by Karen White
“Do you remember the name of it?” she asked.
Becky’s brow furrowed as she thought. “It wasn’t English. Mrs. Miller said we had to pucker our lips to say some of the words right.”
“French, maybe?” Maisy asked.
“Yeah—I think that’s it.” Becky flashed one of her beautiful smiles, one that was unaffected and guileless and had become much too rare. The phone rang and Maisy stood to answer it in the kitchen. She glanced at the caller ID and saw it was Florence Love, the beekeeper.
“Hi, Maisy.” The connection wasn’t good, but Maisy could tell that Florence’s voice didn’t sound normal. “I need to speak with your grandpa, and it’s kind of urgent. I know it’s hard for him to talk, but I’ve got something to tell him that he’ll need to hear.”
“Sure, let me walk back to his bedroom and see if he’s awake.” Maisy gently pushed open the door and found Grandpa sitting up in bed, staring at one of the watercolors of flying bees. The television was off and Birdie’s chair was empty.
“Grandpa? It’s Florence on the phone. She says she needs to tell you something. I’ll stay here to answer for you if you need me.”
She placed the phone carefully in his left hand, and he almost seemed to shrink at the touch, a mollusk disappearing into its shell at the first sign of danger. She could hear Florence speaking, not what she was saying, but Maisy saw her grandfather’s face, and a tremor of dread began at the base of her skull.
The phone fell from his hands, and when she bent to pick it up, the dull thud of the dial tone reached her ears. She tried to meet his eyes, but he glanced away. She started to ask him what Florence wanted to tell him, but was distracted by the crunch of tires on the front drive. Looking through the curved front window, she spotted Lyle’s cruiser coming to a stop.
She dropped the phone and ran to the front door, pulling it open before Lyle had the chance to knock. He looked at her with surprise. “Hi, Maisy. This isn’t a social call.”
His gaze moved behind her and she stiffened, knowing Georgia was there. Looking back at Maisy, he said, “I need to talk to your grandfather.”
Georgia stepped forward. “He’s not really up to it, Lyle. Can you talk to us instead?”
Maisy bristled at the word “us.” “What’s this about, Lyle?”
“A pickup truck your grandpa reported stolen back in 1953. Looks like we’ve found it. But I need to talk to him in private.”
A rush of movement from behind them made Maisy turn around to see Birdie attempting to run up the stairs so fast that she caught the heel of her shoe in the skirt of her dress and stumbled twice before racing up the rest of the steps. A door slammed upstairs, the old house shocked with the sound. And then, almost imperceptibly, came a small mewling sound that erupted into a keening moan.
chapter 19
Changing queens will alter the personality and behavior of bee colonies. This fact can be used to control certain behaviors of a hive, such as aggressiveness and industriousness.
—NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL
Birdie
Daddy’s truck. I could suddenly see things with startling clarity, like the moment the moon’s shadow slips off the face of the sun after an eclipse. My eyes stung with the brightness of it, yet I couldn’t close them, afraid that I would stop seeing. Afraid, too, that I wouldn’t.
I imagined I smelled the newness of it, felt the hot dashboard that burned my palms. Saw the indentation in the driver’s seat where my daddy sat inside the powder blue cab. He said he’d bought a blue truck because it matched the color of my mama’s eyes.
There was something else about Daddy’s truck I remembered, a dark, curled-up memory stuck inside my brain like gravel in the bottom of a shoe. I felt it scraping with every step, but I couldn’t dislodge it. I turned my head, hoping to see the memory, to face it. But each time I tried, it sidestepped out of my field of vision, a fleeting ghost.
I ran up the stairs as fast as my knees would allow me, tripping and stumbling, following the ghost. A part of me wanted to remain downstairs in the hallway, staring at Lyle, and sing so loudly that I could no longer hear the recriminating voices in my head. To disappear back into the person they all thought I was. But I couldn’t. Not now. Georgia had come back, turning the key on a giant clock that ran in reverse, and all I could hear was the slow unraveling of hours.
I ran into the closet, eager to search while my eyes were opened and I could see. I tore clothes from hangers and threw handbags and shoes out of the closet and onto the floor, crawling on my hands and knees.
It’s not here. A stray thought teased at my brain, but I couldn’t get it to stay long enough to make sense. I ran back into my bedroom and ripped the sheets from my bed, then crawled underneath it, no longer sure what I was doing. The darkness dipped over my vision, threatening to obscure my newfound clarity. I tried to focus on Georgia, and Maisy. And Becky. I needed to do this for them. To save them. To save us all.
From what? I sat in the middle of my bedroom floor as the light began to fade in my mind, a total eclipse. I threw my head back in frustration and began to cry.
“Birdie?”
I blinked up into familiar eyes. George? No. George was dead.
“It’s Marlene, sugar. Georgia came and got me because she didn’t know what else to do. She said you might want to see another familiar face.”
I closed my eyes, wanting to see George’s face again, to remember how things had been before. Before what? Something to do with the truck.
I was sitting in the middle of the front seat of another truck—the one Daddy bought to replace the blue one—with George as Daddy drove us to the high school dance. I’d been home for Easter break from my school in Jacksonville. Mama said she sent me away to get a better education, but we both knew it was to keep me away from George. We were both sixteen, and even back then we’d had a hold on each other that was good and awful all at the same time. We shared each other’s dreams, and fears. And secrets. The darkest kind, which could drown a person if she had to bear it alone. I sat in my tiers of pink lace with the hyacinth corsage wrapped around my wrist like a shackle. George’s bow tie matched my dress, and we both pretended not to notice that my gown was as out of place in the sea of soft chiffon as George was in a tuxedo and bow tie. But as with most of our relationship, we didn’t much care what other people thought.
A roughened hand moved the hair off of my forehead. “What were you looking for, Birdie?”
I shook my head, wanting her to go away, to stop interrupting my memories. They were all I had left of George.
“Mama?”
It was Georgia, and she must have been scared, because she hadn’t called me Mama since she was a teenager. I kept my eyes closed but opened my hand and felt her smooth, slender fingers close around mine.
“I want to help you. If you can tell me what you’re looking for, I can help you find it.” She leaned in closer and I could feel her warm breath on my cheek.
The suitcase. It had meant something to me, a memory like the smell of lavender from my mother’s drawer sachets that always reminded me of her.
I turned my head, but kept my hand in Georgia’s, not wanting her to leave, but not understanding what she wanted me to answer. I closed my eyes tighter, seeing George’s face, his pale blue eyes and his lips always carrying a smile. We were standing at the marina looking out over the river, at the uninterrupted miles of water and light. I’ll love you as long as the stars light the sky. Then I’d said, And I’ll love you until the last one burns out.
I let go of my daughter’s hand, reaching for my beloved, knowing that if I tried hard enough I could touch him. But my hands reached only empty space.
“Sugar, let us help you,” Marlene’s voice rasped in my ear. Then closer, quieter, so no one else could hear, she whispered, “Is this about the beekeeper, Birdie?”
The light flickered in my head again, the projector slowing down. I fought hard to hold on to George’s image, to smell the salty sweat of him. And I did. He was in Daddy’s old blue truck and he was looking at me from the passenger seat, Daddy behind the wheel. He wasn’t smiling. Something was wrong. I tried to squint to see what was making me so upset. I called his name, but George didn’t seem to hear me. They drove away, the fumes from the exhaust choking me. But I could see his face as he passed me, and it made my heart hurt to see that he was crying.
“I’ve told you—she can’t be helped. Don’t you think I’ve tried everything at least twice? That I’ve taken her to every doctor I could find who might be able to diagnose her and make this better?”
It was my sweet Maisy, my daughter who’d managed to become the mother I’d always tried to be. She had no idea, since Maisy never trusted anybody who gave her a compliment. I’d taught her this in my misguided attempt to show her that she was different from Georgia, that she had her own beauty and gifts. But she only ever heard the “different” part, and nothing that came afterward. Maybe it’s those who have to fight so hard to be noticed who become the best people. And that was why I always wore the lipsticks she bought me. Not because I wanted or needed any, but because I wanted her to know that I’d noticed.
The side of the bed moved as someone sat down. I smelled dog and fresh air and that horrible Charlie perfume that Marlene had always worn. There was something comforting in it, something familiar that reminded me that not everybody deserted you. We’d never been friends, but when you’d known somebody long enough, they found a way to grow around you like a vine until you couldn’t remember life without them. Marlene and I had nothing in common except that she’d been George’s sister, and she loved my Georgia more than I knew how to love someone.
“That doesn’t mean we should give up trying, Maisy. There’s something new here. She might get worse if we can’t figure it out.” Marlene shifted, a waft of stale Charlie moving over me. “Did you tell her they found the truck in the swamp?”
“It’s really not the time, Marlene . . .” Maisy began.
“She’s right.” It was Georgia, coming to Maisy’s defense just like she’d done when they were children, and a jolt of warmth shot through the icy stillness in my veins.
“What’s this?” Marlene leaned forward and slid something off the nightstand. “It looks like a piece of broken china.”
Broken china. Those two words, in Marlene’s voice. A memory. I’m getting you cheap china for your wedding, because George says you hate good porcelain.
“It’s the broken saucer from James’s grandmother’s set. That’s the pattern we’re trying to find.” Georgia’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “I’m wondering . . .”
I saw it then, the piece of china in my closet, Georgia holding it up to me. There, I thought. I’d put my finger to my lips and she’d put it back and she’d never asked for it again. Like pressing on a bruise, I let my mind travel back to that moment. There, I thought again, the thick rush of fear pulsing through me. That’s it.
I thought I could smell the exhaust from the old truck, the acrid scent teasing my nostrils, the grit of the driveway pelting my face as George and my daddy pulled away from me, George’s hand clenched into a fist where it rested on the doorframe. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I knew my mama stood somewhere behind me, and she was crying, too. I watched the truck until it was only a small speck of blue, leaving behind a bewildering sense of finality. I wanted to run after them, but something held me back. Something I didn’t want to remember.
Opening my eyes, I sought out Georgia’s. Maybe she remembered, would know. Would understand what it was my flickering mind wouldn’t let me see. But she turned her back on me to speak with Maisy, saying something about getting me a glass of warm milk so I could rest. I closed my eyes again, letting the darkness take over.
chapter 20
“I dreamt—marvelous error!— / that I had a beehive / here inside my heart.
And the golden bees / were making white combs / and sweet honey /
from my old failures.”
Antonio Machado
—NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL
Georgia
Bees buzzed and flitted around my head. I counted each one as I’d done as a child, lulling me into a sweet space where I couldn’t see my mother’s tortured face or hear my sister’s bitter and accusatory words. Or remember the person I had once been, and who I was afraid still lurked inside of me.
Without my grandfather and the hives that had been moved to the swamp, the apiary seemed more than just diminished, like a child labeled with a failure to thrive. I couldn’t help but think this change was irreversible, somehow permanent. A turn of the tide that could not be pulled back.
At the base of the bee box in front of me, a bee—larger than most—lingered on the platform in front of the exit. Making sure it was clear my intent wasn’t to block the bees from entering or leaving the hive, I leaned in from the side and scooped up the bee, cupping it inside my closed palms.
“Won’t it sting you?”
I hadn’t heard James approach, but I’d sensed his presence. There was something about the apiary that had always heightened all of my senses. Maybe because it was the only place I’d known as a child where Maisy wouldn’t follow me or interrupt.
“It’s a male—a drone. They don’t have stingers.” I stepped back from the hive so that I stood next to him. “My grandfather showed me this when I was a little girl—they just buzz in your hands like a little rattle. But they can’t hurt you.”
I touched my closed hands to his and, without being asked, he cupped his hands. Careful not to hurt the bee, I transferred the drone to James. He smiled broadly. “Neat. But how can you make sure you’re not picking up one with a stinger?”
“Well, you can usually see the stinger, but if you’re that close, it’s probably too late anyway. The drones are bigger—not as big as the queen, but bigger than the worker bees.”
“So they’re strong enough for the fatal aerial love dance with the queen if they’re chosen.”
“Exactly. You’re a good student.”
His smile dimmed as he opened up his hands and let the bee fly away. “If only people were that easy to figure out.”
I lifted my brows, waiting for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“Did you need to ask me something?” It had been a day since they’d found my grandfather’s truck and Birdie had had her episode. Birdie hadn’t left her room since, and my grandfather’s agitation and Lyle’s inability to tell us anything more had kept Maisy and me on edge.
Even though James now wore a short-sleeved golf shirt and cotton twill shorts, he didn’t look like a native. I’m not sure whether James Graf would look like a native in his hometown, either. There was an aloofness about him, almost a carelessness, that spoke of someone not quite aware of the world around him or other people’s reaction to his presence. It was strangely appealing, the foreignness of him, the otherworldliness. If I’d been up to the challenge, I would have tried to unravel him, to understand what motivated him. There was more there than the loss of his wife. There was a depth to his despair that only similar dark souls could recognize.
“Not really. I needed a break from the Internet. I’ve been searching for anything I can find about Emile Duval. I did find out where he apprenticed to another porcelain painter—in a small town in Provence called Monieux. It would make sense that if he was commissioned by a private client, they had probably seen his work and most likely lived in the same area. It’s a stretch, but a place to start. I figure after lunch I’m going to start doing an online search for wealthy families from near Monieux who lived there during the late eighteen hundreds—people who could afford to commission a set of one-of-a-kind china.”
I grinned up at him. “If I’m not careful, you�
�re going to be after my job. That’s pretty much along the same lines as I was thinking. And if we can identify the artist, that would be very good news for you, as that will certainly affect the value in a positive way.”
He didn’t smile back. “Actually, I did want to talk with you about something else. . . .”
“Yes?” I swallowed back the lump that had lodged itself in my throat at the thought that he was about to tell me that it was time for him to go back to New York. He needed to go back to his life, and the online research he was doing here could certainly be done anywhere. Yet in the short time since I’d known him, I’d come to rely on his calm, solid presence. It was as unfamiliar to me as snow, yet comforting in the way a person gravitates toward a favorite sweater. The thought of him leaving now made me feel somehow bereft.
“It’s Lyle.”
I felt a huge relief, until I realized what he’d said. “What do you mean?”
James shrugged. “When I was standing in the foyer wondering if I should run upstairs after you and Maisy or join Lyle, I overheard one of his questions he directed at your grandfather. He wanted to know if your grandfather remembered if there was anything important he’d left in the truck when it was stolen. Your grandfather didn’t respond—and I imagine Lyle didn’t expect him to—which made me wonder why Lyle would think it important enough to come ask.”
“Or why Lyle would want to keep that private. He’s referring to a truck that was stolen sixty-two years ago.”
“That made me curious, too, and because I have a lot of time on my hands I started sticking my thoughts where they don’t belong.” He squinted at me in the bright sunshine. “There’s definitely more to this story, and I’m guessing that Lyle didn’t say anything because he’s trying to protect Maisy. He still loves her, doesn’t he?”