Flight Patterns Read Free

stairs.
    â€œGeorgia?” he called again.
    Knowing he’d probably seen my car in the small parking lot behind the building, I sat down behind my desk, hoping to at least hide my flip-flops.
    â€œI’m in my office,” I shouted unnecessarily, their footsteps coming to a stop outside my door. “Come in.”
    Mr. Mandeville opened the door and stepped through, then ushered his companion inside. The tall ceilings and windows dwarfed most people, including my boss, but not the visitor. He was very tall, maybe six feet, four inches, with thick and wavy strawberry-blond hair. As a person who studied objects of beauty for a living, I decided that’s what he was and didn’t bother to hide my scrutiny.
    He was lean but broad shouldered, the bones in his face strong and well placed, his eyes the color of cobalt Wedgwood Jasperware. As they approached, I stood, forgetting what I must look like, and allowed my gaze to rove over the full length of him like I would a Victorian armoire or Hepplewhite chair. I’d started to grin to myself as I realized I must be one of a very small number of women who’d compare a handsome man to a piece of furniture.
    He must have caught my grin, because the man stopped about fivefeet from me, a pensive look on his face. It took me a moment to realize that he was studying me with the same examination I’d just given him.
    I sat down quickly, chagrined to know that I wasn’t as immune as I believed myself to be.
    Mr. Mandeville frowned slightly at me seated behind my desk. I knew he had issues with my insistence on solitude and working long hours. He was a family man who thrived on noise and bustle and the adoration of his employees and extended family. But he’d never had concern over my manners. Until now, apparently.
    â€œGeorgia Chambers, please meet a prospective client, James Graf. He’s come all the way from New York City to see you. He was so excited to meet you that he made me bring him straight here from the airport.” He sent me an accusatory glare as we both understood my lack of a cell phone meant he hadn’t been able to give me advance warning.
    James tucked a parcel under his left arm to free up his right as he extended his hand toward me. I half stood, painfully aware of my low-slung jeans. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    His hand was large and swallowed mine in a firm handshake. I slid my fingers from his and sat back in my chair. Turning toward Mr. Mandeville, I asked, “What’s this about?”
    â€œJames is in the process of settling his grandmother’s estate and came across a set of china that he believes might be valuable. He Googled china experts and found your name.”
    The visitor continued. “But I couldn’t find a phone number for you, so I reached Mr. Mandeville instead. I offered to e-mail a photo, or speak with you directly, but he explained that you prefer to look at pieces in person, to hold them to get a real ‘feel’ for them. And that an e-mailed photo is something you’ve never considered working with.”
    He said it without the usual derision I was accustomed to hearing when people learned I had yet to move into the twenty-first century.
    â€œShe also declines to use a cell phone,” Mr. Mandeville added.
    The man looked at me with assessing eyes, and just for a brief moment I thought that he might understand why a person would choose to live surrounded by other people’s things.
    Then he said, “I couldn’t imagine.”
    He was right, I knew. But I could almost believe that I’d seen something in his eyes that seemed a lot like longing for a world he hadn’t even known existed.
    â€œDo you know anything about antique china, Mr. Graf?”
    â€œNot a thing, I’m afraid. And please call me James.”
    I nodded, taking in his well-tailored suit and Hermès tie—possibly vintage. He wasn’t a Jim or Jimmy, had