Flight Patterns Read Online Free

concentration that my mind didn’t have to wander down paths it wasn’t allowed to go.
    â€œI could help,” he offered, his blue eyes sincere.
    I shook my head quickly. “I’m sure you have to get back to New York. If you allow me to keep the cup and saucer, I’ll fill out the necessary paperwork for insurance purposes. . . .”
    He straightened. “Actually, I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job, so I have as much time as it will take. I wasn’t planning on heading back until I have some answers.”
    â€œAnd he’s already promised that we will handle the auction of thechina and the rest of his grandmother’s estate if this search proves fruitful,” Mr. Mandeville added, giving me a hard look under lowered eyebrows.
    I studied the bees again as they swirled around the pieces of china, their wings stuck in perpetual movement.
So memorable.
I had a flash of memory of my grandfather in his apiary, my hand in his as we walked down the rows of hives, the bees thick as they darted and spun around us, and how I hadn’t been afraid. And then I remembered Birdie finding me in her room, rummaging through her closet for something vintage to wear, finding instead something entirely unexpected, something that had made my mother so sad that she had to go away again. Something that had made her put her finger over her lips and make me promise to keep it a secret. It was the only thing my mother and I had ever shared, just the two of us. And so I had.
    â€œI think—” I said, then stopped. I wasn’t sure I wanted to mention that I thought the pattern seemed familiar, that I might have seen it in my childhood house. Because, even after all this time and all that had happened in the intervening years, I didn’t want to give my mother another reason to be disappointed by me.
    â€œWhat do you think?” prompted Mr. Mandeville.
    â€œI think,” I said again, “that I may have seen this pattern before. Or something very similar.” My eyes settled on Mr. Mandeville. “On a soup cup I found in my mother’s closet. My grandmother was a bit of a junker—always collecting stray bits of china and knickknacks, which is probably where it came from.”
    â€œGood,” said my boss. “Then all you have to do is go home and bring it here so we can compare.”
    I frowned up at him. He’d been urging me to go home to see my family for years now, not understanding how people related by blood could be separated for so long. As if being related meant permanence and acceptance, two words I’d never associated with my family.
    â€œI really don’t think that’s necessary. I’ll call my grandfather, ask him to look for it and ship it here if he finds it. Or maybe he can just take pictures and send them. That might be enough to compare itwith this one. It wouldn’t be necessary to physically hold it to see if it’s the same.” I indicated the cup I still held in my hands, almost feeling the thrum of the flying bees through my fingertips.
    â€œIf it is the same,” asked James, “what might that imply?”
    â€œThat the pattern could be mass-produced, which will mean it’s not worth as much as a custom one.” I ran my fingertips along the edge of the cup, trying to remember that day in my mother’s closet, trying to see again the pattern of bees. Trying to remember what it was about it that had sent my mother away again. “Although I’d be pretty surprised if it were mass-produced. I’ve seen thousands of Limoges patterns before, but never anything like this. It’s rather . . . unique.”
    â€œI’d prefer to see it in person,” Mr. Mandeville said. “That way we won’t make any mistakes.” He cleared his throat as he turned his attention to James. “We’re very particular here at the Big Easy. We like to make sure