn’t seem to hear her, his focus on the hives and the movement of the bees around the entrances. The fingers of his left hand plucked at his pants in agitation, and he seemed like an insect under glass, under scrutiny and unable to escape.
Even though his doctors had told her that his brain function was normal, he wasn’t the same man she remembered. The doctors had told them that after the trauma of the stroke and with the medications, their grandfather might have a few memory and behavioral issues that should improve with his recovery. She studied him for a moment, at his kind, intelligent eyes, his thinning gray hair, his arms that had never seemed frail, and couldn’t imagine her grandfather being less than he’d always been to her.
She shifted her gaze to Georgia, and recognized in her sister’s eyes that she was thinking the same thought.
He continued to stare at the hives, as if he could see the hundreds of small, buzzing bodies huddled inside, their wings fluttering at two hundred and thirty beats per second. It suddenly occurred to Maisy why he and Georgia were so attached to the bees, why the insects were admired and even loved. Because they were easily understood. Bees existed for a purpose, and behaved the way they were supposed to, their reactions to adverse situations predictable. In a chaotic world, it almost seemed natural that Georgia and Grandpa would gravitate to a smaller world in which things made sense.
Maybe that was why Maisy hated the bees. Because life should make sense on its own. It was people like Birdie who sent people searching for meaning and unders
tanding in the world of insects. For the first time Maisy felt sorry for Georgia, for being the oldest child whose job had been to explain a confusing world to a younger sister who didn’t understand or like honeybees.
“Good morning.” They looked up to see Lyle emerging from around the front of the house, waving with one hand and with a small plastic-wrapped package held in his other. Maisy assumed it was the postcard and old book Georgia had phoned her about the previous evening.
Maisy pressed the heel of her palm against her chest to stop the wild thudding, then immediately dropped it when she realized what she was doing. Lyle smiled politely at Grandpa and Georgia before resting his gaze on Maisy. “I’ve always loved you in that color.”
She looked down at the pale green blouse she’d pulled from her closet that morning, knowing how Lyle liked it on her but wearing it anyway.
“I’ve always told her that green is her best color,” Georgia said, making Maisy wage an internal battle between resentment and gratitude.
“Hello, Ned.” Lyle pulled up a metal lawn chair to sit next to Grandpa. “Glad to see you up and about.”
Grandpa’s face remained blank as he studied Lyle, as if trying to remember who he was.
“Ricky’s tied up right now but asked me to ask you a few questions about your truck. Unofficially, of course, just in case anybody asks. He thought that because you knew me you might be more comfortable answering questions. Are you feeling up to it?”
A gurgling sound came from Grandpa’s throat, his hand moving faster, plucking at the fabric of his jeans.
Georgia took Grandpa’s hand, stilling it. The right hand lay useless and palm up on his other leg. “He can nod or shake his head, and he’s been working on his words. Can you handle a few questions, Grandpa?”
His eyes turned to Georgia. He didn’t show any indication that he’d heard her, or that he understood, and his face was devoid of all emotion except what Maisy could only describe as fear. She half stood, wanting to tell Lyle to stop, that something wasn’t right. But Georgia caught her eye and shook her head. Georgia had always been better at facing unpleasant things head-on, dealing with the emotional fallout later. Maybe it was because she was the older sister. Or maybe it was just her being Georgia.
Lyle continued. “Finding your truck sure has brought up a lot of questions. This might sound a little off-the-wall, but I have to ask. Have you ever been to France, Ned? Maybe during the war?”
Grandpa took a moment to respond, finally shaking his head.
“He fought in the Pacific, Lyle. Fighting the Japanese. I really don’t think he’s up to—”
“Do you speak any French?” Lyle pressed, and Maisy could see why he and Georgia got along so well. They were relentless, unconcerned for the feelings of others.
Grandpa blinked several times, as if he didn’t understand the question. He grunted, then shook his head. Maisy handed him the glass of water she’d brought from the kitchen. He took long, deep gulps while they waited, seeming reluctant to stop drinking.
Lyle leaned back in his chair as if he were just having a relaxing conversation, but Maisy could see his shoulders were tensed, his heels bouncing up and down with nervous energy. “Well, as luck would have it, I’m staying with my parents right now.” He shot a look at Maisy, and she had to remind herself why she was so angry, why she’d chosen to push him away.
Lyle continued. “Remember your old pal Gene Sawyers? He’s my granddaddy. I hear y’all were good friends back in high school—both played on the football team. Said you both signed up together in 1942, right after Pearl Harbor.”
Grandpa nodded slowly, his eyes focused on the flat horizon behind the hives. Two gulls barked at the cumulus clouds that hovered over them, promising fair weather. His hand tightened on the chair arm, brown sunspots highlighted against white skin.
“Says he hasn’t seen much of you lately, since he can’t drive anymore. Anyway, he moved in with my parents a couple of years ago—after my grandma died. He sleeps as little as I do, so we were chatting late last night out on the front porch, having a beer. He’s lived here his whole life and remembers everything—every hurricane, every red tide. Every Seafood Festival queen and king, even.” He gave a small chuckle, but his eyes remained serious.
“He remembers your daddy—had some great stories about the timber business and how your daddy was successful because of his honesty and charity. That says a lot about a man, and he says you do your daddy credit. He also remembers how your daddy sent you on a European tour for your high school graduation. He remembers it because he and most of your schoolmates were either working on the boats or shucking oysters, and they made fun of you because you defended your trip by saying you were going to work.”
Grandpa’s jaw worked, his mouth opening and closing, broken words tumbling out of his mouth sounding like they’d been poured over gravel.
Maisy handed him the glass of water again.
“What were you doing?” Lyle’s voice was friendly, but his heels continued to bounce up and down.
“I can answer that,” Maisy surprised herself by saying. She remembered the late nights she sat with their grandfather in the darkened living room, waiting for Georgia to come home. She’d kept him company, listening to his stories, trying to distract them both from the ugly truth of where Georgia was and what she was doing.
She patted her grandfather’s arm. “Let me know if I get it wrong.” Facing Lyle, she said, “His daddy wanted him to study different ways of making honey and compare varieties, see which ones would make sense to try here. He’d sold his lumber business and wanted to do something else. Never got beyond a hobby for him, though. Lost interest when Grandpa’s brother didn’t come home from the war. But at the time he thought it would be a great education for Grandpa. I don’t remember every country he visited, but I do know he went to Spain and Italy. I’m not sure about France.”
She felt Georgia’s eyes on her, but didn’t turn her head.
Lyle placed the plastic bags on a rusted metal table between his chair and Grandpa’s, and waited for the old man to notice. Grandpa stared straight ahead toward the hives but, after a few moments, reluctantly looked down at the table.
“Have you ever seen either one of these before?” Lyle asked.
Grandpa’s face showed no recognition, but the blue veins on his hand stood out through the thin veil of skin. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the arm of the chair, slowly choking it.
“The postcard was sent from Apalach. All we know about the book is that it most likely belonged to a G. Mouton, and the postcard was sent to Château de Beaulieu near Monieux, France. Maybe you came across it in your travels?”
Grandpa continued to look at the postcard, as if willing it to be something else. Slowly he lifted his thin shoulders in a silent shrug.
Maisy frowned at Lyle. “He visited dozens of towns throughout Europe—more than seventy years ago. Surely you don’t expect him to remember which ones.”
“What about this?” Lyle slid the novel closer to Grandpa. “Ever seen this before?”
Grandpa jerked his head left and right in an emphatic no, then glanced at the book again, as if he weren’t completely sure of his answer.
“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us more, and maybe lead us to the identity of the man we found in your truck with these items. They found a few jars of really old honey, too. We’re having it analyzed. I was hoping you’d know the man. Apparently, at about the time your truck was stolen, a man saying he was a beekeeper showed up in town asking where to find you.”
Maisy handed her grandfather the glass of water again, and waited until he drained it, small drops dribbling down his gray-stubbled chin. “I think I can answer that, too,” Maisy said. “Grandpa was the president of the Florida Beekeepers Association for a long time—even when Georgia and I were little. He always had people coming to se
e him to ask about bees and honey.”
“I figured that’s what it had to be.” Lyle slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “I was just hoping you could shed a little more light on all this. If you think of anything, Maisy knows how to reach me. Or just call the station and ask for Ricky.”
Lyle picked up the bags and then paused. “Oh, I almost forgot. Ricky wanted me to tell you that we got the coroner’s preliminary report. The body has been there for a long time, so we’ve lost a lot of evidence, but from what they can tell there are no obvious signs of foul play—meaning no bullet wounds or broken bones or that kind of thing. Not that there wasn’t foul play, just that there’s no evidence of it. But there was evidence of severe malnutrition.”
“That’s not very conclusive,” Georgia said, sounding irritated. It was as if she wanted a clean answer, a period at the end of the sentence. A clean slate she could leave behind. It was almost as if she’d already packed her bags.
“No, it’s not,” Lyle said. “But considering he’s been there for over sixty years, it’s something.”
“So he could have died from natural causes, but we’ll never know.”
“Probably not.”
Lyle paused a moment, looking everywhere except at Maisy before forcing his gaze to meet hers. “Any more thoughts on coming to the honey festival with Becky and me?”
Maisy made a point of not looking at Georgia. “I already told you no.”
His old smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “But you know I’ve always had a problem accepting no for an answer. Call me when you change your mind.”
He said good-bye and left, and it took all of Maisy’s willpower not to watch him walk away. Instead she turned toward her grandfather, who watched as a honeybee landed on his sleeve. He sat absolutely still as the bee explored the mesh of his shirt and then flew away, its wings fluttering at a furious pace, as if it needed to be somewhere else.
For a moment his eyes met hers, and she saw the tears in them, threatening to spill over. Before she could ask him why, he looked away, brushing off their assistance as he lumbered his way toward the house.
