Flight Patterns

by Karen White

I swiveled to face him, the papers slipping from my lap. “You have no idea—”

  The screen door slammed shut and we both turned to find Becky standing on the back steps. She was still in her school clothes, and I looked at my watch in surprise, having no idea it had gotten so late. My stomach growled as I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch.

  “There’s somebody at the front door. For Mr. Graf. She says she’s his sister.”

  I felt James stiffen beside me, his eyes searching the apiary as if it offered an escape route. “Speak of the devil,” he said, as if our conversation had somehow conjured her. But it was apparent from his face that this wasn’t completely unexpected.

  I bent to gather up the pages and stick them in the folder. “Speaking from experience, the first few minutes are pretty hard, when you try to remember why you haven’t spoken for so long. And then it gets harder from there as you both try to get past that thing between you before you realize that it’s not going anywhere.”

  “Thanks for the help,” he said, his long legs striding toward the house. He held open the door for Becky and me, and we followed him into the cool air-conditioning.

  Maisy and the visitor were sitting on our grandmother’s prized antique sofas, found at an estate sale in DeFuniak Springs. I’d spotted them first, their horsehair upholstery splitting at the seams, a foul odor of cat pee and something else I didn’t want to identify. But even as a young girl I’d recognized good lines and strong bones, and timeless style and craftsmanship. My grandmother had stopped at the estate sale to find a large gilded mirror to hang in the stairwell, and had instead come back with the two couches. My grandfather had simply smiled indulgently. Grandma had the couches professionally cleaned and reupholstered in an elegant pale gold brocade and had always called them Georgia’s sofas.

  The woman sitting opposite Maisy now seemed to belong in that room of beautiful furniture. Tall, slender, and elegant, she looked just like her brother, with the same graceful lines and bone structure. She had her brother’s golden red hair, and her eyes were the same dark shade of blue, but they were different from his. It took me a moment to realize that they were missing the haunted look that pooled behind his eyes like empty spaces.

  She had smooth, pale skin that had obviously been sheltered from the sun for most of her life. She stood as we entered and smiled at James, fine lines appearing around her eyes.

  He didn’t step forward. “Hello, Caroline.”

  Caroline. His oldest sister, who must be in her mid-forties, since I knew James was about my age, in his mid-thirties. The sister whose calls he’d been ignoring.

  “What are you doing here? And how did you find me?”

  She took a step forward with outstretched arms. “Aren’t I allowed to see my baby brother? Besides, you needed to know what happens when you don’t answer your phone. I worry.”

  James took a step toward her and met her halfway before embracing her. Even though she was tall and wore heels, she just reached his jaw. When she pulled back, her eyes were damp. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t that hard to find you. It’s a small town.”

  He digested that for a moment before speaking again. “I’m assuming you’ve already met Maisy. This is her sister, Georgia Chambers,” he said, indicating me. “She’s the china expert I told you about who’s doing a good job of chasing down Grandmother’s china.”

  She extended a slender-fingered hand, but her grasp was surprisingly strong, her gaze probing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her gaze slid down my outfit and I braced myself. She wore an exquisite emerald green silk blouse that set off her hair, tucked neatly into a white linen skirt that hadn’t dared to wrinkle. Understated. Elegant. Expensive. “Is that vintage Pucci?”

  I looked at her with surprise. “Yes, actually. It is. How did you know that?”

  “My youngest sister, Elizabeth, and I owned a vintage dress shop in the Village for a while—until she got pregnant with her third and couldn’t do it anymore. But I adore vintage clothing. You really have a good eye—that color is striking on you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sending James a wary glance. “He didn’t mention your store to me, which you’d think would be a given, considering.”

  Caroline actually rolled her eyes, which made me laugh, and I decided right then that I liked James’s sister. “He’s got that male gene; what can I say?”

  Looking seriously annoyed, James said, “If you’re done, maybe you’d like to tell me how long you plan to stay and if you need me to arrange for your flight back home.”

  Ignoring him, she directed her attention at me. “I’m actually starving. May I take you and your sister and niece to a late lunch or early dinner? James can come, too, if he promises to stop scowling at me.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Maisy said, “but I need to stay here. My mother and grandfather haven’t been well, and I’d feel better if someone were here.” Almost reluctantly, she added, “Georgia’s been with them all day while I’ve been at work, so it’s my turn.”

  I sent her a look of appreciation, but she was staring at Becky’s upturned and hopeful face. “And you’ve got homework and a science test tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said to Caroline. “James and I were so busy working that we sort of forgot to eat. I’m famished.” I looked at James, expecting him to say something similar, but he just scowled at his sister. I was once again reminded of how little time it took for a sibling to return us to our childhood and the squabbles in the backseat of the family sedan.

  Caroline picked up a black quilted Chanel bag—definitely vintage—from the sofa and slid the gold chain over her shoulder. “Great. It’s all settled. Are you coming, James? Because you know if you don’t, you will be the lead topic of conversation.”

  Without a word, he headed toward the front door while I grabbed my purse. As he closed the door behind us, he said, “I suggest we take the car. Caroline isn’t used to the heat and would probably melt.”

  Ignoring him, Caroline tucked her arm into mine, her fingers clutching a little too tightly, belying her light banter. “I can’t wait to get to know you better. I already think we have lots in common.”

  I felt James’s eyes boring into our backs as we headed to my car.

  We spent the entire drive listening as Caroline gushed over how great my car was. She knew a lot more about cars than James did and actually knew how to drive, and even admitted to owning a minivan to shuttle carpools involving her four children under twelve in her Connecticut suburb.

  James didn’t say a word until I’d snagged a curbside parking spot on Commerce right in front of the Owl Café. He opened my door while I was still hunting for my purse, and I watched as Caroline waited for him to open hers. I remembered what he’d told me about her protecting him after he’d been caught tossing eggs from their apartment window when they were kids. It seemed sisters were the same everywhere, a best friend and a best enemy all rolled up into a single person who would always know you better than you knew yourself. Which told me, too, that there was a very good reason Caroline had come all the way to Apalachicola, and there was more to it than just checking in. I rubbed my arms where her fingers had clenched my arm, convincing me that I was right.

  Caroline stood on the wide sidewalk looking down Avenue D toward Riverfront Park and the Apalachicola River in the near distance, the historic brick two-story mercantile buildings with overhangs sheltering the sidewalk like old ladies with parasols. “This is really stunning. Not to sound snobby, but I’ve always thought that to be a real city there needed to be skyscrapers and lots of neon lights. I’ve been here all of an hour and I can already see how misguided I’ve been. Looks like people down here have been keeping this place a secret.”

  “It is called ‘the Forgotten Coast’ for a reason,” I said. “Unfortunately, developers have set their sights on this part of the gulf, and I don’t think they’ll be happy
until there are condos lining the shoreline here and on St. George Island across the bay.”

  She sent me a wide smile that looked just like her brother’s. “I knew we had a lot in common. I’m a card-carrying member of the National Trust. I’ve got a real soft spot for preserving our collective history.”

  I could almost sense James groaning behind me. Ignoring him, I said, “If we have time, I’ll take you to Riverfront Park, where you can see where the old steamboats used to line the docks.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” She tucked her arm into mine again, her grip not as desperate this time, and I led them to the door of the restaurant that had just opened for the four-o’clock dinner crowd.

  The Owl Café was a childhood memory of after-church brunches with our grandparents and Birdie. The food had always been good, which was why I’d suggested it—that and the image of my grandparents and their friends making me hope for an older crowd. Or at least people who wouldn’t remember me from high school.

  James finally broke his brooding silence as we waited for our table. “So, really, how did you find me?” he asked Caroline.

  “After I failed to get hold of you, I called the Big Easy Auction Gallery and spoke with Mr. Mandeville. He said Georgia didn’t have a cell number where she could be reached, but he did say you’d driven here together from New Orleans and that Apalachicola was small enough so that it wouldn’t be too hard to find you.

  “I didn’t believe him, of course, until he told me there was technically only one full stoplight in the entire town. So I flew into Panama City, rented a car at the airport, and drove straight here. I passed an interesting establishment with a lot of lawn ornamentation for sale and asked the woman there if she knew where to find you and a Georgia Chambers. She was very helpful, although she seemed mostly interested in selling me a mermaid for my front yard at home.”

  I choked back a laugh. “I’m assuming she told you that she’s my aunt Marlene. And be thankful that her Loch Ness Monster is at her house instead of the business. It would probably be in your backseat right now.”

  A smiling waitress whom I was thankful I didn’t recognize appeared and picked up three menus from the hostess stand. “Would you like to sit outside?”

  I was about to say yes when I saw the look of concern on Caroline’s face. Turning back to the waitress, I said, “Inside is fine. It’s pretty humid today.”

  The waitress smiled indulgently. “It’s only eighty-five percent—not bad, considering it’s early May.”

  I saw Caroline’s eyes widen briefly before following the waitress to our table. We opened our menus and I was happy to find several of my old favorites. “I highly recommend the crab dip for starters, and then the fried-oyster salad. All the seafood here is locally sourced, so it’s really fresh.”

  James continued to glower as Caroline squinted at her menu. “Are fried oysters anything like oysters Rockefeller?” She looked up at me expectantly.

  “Well, they both have oysters in them, but these are battered and deep fried and you will think you’ve died and gone to heaven when you eat one. Especially if you dip it in the homemade creamy horseradish dressing.”

  James thrummed his fingers on his closed menu, waiting for us to finish. “How long are you planning on staying, Caroline?”

  Her eyes appeared wide and innocent. “My original intention was just to have a quick visit with you and then be off, but this is such a charming town, and Georgia and I seem to have so much in common that I was thinking of staying a few days. Take a little vacation. Henry needs to learn how hard it is to run the household and schedules of four children, so this will be good for both of us.”

  A tic appeared in his jaw. “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m at the Consulate in a suite overlooking the river. They mentioned a young man who looked like me was staying there, too.”

  James gave his sister a hard stare, and he reminded me so much of Maisy when she was angry with me that I almost laughed. We were saved by the appearance of the waitress to take our orders.

  We all sipped from our ice waters, Caroline and I making small talk while James sat in stony silence. Either Caroline was used to this facet of James’s personality and didn’t comment on it, or maybe I was unnerved because of how different it was from the thoughtful and mature man I thought I’d grown to know and like.

  The food arrived and the conversation switched to their grandmother’s china. “How close are you to finding a value for the Limoges?” Caroline asked.

  “Closer,” I said, “but it’s proven to be a lot harder than I thought it would be. It appears it may have been a custom design created by a French artist named Emile Duval in the latter half of the nineteenth century.

  “What’s skewing my whole thought process is that I believe I saw a piece from the same set here in my mother’s house—years ago. Unfortunately, we’re still looking for it. Common sense tells me that if it’s the same pattern, it couldn’t be a custom design. Because that would be a million-to-one chance that they’re pieces from the same set. But until I can put eyes on it, I can’t say for sure.”

  Caroline nodded thoughtfully. “So what’s the next step?”

  “I have a contact at the largest Limoges porcelain museum in France who’s checking the old records to see if there is a paper trail with Emile’s name that might lead us to the client. We’re also going in the opposite direction, checking an account ledger from an estate in Emile’s hometown, hoping to see a payment made either to him directly or to the Haviland Company.”

  Caroline sliced into a fried oyster with a fork and knife. “Isn’t just knowing that it’s a Limoges pattern from the late nineteenth century enough to give a value?”

  “Certainly. I could rattle off something today. But that might mean a lowball estimate. If it is a custom design, and the client was somebody prominent, or a historical figure, the actual value would be much higher. I’m running out of trails to follow, and if I get to the end and still don’t have more information, I think we can assume it wasn’t custom but a limited-run pattern and leave it at that. Then I’ll be able to prepare a value estimation based on that assumption.”

  I glanced over at James. “Your brother has been a huge help—sifting through the Internet for hours as well as poring over volumes of china catalogs. He could probably describe dozens of Limoges patterns in his sleep.”

  A corner of his mouth softened in an attempt not to smile. He quickly picked up a pita point and dragged it through the crab dip. I put an oyster in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Did your grandmother ever tell you anything about the china? James said all he remembered was that she was proud of it, but never used it. But since you’re older, I was hoping you might recall something she might have said about it.”

  Caroline delicately wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I do remember her being upset by a couple of missing pieces. She left a space for them in her china cabinet, as if she expected that one day they would be back. One of them was a large piece—its space was front and center.”

  “Had it been broken?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. You’d think if it had, she would have just closed up the ranks so nobody would notice it missing.”

  I looked down at my empty plate, fleetingly wondering whether I should be embarrassed for eating so much food. “Do you remember which pieces?”

  Pale gold eyebrows drew together. “No—but I could ask Elizabeth to go look. She still lives in the city and can go over to Grandmother’s house in Long Island. Why?”

  “It’s a long shot, but the piece I found here was a soup cup—with finger loops on two sides. Just out of curiosity, it would be interesting to know if that’s one of the missing items. Even if the patterns aren’t identical, if we find it, it could be a nice fill-in for your grandmother’s set.”

  Caroline shook her head slowly. “I really hav
e no idea if that’s one of the missing pieces. I’ll ask Elizabeth to check and to take a photo of one of our soup cups and text it to you so you can see if it’s the same one.”

  James pushed away his plate. “Have her send it to me—Georgia doesn’t have a cell phone.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to speak. “I promise I won’t delete it without looking at it first.”

  Caroline grimaced. “How reassuring to know that our brother treasures every word from us.”

  “Maybe if my sisters had something new and interesting to say, I might be tempted to listen.”

  To ease the tension that seemed to bristle in the air between them like static electricity, I turned to Caroline. “Where was your grandmother from? James thought she’d brought the china to the United States when she moved here after World War Two.”

  “That’s the assumption, anyway. It’s a long story. I don’t know how much James has told you, but they came from Switzerland. But my grandmother was half French and half Italian. She moved to Switzerland during the war and met our grandfather, a Swiss national, and they emigrated to the United States soon after the war ended, along with her entire family that included seven children, and an entire set of china. It was a sweet love story—remember, James?”

  He barely nodded.

  Caroline continued. “They were dirt-poor, and all of them living in a single-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn.” She was silent for a moment. “My great-grandmother got sick and some of the younger children had to go live with other families because they couldn’t afford to take care of them. Our grandmother worked in a jewelry store in Manhattan as a salesgirl, and they needed her paycheck to pay for her mother’s medical care and living expenses.”

  “And yet she didn’t think to sell the Limoges?” I asked.

  “No.” Caroline shook her head. “My great-grandmother made her swear not to sell a single piece of it, no matter how bad things became. To my knowledge, none of it was ever sold.”

  Her gaze met her brother’s. “Our family managed to not only survive, but thrive despite the hardships. My grandfather put himself through college and got a job on Wall Street in the mailroom of a brokerage firm and worked his way up while feeding his wife’s siblings.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on James’s. “We come from a line of strong, resilient people, don’t we?” It almost seemed as if she’d forgotten I was listening.