by Karen White
“Or she didn’t believe that it belonged to her.”
The sound of breaking glass burst through the phone. “I should probably go see about that,” she said, her voice still calm. “Any ideas on where to go next?”
My mind had already been traveling in that direction, each time hitting a dead end. “Not really, but I did think of something that’s a bit of a long shot. I’m friends with the curator at a museum in Limoges. He wasn’t able to offer any information about the china when I initially approached him, but he’s very knowledgeable about the history of the area. I’ll call him and see if he knows anything about the Moutons, or the Beaulieu estate. You never know.”
“You’re right, Georgia. You never know where life will lead you.”
“True,” I said, wondering at the real meaning behind her words. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“Actually, my husband has decided that we need a family vacation, so we’re heading to Disney World tomorrow and will be gone a week. You have James’s number, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “But I can wait until you get—”
“Good. He’ll be looking forward to hearing from you.” A child began to wail in the background. “I really must go.” I thought she’d say good-bye, but instead she said, “Just one last thing. I was going through my desk yesterday and found my journal from that horrible period in my life after my first husband died. For some reason I thought of you when I read a particular passage.” She cleared her throat. “‘There are no limits to starting over. That’s why the sun rises every day. Unless you’re running in circles, and then the outcome never changes.’”
The story of Giles Mouton and his daughter filled my mind, taking the sting away from her words. “Why would you think of me—”
I was cut off by the wailing of a second child. “I really need to go. I’ll talk with you soon.”
I looked down at my screen and saw “call ended.”
Rain began to splatter against my window, gently at first and then more incessantly, a child wanting attention. I thought of the young motherless Colette Mouton. She was an infant in 1940 and then disappeared along with her father sometime before 1945. Yet she reappeared in Ellis Island with the Bosca family, including Adeline—James and Caroline’s grandmother.
Adeline. A name Birdie knew. Along with a song about bees. It wasn’t that unusual a name that there couldn’t be more than one. Except that I’d never heard it until James had brought the Limoges teacup and saucer into the house and Birdie had seen it.
I stared at the window glass, the rain blurring the view, mimicking my thoughts. When a possible answer skidded against my brain I pulled back, the implications too unbearable. I wanted to pack all the information into a little box and lock it in a bottom drawer. I wanted my life back, the one with no phone or sticky relationships. Just a box of keys with no locks.
But that had all been before. Before I’d gone home and seen Maisy again, and sweet Becky with her stutter and gnawed fingernails and awesome tennis skills. Her beautiful face and spirit that Maisy was working so hard to protect. And James. Before I’d met James and learned that my heart wasn’t as dead as I’d wanted to believe.
There are no limits to starting over. That’s why the sun rises every day. Unless you’re running in circles and then the outcome never changes. I resented Caroline for sharing that with me. Not because she was overstepping—and we’d probably both agree on that—but because I suspected that she was probably right.
chapter 36
The queen bee has control over the sex of the eggs she lays. If she uses stored sperm to fertilize the egg, the larva that hatches is female. If the egg is left unfertilized, the larva that hatches is male. This means that female bees inherit genes from their mothers and their fathers, while male bees inherit only genes from their mothers.
—NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL
Maisy
“I d-don’t want to g-go,” Becky said for about the tenth time since she’d awakened that morning.
Maisy kept her anger in check. Even without the balled-up clothes Becky threw into her duffel or the way she’d been clomping about her room, the stuttering would have let Maisy know how upset her daughter was. She searched for the voice of reason. “You were the one who suggested tennis camp, and your daddy and I saved up the money so we could pay for it. There are no refunds this late in the game.”
Becky looked up with tear-filled eyes, her lips trembling as her teeth clenched the bottom one to try to keep it still. She didn’t say anything, which was the equivalent of a dagger thrown directly at Maisy’s heart.
Maisy sat down on the bed, trying for eye level. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. It’s not about the money. It’s just that you begged and pleaded for so long, and now that it’s happening you’re doing an about-face and telling me that you don’t want to go. I’m just having trouble understanding why.”
Becky walked to her dresser and yanked open the drawer filled with all of her underclothes, including the new sports bras that Maisy had bought for her. She’d noticed that, like Georgia, Becky was developing early. One more thing for the mean girls of the world to pick on.
It wasn’t fair. Becky was already so poised, so mature. So attuned. She understood Birdie in ways that Maisy couldn’t, and displayed a compassion for both Birdie and Grandpa that was far beyond her years. Her physical appearance promised that she’d be a great beauty when she grew older, but that was only a small part of her.
Watching Becky brought to mind what Birdie had once told Maisy and Georgia about being ordinary. For a long time Maisy had agreed with her, had done her best not to stick out. She’d even tried to raise her own daughter that way. But looking now at her beautiful, talented, and smart daughter, she should have known long ago that was impossible. Just the circumstances of her birth had marked Becky as being far from ordinary, setting her course in life. She watched the angry movements of her remarkable daughter, wondering how it had taken her so long to realize how wrong Birdie had been. How wrong she had been. Being ordinary wasn’t a sin, but neither was being extraordinary. Maybe a person needed to have enough years on her to look back on her childhood in hindsight to see things clearly. Or maybe it just took the return of a sibling to give new perspective to everything you thought you believed.
Maisy slid down the side of the bed, pulling the bedclothes with her, just as she’d told Becky a thousand times not to do. She watched as Becky threw an armful of ankle socks into the pile that was building like a pyramid in the middle of the duffel. “Sweetheart, why don’t you tell me the real reason you don’t want to go? I’m not unreasonable. And if I agree with your misgivings, then I won’t make you go, all right?”
Becky frowned down at the contents in her bag, considering. For one brief moment, Maisy thought it had to do with her and Lyle, and that Becky might want to be around to make them spend more time together.
Maisy was embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that she might say yes. That was one thing she and Georgia had in common, the inherent stubbornness to wait for someone else to make the first move. She frowned, rolling her thoughts over her tongue as if she’d just swallowed a bitter pill. How was it possible that two grown women were still behaving the same way they had as children? It was the worst kind of cowardice.
Maisy sat up, trying to clarify her thoughts, feeling like the time she got her first pair of glasses and noticed that her favorite tree that had grown outside her bedroom window her whole life had individual leaves instead of blobs of green. Same tree, just a different perspective.
“It’s because of Birdie.”
Becky had spoken so softly that Maisy had to lean forward. “Because of Birdie?”
Without looking at her mother, Becky nodded.
“Has she told you that she doesn’t want you to go?”
Becky finally met Maisy’s eyes. “I n-n
eed to watch out f-for her.”
“But, sweetie, that’s not your job. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll take care of Birdie while you’re gone. I promise.”
She shook her head, her ponytail whipping the air. “I’m the only o-one. She t-talks to me. B-because I l-listen.”
Maisy reached over to tuck loose hair behind Becky’s ear. “You said that before, and I listened. We have an appointment with a new doctor in Panama City next Monday. This is a new specialist who is an expert in older people.”
Becky studied her with solemn eyes. “Like a p-pediatrician but for old p-people?”
Maisy resisted her urge to smile. “Exactly. Somebody who has experience with older people and can better help them. She’s come highly recommended and I feel confident that things will be different.”
Becky’s expression didn’t change. “But M-Monday’s three d-days away and I leave t-tomorrow.”
“I’ll spend extra time with her, all right? I want you to go away to camp and have fun, and not worry about us here.”
“Won’t you b-be lonely without m-me?”
“I’ll miss you, but I’ve got all of these projects that I can’t get to during the school year—that stack of papers in the dining room that need to be filed, for instance. And I was thinking that maybe I could paint your room—after we talk about the color, of course. I could make new curtains, too. So, see? I’ll be too busy to be lonely.”
Becky still didn’t seem completely convinced. “M-maybe you can help Birdie f-find her suitcase?”
Her suitcase. Maisy straightened. “Of course. Actually, I think I already found it—there’s an old one in the back of her closet. There was a china lid inside I want to show her. I was going to wait and talk to the doctor first, but I don’t see why I can’t go ahead. Especially if it means you’ll go to camp without any worries.”
The pucker at the bridge of Becky’s nose softened. “All right. That makes me f-feel better.” She put her hands on her hips and walked to her closet, staring in at the neatly hung rows of clothes. She’d always been tidy, as if she’d needed a way to take control of the confusing world created by the adults in her life.
“Do you need me to help you pack?”
“No. I can do it myself.”
Do it myself. Maisy swore those were the first words Becky had said as a baby. And mine was Georgia. She let her mind skip away from dangerous territory and instead focused on her daughter. “What about your toiletries?”
“I can’t pack them until tomorrow, because I’ll need them tonight and in the morning.”
Maisy almost sighed with relief to hear that the stutter was gone. “Well, seeing as you have this all under control, I’ll leave you to it, and I think I’ll start with the filing in the dining room. And since this is your last day at home for the next two weeks, I thought we could all go out to dinner at Caroline’s and sit outside in the gazebo and watch the river. How does that sound?”
Becky gave her mother her biggest and brightest smile, the one that always took Maisy’s breath away not just for its beauty, but for its generosity. For a long time she’d thought it reminded her of Lyle and it had hurt her to see it. It still reminded her of Lyle, she decided. But not because it looked like him, but because of the way it made her feel.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She kissed Becky on top of her head, then headed downstairs.
She checked on Grandpa first, not surprised to find his room empty. She looked out the kitchen window and found him at the back of the apiary again. The umbrella she’d set up only partially covered him, but at least he wore his straw hat, and the thick cloud cover obscured most of the sun. His head was bent, bobbing up and down as if he were talking with someone. Or praying.
She thought about bringing him ice water or sweet tea and was halfway to the cabinet to get a glass when she stopped. She’d left her EpiPen upstairs, and she wouldn’t go to the back row of the apiary without it. Not only would she have to pass the first eight bee boxes, but the bees in the back had no compunction about stinging the man who loved them best. She didn’t want to think what they’d do to her. She’d wait an hour to see whether he came in, and if not she’d bring him something to drink and urge him to come inside, where it was cooler.
From the dining room table Maisy grabbed a label maker and the box of file folders she’d purchased the day before and set them on the floor next to the tallest stack of papers and dog-eared folders. She needed only to label the folders and organize them in some functional way, since she’d already sorted through all of it, searching for the name Adeline, finishing the task Georgia had assigned to Becky.
Maisy had been annoyed at first, wondering why Georgia might think the name important enough for someone to leave a mention in the family documents. It was so like her to study a problem from every angle, to shine a light into cracks that others didn’t even notice. It was annoying and refreshing, depending on whose side you were on. Georgia had been right, of course. She usually was, not that Maisy would ever admit to it out loud.
Adeline—Ida—was the name of James’s grandmother, the woman who owned the china and had taught James’s sister the French nursery song. There could be more than one Adeline, but there were too many coincidences to assume there wasn’t a connection. There were so many questions, and not enough answers. She found herself wishing that Georgia were still there. It was a neutral enough topic that they could discuss it without acrimony. Or without rehashing the past.
It was the main reason she was thrilled that Georgia had a cell phone and was learning how to text. As long as they kept the conversation neutral, texting was the perfect way to communicate. Just yesterday she’d received a text from Georgia telling her what Caroline had discovered about the Moutons’ connection to the Beaulieu estate, and Colette’s emigration with their family after the war. If they’d been speaking on the phone, one of them would have been forced to ask what it all meant. And hearing Georgia’s voice would only bring back that horrible scene in Lafayette Park when they’d both dared to scratch the protective surface of their hurt. It was as if they’d shared the same shoes for years, rubbed the same blister, and were both desperate to keep it from breaking.
Maisy lost all track of time as she labeled, resorted, and restacked the papers into their proper homes, her feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction far outweighing the actual task. She’d put aside the folder with the photos, knowing Lilyanna’s pictures were there. She promised herself she’d look at them later, on a nice day in the bright sunshine, where it didn’t hurt so much. Maybe one day she’d feel strong enough to put them in an album. Just not today.
The light had begun to fade when she reached for what she told herself would be the last folder for the day. Her back ached, and she’d promised to take everyone out to dinner. She recognized the folder that contained her grandfather’s military records and quickly created a two-line label: NED CAMPBELL BLOODWORTH, MILITARY RECORDS, 1942–1945.
She pulled off the broken tie on the old folder and slid out the contents, prepared to simply place them in the new folder without going through them again. She was about to close the cover when her gaze settled on the form on top, a half-size page made with postcard material. It was his army enlistment medical exam, listing his height and weight at age twenty-one. Six feet, three inches. She thought about the seat in the truck, and how it was too far back for a man almost a foot shorter. Her gaze traveled to the bottom right, where an area labeled CHILDHOOD ILLNESSES filled the corner. The box next to the word “mumps” was checked.
She sat up, remembering the conversation with James about his great-uncle when they were in the gazebo, right before Becky ran into the street to get the beach ball. Did you say it was the mumps that made him sterile? James had said that was true only in some cases, and before they could say more, Becky had run out into the road and any implications had been pushed from her mind. Until n
ow. Maisy looked down at the form again, at the big black “X.”
She slammed the cover shut as if she’d been caught looking at something she wasn’t supposed to see. But all she could hear inside her head was her grandmother telling her that she and Grandpa had wanted lots of children to fill the big old house, about how it had been a sad, empty place after the war. Grandpa’s older brother had been killed in Normandy, leaving no children, and then his father had died of a broken heart. Children would have brought it back to life again, but Grandma and Grandpa had only had a single daughter. Birdie.
The back door slammed, announcing Grandpa’s return to the house. Maisy slid the folder off her lap and stood, looking at it as if it were poisoned. She listened to the slow, steady approach of his walker while words whirred in her head as she tried to figure out what she needed to say. What she needed to ask.
She was saved by saying anything at all by a loud crash from upstairs. “Becky?” she shouted as she took the steps two at a time, pausing at the top of the staircase and sighing with relief when she saw her daughter in the hallway in front of her room, a questioning look on her face.
Their gazes traveled in tandem to the attic door at the end of the hall, the door ajar as light spilled down the step onto the hallway runner below. Putting her hands on Becky’s narrow shoulders, Maisy said, “Stay right here, okay? I’ll call for you if I need help.”
Becky nodded solemnly as Maisy rushed toward the attic, calling her mother’s name as she ran up the narrow, steep steps. She stopped once she reached the top, the source of the crash immediately obvious. A corner curio cabinet with wood shelves and a glass front lay toppled on its side, shards of glass glittering like diamonds in the late-afternoon rays of murky sunlight. It had once stood in front of her grandmother’s cedar chest, blocking it from easy access.
