Flight Patterns Read Online Free Page B

More tourists and construction on St. George Island, more fishing regulations and fewer oysters in the bay. But Maisy had remained, along with their grandfather and mother, and her memories of a childhood that were incomplete without including Georgia.
    â€œMama!”
    Maisy turned to where her nine-year-old daughter, Becky, stood on the back porch in her bare feet and pajamas. “The phone keeps ringing.”
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œI don’t know—they hang up before I can answer. Caller ID says it’s from a number starting with five-oh-four. They didn’t leave a message. Do you want me to wait by the phone and see if they call back?”
    It took a moment for Maisy to find her voice. “No, Becky. That’s all right.”
    Becky returned to the kitchen, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.
    Birdie stopped singing and Maisy knew that she’d heard, too. Had understood what it meant. Maisy’s mother was a conscientious objector to her own life, but that didn’t mean she was unaware of it swirling around her.
    â€œThat’s New Orleans,” Maisy said unnecessarily. Georgia never called the landline, just in case Maisy happened to answer it. Maisy knew her sister had monthly conversations with their grandfather, and that he initiated the call from the old black Princess phone in his bedroom.
    Birdie and Maisy watched as Grandpa began walking toward them from the apiary, his slow movements confirming his age. His mind was as quick and agile as that of a man of half his years, but his body had already begun to betray him with stiffened joints and an irregular heartbeat.
    The faint ringing of the telephone began again from inside. Knowing it would continue until she answered it, Maisy left her mother and ran back to the house. She grabbed the kitchen phone, the long cord that was so knotted and kinked now that it reached only about three feet.
    â€œHello?” Something buzzed by her head and she jerked back as the bee darted past her and up toward the ceiling.
A bee in the house means there will be a visitor.
Her grandfather’s bee wisdoms seemed imprinted on her brain no matter how much she wished she could erase them.
    There was a brief pause on the other end of the phone. “Hello, Maisy? It’s Georgia.”
    Like she needed to introduce herself. Like Maisy wouldn’t know the voice almost as well as she knew her own.
    â€œHello, Georgia.” She had no intention of making this any easier. The bee buzzed past her again, and Maisy turned toward the wall and retrieved the flyswatter she kept on a nail. If that damned insect bothered her again, it would be the last thing it would ever do.
    â€œI need to ask a favor.”
    I’m fine—thank you for asking.
“Is this about that soup cup?”
    A pause. “Yes. I guess Grandpa told you then. He didn’t remember it, but said he’d look for it. He said he didn’t find it.”
    â€œWell, then. It must not be here.” She held the phone to her ear, listening to her sister breathe.
    â€œI’d like you to look,” Georgia said finally. “To make sure.”
    â€œIt’s not here,” Maisy said quickly. “I helped him look, and we were very thorough. We even looked in Birdie’s closet and didn’t find it. I thought he already told you that.”
    She pictured Georgia’s lips tightening over her teeth, clamping her mouth shut. Grandpa used to say it made her look like an oyster unwilling to give up her pearl. It was an expression Georgia always used when pitting herself against what she was hearing and what she wanted to hear. An expression that was usually reserved for interactions with their mother.
    â€œHe did,” Georgia said slowly. “It’s just that this is pretty important, for a potentially very big client. . . .”
    â€œWell, I’m sorry we can’t help you.” Maisy was thinking about