by Karen White
The hem of Birdie’s nightgown was brown with dirt, her small bare feet covered with dust. She was humming as she entered the foyer, her eyes startlingly clear. She held something down by her side in one hand, the object hidden by the folds of her nightgown.
“Where did you find her?” Maisy asked, checking to make sure Birdie was physically uninjured.
“About a block from Marlene’s house. Any idea why she might be going there?”
“None at all. She’s never wandered from the house before. I hope this isn’t setting a precedent.”
“We might need to take her to another doctor,” Georgia said quietly.
We. There was that old word again that had nothing to do with who Maisy and Georgia were anymore.
Too tired to have this discussion, Maisy said, “It’s almost ten. I’m going upstairs to draw her a bath and put her to bed. There’s no reason for you to stay. Come on, Birdie.” She moved to take her mother’s hand, but Birdie began to walk with purposeful strides toward Ned’s room.
Maisy reached the door at the same time as Georgia, right behind Birdie, who hadn’t paused to knock. Ned was awake, sitting in the chair facing his apiary, where he’d been since that morning, when Florence had brought back his beloved beehives. He’d been agitated, watching as her team unloaded the hives from the truck, shouting something unintelligible if they got too close to the two hives that had remained behind.
Birdie lifted her hand and placed something in their grandfather’s lap. He stared at it without recognition, his bushy eyebrows knitted together over his nose. Georgia stepped forward, then stopped, her fingers pressed against her mouth as if she were keeping a secret.
Maisy peered around her and saw the soup cup, its elegant curves and handles exactly like Georgia had described them, the brilliant colors of the bees in flight as vibrant as if they’d been painted yesterday.
“Is it the same one?” Maisy asked.
Georgia simply nodded, her fingers still pressed against her lips. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “Where did it come from?”
Maisy moved around Georgia to stand next to the chair. “Grandpa? Do you know what this is?”
He stared at it without seeming to see it, but Maisy noticed his grip on the arm of his chair, the pulsing of a muscle in his cheek. She had a quick flash of memory of the teacup and saucer as they’d exploded on the ground, and the look on Grandpa’s face when he’d seen the ring of bees in flight. Which meant he recognized something.
“Grandpa—do you know where this came from?”
He lifted his head, his eyebrows still knitted. But there was a spark of something in his eyes that told Maisy that he knew.
Georgia reached down and took the cup, then very slowly turned it over in her hands to study the mark on the bottom. “It matches the soup cup in James’s grandmother’s set. Exactly.” She took a deep breath. “It could be the missing cup.”
Maisy was already entering her passcode into her phone when Georgia spoke again. “What are you doing?”
“I’m texting James. He and Caroline might want to come over and see it in person. And I’d like to see the picture from her grandmother’s china myself.”
“Don’t. Please.” Georgia reached for the phone, but Maisy held it away, just like they’d done as children playing keep-away. “It’s the same,” Georgia repeated. “They don’t need to see it tonight anyway. You can wait until tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait,” Maisy said, quickly tapping the screen on her phone. “Because if it’s the same, then your job is done here.” Which wasn’t the complete truth. There was one thing no one had acknowledged yet—the how. If that set had belonged to James’s family back in Switzerland before the war, then how did a single piece of it find its way to Apalachicola?
That it had been hidden for so long made it obvious to Maisy that it had been hidden for a reason. And maybe that reason was something they weren’t prepared to know.
She felt a stab of remorse when she saw Georgia’s face blanch.
“Please, Maisy. It can wait until tomorrow. I don’t want to see James.”
The look on her sister’s face made Maisy want to undo the text, but a response had already been sent back. She looked down at her phone. “They’re on their way over.”
Birdie had begun humming to herself, the odd alphabet tune that Becky had recognized as a French children’s song. Georgia bent down next to her chair, holding up the bowl but keeping it far enough away that Birdie couldn’t grab it. “Where did this come from? I saw it once before, remember? In your closet. You told me to keep it a secret. Why?”
Birdie’s humming became words that fit into the notes, each word enunciated and clear to make sure they were heard.
“Those are names,” Maisy said. “Girl names in French,” she said in surprise. “I’m pretty sure those weren’t the words Becky sang.”
Birdie reached for the soup cup, but Georgia clung to it, holding on with both hands as she brought it closer to Birdie, letting her touch it. With her index finger, Birdie traced each bee as she sang the names.
Maisy met Georgia’s eyes over their mother’s head.
“Grandpa?” Maisy tried again. “Have you seen this bowl before? Do you know where it came from?”
He looked up, tears brimming in his eyes.
“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” Maisy said, stepping back and bumping into something hard and solid. Lyle. She’d almost forgotten he was still there. His hands settled on her shoulders and squeezed.
Without warning, Birdie grabbed the cup from Georgia’s hands, and for a moment Maisy thought she was going to fling it against the wall or smash it to the floor, because the look on Birdie’s face wasn’t the schooled, placid expression she wore most of the time. It was a mixture of grief and anger and even confusion, as if she didn’t know where the cup had come from, either, but was pretty sure Grandpa did, because she pressed it into his hands, then moved his head with her fingers to make him look at her.
She stopped singing and sat perfectly still, forcing her father’s attention. She opened her mouth and it seemed the entire room went silent, holding its collective breath. Grandpa’s bottom jaw worked itself back and forth, trying to form words, his grunts resembling syllables and consonants, and drowning out any sound Birdie might have made.
There was a knock on the front door, and Lyle went to answer it as if he still lived there. After a moment James and Caroline appeared in Grandpa’s doorway, Lyle behind them.
“Hello, Ned,” James said. “Mrs. Chambers.” He nodded at Maisy in greeting. “Georgia.” She didn’t turn around.
Grandpa didn’t seem to have heard his name, his gaze never leaving Birdie’s face. He seemed to be waiting for something from her. A look, or acknowledgment. A single word. And then he shook his head, and another sound came from his throat, this one sounding like Don’t.
Maisy leaned forward and carefully took the soup cup from her grandfather’s lap and held it up for Caroline and James to inspect. “Is it the same?”
Caroline flipped through her photos on her iPad until she found the right one, then turned the screen around so they could see. “What do you think?”
Georgia studied the photo while carefully avoiding James’s gaze. “It looks identical. The order of the bees, the colors, the lines indicating movement. It’s all the same.” She reached over and slid her finger across the screen to turn to a photo illuminating the mark on the bottom of the cup. “Same markings, too.” She pointed to the “H&Co.,” the capital letter “L,” the word “France.”
Georgia faced the visitors but avoided looking at James, making Maisy wonder what had happened between them. In the past she could have guessed, but now there were parts of her sister that Maisy didn’t recognize anymore. And, she realized, that wasn’t such a bad thing.
“It’s time for Gra
ndpa to go to bed,” Maisy said. She began guiding everyone from the room, but Birdie stayed where she was, her hands now holding both of her father’s.
“I’ll come back in a few minutes,” Maisy said, leaving the door open a crack. She felt an odd disappointment, as if she’d been watching a movie where the screen went black before the ending. There was something important, something major they were missing.
They all stood in the foyer, looking at one another, hoping somebody had an answer. Lyle spoke first. “I need to go. I’m on duty at the Magnolia Cemetery again, deterring vandals. Call me if you find out anything.”
Maisy held the door open for him. “Thank you. For finding Birdie and bringing her home. I’m sorry. . . .”
He put his hand over hers. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m here to help however I can.”
Maisy hesitated, not yet ready to close the door, but knowing she should.
The sound of Birdie singing came to them from Ned’s room, the names in the same order, the monotony beginning to irritate Maisy. Marie, Lucille, Lisette, Jean.
Frowning, Caroline took the soup cup from Georgia and stared at it for a long moment before she began singing along with Birdie, her fingers moving from bee to bee with each name. She smiled slowly with recognition. “She’s singing the names of the bees—they’re all girls, of course. Even I know that all worker bees are female.” She closed her eyes and waited for Birdie to start at the beginning again, then sang out loud with a strong soprano voice, “Ah! Vous dirais-je, maman,” the lyrics fitting seamlessly into the notes.
Her eyes popped open in astonishment. “I can’t believe I remember them; it’s been so long. But those are the original words. The verse with the names of the bees was taught to me after I’d learned how it was supposed to go.” She nodded her head slowly as she thought. “Yes, that’s right. Grandmother taught us both versions.”
Lyle stepped back into the foyer, his eyes narrowed. “That’s French, right?”
“Yes,” Maisy said slowly.
“I don’t understand.” Georgia scrubbed both hands over her face as if to clear her thoughts. “How is it possible that my mother and Caroline’s grandmother knew the same made-up lyrics for a French nursery song? Lyrics that name the bees on an extremely rare set of china?”
Georgia turned to Caroline. “What was your grandmother’s first name?”
James answered, as if he were trying to get Georgia to look at him. “It was Ida. Why?”
Georgia’s gaze touched briefly on his face, avoiding his eyes. “Just grasping at straws, I guess. When Birdie sings that song, it’s usually followed by calling out the name in her sleep or singing it.”
“Yes, it was Ida,” Caroline corroborated. “Although that might be the Americanized version of her real name. Elizabeth can look at her birth certificate and let us know—she’s big into genealogy and has obtained a lot of family documents. I’ll text her now. She usually doesn’t go to bed until after midnight.”
She was already reaching for her purse when Georgia held up her hand. “There’s no rush. Her name’s not going to make any difference in the valuation of the china. I already have all I need.” She indicated the soup cup Caroline still held. “You can keep that if you like. It goes with the rest of your set. I’ll have you mail me the photos so I can include them in the valuation for your records.” She swiped her hands on the skirt of her lemon yellow A-line dress, as if all the little details floating around them like dust motes could be easily dismissed. “My job here is done.”
Lyle took a step forward. “Not quite. We’re still waiting on the complete report from the coroner. And your grandfather hasn’t been able to answer any of our questions yet.”
“I’m not stopping you from continuing the investigation,” Georgia said. “I think we’ve reached a dead end as far as the man and the truck are concerned, but I know you need to do your job. Either way, it won’t make a difference to the value I assign to the china. And I do need to get back.”
Maisy wondered whether anybody else had heard the last word that Georgia had almost tagged onto the end of her sentence. Home. New Orleans was where Georgia lived now, but it would never be home. Yet she’d spent all those years away because Maisy had asked her to. For the first time Maisy wondered what it would have been like if she’d been the one sent away, and all she could feel was a bruise on her heart.
She felt Lyle behind her, and the old insecurities, never buried too deep, resurfaced. She found herself saying words she hadn’t planned. “You’re right. I think Birdie and Grandpa will appreciate a return to normal. Let me know if you need help packing up.”
Georgia did her best to mask her hurt, but Maisy saw it, felt the stab of guilt. She expected Georgia to say something back, words painted with poison and aimed in the perfect spot to do the most damage. But she didn’t, making Maisy wonder whether at least one of them had actually managed to grow up.
Instead, Georgia turned toward Caroline, although it was clear she was directing her words at James. “I’m sure I’ll see you before I leave, but just in case, I wanted to let you know what a pleasure it’s been meeting you. I have a mailing address to send my report, so you can expect that in a few weeks.”
She tilted her head in James’s direction without speaking to him directly. “I’m assuming you’ll be flying back to New York with your sister instead of driving to New Orleans. If we find out anything more about the history of the china, I’ll let you know.”
For the first time in the few short weeks she’d known him, Maisy saw raw anger on James’s face. “Is that it?” he asked, taking a step toward Georgia and forcing her to meet his gaze. “Just, ‘Good-bye; I’ll let you know’?”
“James, this really isn’t the time or place.”
“What? You’ll call me? You’ve got my number on your cell phone?”
Georgia opened her mouth to reply, but James cut her off. “Don’t bother. But I did want to thank you for letting me come down here. These few weeks have been illuminating, to say the least—and not just because of the fascinating world of my grandmother’s china.”
Maisy flinched before the next words came out of his mouth, and saw Georgia do the same. “Mostly I want to thank you for confirming that I’m not the most emotionally crippled person I know. At least I know to ask for help.”
He stepped past Lyle to get to the door. “Good night, everybody. Caroline—I’ll wait for you outside.” The door closed behind him with a gentle snap; he was always the gentleman.
Carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone, Georgia said, “I’m going to run a bath for Birdie.” She ran up the stairs, followed a few minutes later by the sound of water running through the pipes of the old house.
“I guess I’d better go,” Caroline said. She walked to Maisy and placed the soup cup in her hand. “Give this to Georgia, would you, please? I’m not quite sure whom it belongs to.” Lowering her voice, she added, “And it will give James a reason to call and ask about it later.”
She smiled and said her good-byes, following her brother out the door.
“You’re just going to let her go?” Lyle asked softly.
Maisy lifted her chin, angry that his words echoed her own. “Georgia’s old enough to make her own decisions.”
His look of disappointment hurt more than any harsh words could have. He picked up his hat from the hall table and settled it on his head. “Yeah, well, and you’re old enough to know better.” He opened the door. “Please tell your grandfather that Ricky needs to ask him some questions as soon as he can scribble something on a page. Like where he went in France during his trip. And who he might have met. Somebody sent that postcard to an obscure estate in southern France, and there just aren’t many candidates besides Ned.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know.”
Lyle paused in the glow of the porch light, and it took everything Mai
sy could hold together not to ask him to stay. “Good night, Maisy.”
“Good night,” she said, closing the door before she changed her mind.
She moved into the house, turning off lights, leaving one on in the foyer so Georgia could let herself out. The rush of running water stopped as Maisy crossed the foyer to her grandfather’s room. The distinctive sound of whispered words brushing against one another drew her up short. It had been Birdie’s voice; Maisy was sure of it. And then her grandfather tried to speak, a rush of air and syllables, the words unmistakable: I’m sorry.
chapter 33
Queen honeybees are able to sting repeatedly, but queens rarely venture out of hives and would be more likely to use their stingers against rival queens.
—NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL
Georgia
I’d left Apalachicola just as I’d done nearly a decade before, without saying good-bye and without looking back. I’d learned that from Birdie, from all the times she’d left us behind. I’d consoled us by saying she’d left to save us, because saying good-bye was the worst kind of hurt. At least this time, in my case, it was true.
Caroline had called to say that she and James had made an early flight and had left before sunup to drive back to the Panama City airport. I’d been hurt and relieved in equal measure, wondering at the hollowed-out feeling when I packed up the Limoges books, the sense of being haunted as I looked over my shoulder expecting James to be there. It unsettled me, made me cower under the minutiae of packing up.
I spent my last night at the house eating a short and silent dinner in the dining room with my grandfather, Birdie, Maisy, and Becky, the table cleared now of all my catalogs. One corner of the dining room was stacked with the now-organized papers we’d pulled from the china cabinet, the photos, the miscellanea of a family condensed into stacks of memories that would remain silent until opened. My gaze kept straying to the corner, a thought scratching at the back of my head, like the drip-drip from an old faucet. It would spring into my awareness after long moments of forgetting, the sound suddenly as loud as a bullet from a gun.
