Flight Patterns

by Karen White

  Where it had been, Birdie sat in a heap, the heavy lid of the chest thrown open, exposing an empty interior. She wore a white cotton nightgown and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that had half fallen from its elastic. Her shoulders moved, but she didn’t make a sound.

  “Birdie? Are you all right?” Maisy rushed to her side, squatting down next to her and running her hands over her fragile bones, checking the white cotton fabric for red stains. “Birdie?” she said again, willing her mother to look at her.

  Slowly Birdie lifted her head, her eyes clear, as if a curtain that had been blocking years of darkness had been suddenly lifted, and just for a moment it looked as if she wanted to tell Maisy something. Instead, Birdie brought her hand up and then dropped something into Maisy’s lap. It took a moment to realize what it was, to recognize the teapot lid that Maisy had removed from her pocket to take the photo to send to Georgia, and left on her nightstand in her room.

  Then Birdie lowered her head again and began to sing the French names of the bees—Marie, Lucille, Lisette, Jean—in a voice so small and childlike that it made the hairs on the back of Maisy’s neck stand on end.

  chapter 37

  In Celtic mythology, the bee is a messenger between our world and the next. And in ancient Egypt, pharaohs used the bee as a royal symbol, perhaps for the same reason.

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Georgia

  I approached the grand entrance to Audubon Park that faced St. Charles Avenue, getting ready for my second lap around the road that ringed the park, a tidy border to the park’s golf course and small lakes. Several of the giant live oaks had fallen in Hurricane Katrina, but what remained offered shelter from the hot New Orleans sun and those of us who insisted on exercising in the intense summer heat.

  I’d moved to the Crescent City because of desperation, and Marlene’s connections, on the heels of Katrina. After Becky was born, Marlene had tried to talk me into moving somewhere else—out west, or Texas, or anyplace that had the essential coastline but no memories for me. But I’d chosen to stay in New Orleans, mostly because it fit my mood and position in life. We’d both taken a beating, our defeat so humiliatingly laid bare for the world to see. I liked to think that we leaned on each other, engineering what could only be called a miraculous comeback.

  It was only eight o’clock in the morning, the stifling humidity that seemed to be the Crescent City’s flagship already out in full force, yet it didn’t slow my steps. An involuntary smile lifted a corner of my mouth as I remembered my conversation with James about people along the Gulf Coast being born with gills so they could survive the heat and humidity.

  I pushed myself harder, hoping the exertion and the sound of my own panting breaths would eradicate all thoughts. I ran past the giant urn-topped pillars at the entrance to the park, my muscles straining, my lungs burning, my sweat-soaked ponytail slapping my back. But I had learned that no matter how fast I ran, my memories always kept pace with me.

  I passed a young mother pushing a double stroller, her face glistening with sweat, and two coeds with Tulane running shorts sprinted past me, making me feel ancient. I was focusing on a large white swan as it emerged from the water when I imagined I heard my name being called. I didn’t wear headphones when I ran, so there was nothing wrong with my hearing, which caused me to stumble as I tried to slow when I heard my name again.

  I skidded on the asphalt path, trying to catch my balance without completely embarrassing myself by falling on my face. With my hands on my hips to help me breathe, I kept walking to give my muscles a chance to recover from my sudden stop, searching the path and the nearby benches for a familiar face.

  He was leaning against one of the benches that faced a small interior lake, watching me intently with his blue eyes, his expression unreadable. “Hello, Georgia.”

  I couldn’t speak for a long moment, trying to find my breath, sucking air into a chest constricted with shock. I was glad to be concentrating on pulling air into my lungs, because otherwise I would have been thinking about what I must look like.

  “Hello, James.” An arm of sunlight through the leaves of the oak he stood under stroked his hair, making it gleam gold. His khakis were neatly pressed, his golf shirt devoid of sweat spots, giving an overall impression of a man unfazed by the heat. I put my hands out in a gesture of confusion, because I couldn’t find the air to ask.

  “Mr. Mandeville told me that you usually ran in Audubon Park on Saturday mornings. So here I am.”

  I walked around in a circle, feeling my feet hit the ground with each step, if only to prove to myself that I wasn’t hallucinating, conjuring his face because I wanted to see it again.

  “You live in New York.” Breathe. Breathe. “It’s not such an easy thing to just show up in Audubon Park on a Saturday morning.”

  He smiled. “I hope your gills are working, because you’re really glowing.”

  I started to walk away, still too shocked for real anger, but needing air desperately. “If you wanted to insult me, you should have called my phone. I have one now, remember.”

  I heard his footsteps before his hand touched me lightly on the shoulder, making me face him. “I’m sorry. I’ve been here for an hour trying to think of what to say to you, and I’m afraid that was the best I could come up with.”

  His self-deprecating smile did a lot toward softening my attitude. I frowned, making him drop his hand. “You hung up on me.”

  “And you were being dismissive. I apologize, though. I was raised better than that.” He smiled his GQ smile and I had to look away. “Please don’t tell Caroline.”

  “Did she send you?” I narrowed my eyes with suspicion.

  “Actually, no.”

  My heart thudded in my chest, but I wasn’t sure whether it was just from the exertion of running. “If you wanted to apologize, you could have just called.”

  “I know.” His eyes searched mine, but I looked behind him, not wanting him to find the answer he was looking for in mine. “But I wanted to see you again.”

  “Is this about the valuation?”

  He blew out a breath in frustration. “No. But I’ll say it is if that makes you more comfortable.”

  I began to walk away again. This was supposed to be my safe place, the home I’d created without connections. Yet here was James Graf, standing in Audubon Park as if he belonged there. “You should have just called me,” I said.

  “Why are you walking away? Do you do that every time somebody tries to get close to you, or is it just me?”

  My eyes burned, but it wasn’t from sweat. I stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Why does everybody assume there’s something wrong with wanting to be alone?”

  “Because it’s against your nature.” His voice came from right behind me. I dipped my head and he lifted my ponytail, as if that could cool me off.

  “You don’t know me.” I’d said that to him before, but it hadn’t seemed to sink in.

  “Yeah. I think I do. You’re the girl with all the keys, knowing the right lock is out there somewhere. It makes you quite extraordinary.”

  I stepped away from him, aware of how badly I was still sweating. “I’m not what you need.”

  He took a step forward, closing the distance. “I disagree. You made me want to change.”

  I crossed my arms, remembering his parting comment before he’d left Apalachicola. “Even though I’m the most ‘emotionally crippled’ person you know?”

  I had the satisfaction of watching him blanch. “I’m sorry I said that, even if it had some truth to it.” He took my arm before I could run away. “I had no right to say that to you, mostly because I was swimming in the same pool.”

  I jerked my arm out of his grasp. “Well, I’m perfectly happy being emotionally crippled.”

  “Are you really? You don’t miss Maisy? Or Becky? Or any part of the
life you gave up when you left?”

  “You have no right—” I began.

  He interrupted me. “I called Brian. You challenged me to do that, remember? I told him I was sorry. Sorry that I hadn’t given him a chance to say to me what he needed to.”

  “And did he?”

  James nodded. “He asked for my forgiveness. A simple thing, really.”

  “No, not really. And did you? Forgive him?”

  “Yes. At least I began the process. But suddenly all that pain and hurt and madness—it went away. It no longer had the power to control my life. I felt free.”

  “I’m glad for you. I am. But if you’ve come down here to convince me that I need to ask Maisy to forgive me . . .”

  “No. That’s not why I’m here.” That devastating smile lit his face again. “Caroline told me when I was a little boy that if I wanted something, then I needed to ask for it. That’s why I’m here. I want to ask you to let us spend some time together. Let us get to know each other. And I wouldn’t have come all the way down here if I didn’t think you felt the same way.” He reached up with one hand and cupped my jaw, using his thumb to wipe the moisture away beneath my eye.

  “I can’t . . .” I turned away again, Caroline’s words swimming in my head. 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.

  Maybe I liked circles. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s too late. I’m happy here. I’m happy with my life.”

  I began jogging in the opposite direction, almost running into a bicyclist because I couldn’t see where I was going through watery eyes. I’d taken only a few steps when my phone began to ring. I’d made the mistake of buying an armband for it, which meant people could reach me when I was running.

  Maisy Sawyers. I didn’t know why I’d typed in her last name, like I wouldn’t recognize her name without it. Maisy was calling me, and the only reason I could think of was because there was a problem.

  “Hello?”

  I barely recognized my sister’s voice. It was higher-pitched, like it used to get when she was small and scared of a storm. And it was thick, a cloud full of unshed tears clogging her throat. “It’s Becky. And Birdie. They’re missing.”

  I felt all the air leave my body. “Missing? What do you mean, missing?”

  “They’re gone. I went to get Becky up this morning to send her off to tennis camp, but her bed was empty. So was Birdie’s. The sheets were cool, so they’ve been gone for a while. I don’t think they went far, because Becky’s suitcase is still packed and waiting by her door. Her bunny’s gone—the one you gave her. With the little pocket in it. It’s the only thing she took with her.”

  “Did she take her phone?”

  “No. She turns it in to me every night at eight o’clock, and I still have it.”

  “Any idea where she could have gone? Did she leave a note or go to stay with a friend?”

  “No and no. She’s nowhere. And Birdie . . . something’s changed with her. I found her in the attic yesterday. She had the teapot lid and had opened Grandma’s cedar chest.”

  “Was Becky upset?”

  “No. We just put Birdie to bed and I stayed with her until she was asleep. I checked on Becky, then went to bed myself. I don’t think any of us ate dinner.” A sob escaped. “I’d promised to take her out to dinner. Do you think she’s punishing me for forgetting?”

  “No, Maisy. That’s not Becky. This is about something else.” I took a deep breath. “Did you call Lyle?”

  She seemed surprised. “No. I should have, shouldn’t I? But you’re always the first person I think of when I’m in trouble.” I wondered if she’d realized what she’d just said, knowing that only severe duress would have made her admit to such a thing.

  “I want you to hang up now and call Lyle. And I’m going to jump in my car and drive right down. Call me on my cell if you find her, or you get any more information. Okay?”

  We said a quick good-bye and hung up, although it took me two tries to hit the red button, because my hand was shaking.

  “Are you all right?” It was James.

  I realized I was close to hyperventilating and allowed him to lead me to a bench and then keep his hand on my shoulder as I bent my forehead to my knees. But just long enough for me to catch my breath. I sat up, waiting for my head to stop spinning. “It’s Becky. She and Birdie are missing. I need to go home.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, not waiting for me to ask. As if he already knew that I would. “I’d drive if I could.”

  Despite everything, I smiled. “I know. But you know how to use a cell phone. I’ll have you checking in with Lyle and Maisy while I drive.”

  We began walking quickly toward the entrance to the park, but I stopped, putting a hand on his arm. “This doesn’t change anything. Between you and me.”

  His eyes were cool. “I know. But I want to help.”

  I stood on my tiptoes and placed a quick kiss on his cheek, immediately regretting it the moment the heat stung my lips.

  chapter 38

  “Don’t you wait where the trees are, / When the lightnings play, / Nor don’t you hate / where Bees are, / Or else they’ll pine away. / Pine away—dwine away— / Anything to leave you! / But if you never grieve your Bees, / Your Bees’ll never grieve you.”

  Rudyard Kipling

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Georgia

  We arrived in Apalachicola after a record-breaking four-and-a-half-hour trip that involved only one stop for gas and coffee. James ate something, but I couldn’t bear the thought of food. My foot sat heavy on the pedal, my knuckles white as I gripped the steering wheel. All I wanted right now was reassurance, someone who knew how to offer companionship without stealing my solitude. James seemed to recognize this, and several times placed his hand over mine when I rested it on the bench seat beside me to get the blood flowing again. It made me think of Kate, his wife, and all she’d thrown away, wondering as I watched the miles pass whether she’d thought of him in her last moments, grieved what was already lost.

  James kept up with Maisy and Lyle on my phone with updates, and shared them with me. Unfortunately there was nothing more to add than what Maisy had already told me. No witnesses, no notes, no sign of an elderly woman and young girl walking the streets of Apalachicola. No reason for them to be gone. At least as far as the rest of us knew.

  During the last leg of the drive, as we headed down Highway 98 through Mexico Beach, my phone beeped. “Text?” I asked, feeling excitement, wondering whether it could be Becky since that was her favorite form of communication.

  James looked down at the screen and shook his head. “No. E-mail. You get e-mail on this, you know. Someone must have set it up to send you alerts whenever you have a new one.”

  I remembered Jeannie the previous week commandeering my phone to set it up so I could use it “like a normal person.”

  “It’s from Henri Volant.”

  In the stress and worry about Becky and Birdie, I’d spared no thought for the elusive china pattern or the beekeeper and his young daughter. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to deal with it now. But a niggling thought kept scratching at my brain. How Birdie and Colette were both the same age. How Colette had been given to another family to live with.

  “Henri is the curator for a museum in Limoges,” I explained. “He knows a lot about the area and Limoges china.”

  “Do you want me to open it?”

  I swallowed hard. I wanted to tell him no, to deny the possibilities. Run away from anything that was unpleasant, because that was what I’d always done. Yet here I was, traveling back down the road I swore I’d never travel again. Maybe this meant I was through with running, was old enough now to face the truth, whatever it might be, and confront Birdie’s pas
t that was inexorably tied to mine and Maisy’s, no matter how hard it would be to hear. Or forgive.

  I turned to James. “Yeah, you probably should.”

  After waiting a moment, James read, “‘So good to hear from you. I am very happy to continue to assist you with your research, and am very happy to send you information on Giles Mouton. He is a local hero, did you know? I must leave now for a conference in Geneva, but will be back in two days’ time, when I will send more information. For now, here is a photocopy of a letter from my museum archives that I think you will find most helpful. I apologize that I could not be of more help with your first inquiry, but once you mentioned the name Mouton, I knew exactly where to look.’”

  For a moment I almost forgot my worry and the reason for this trip. “Giles Mouton is a hero?”

  “Apparently,” James said. He was silent, staring at the screen. “Wow. This is remarkable.”

  He continued to read in silence, and I began to get uneasy. “Are you going to share it with me?”

  “Yes, sorry. It’s in French, so I had to read it a couple of times to make sure I was translating it correctly.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a letter from a Jean Luc de Beaulieu, dated January 1893. It’s addressed to Pierre Mouton, thanking Mr. Mouton and his family for one hundred years of service as official beekeepers of the Beaulieu estate, and asking Mr. Mouton to accept a set of china as a token of his gratitude.”

  My hands felt slippery on the wheel and I had to grasp it harder. “Does it describe the china?”

  “No. There’s nothing else.” He paused. “But I think we can make assumptions based on everything else we’ve learned.”

  I thought for a moment. “If that was 1893, then Giles might have been Pierre’s grandson, and then the china was passed down until it was inherited by Giles from his father,” I said, trying to focus on the road in front of me.