The Blue Bottle Club (2 page)

"We commit our dreams to the future," Letitia said quietly.

"To the future," the others echoed.

After a moment Letitia stood, stuck the cork into the neck of the bottle, and clambered up on the steamer trunk to lodge the jar high in the rafters above their heads. It couldn't be seen from below, but they all knew it was there. Hidden from view, holding their dreams, secret and sacred, awaiting the future.

Silenced by the awe and mystery of what they had done, they crept down the stairs and out of the house into the cold December afternoon.

BRENDAN

1

DEMOLITION DAY

October 10, 1994

Brendan Delaney pulled up the collar of her coat, held up three fingers, and began the countdown for the cameraman: "Three, two, one, roll!"

She raised her hand mike and looked into the camera. "Asheville witnessed the end of an era today as the dismantling began on Cameron House, one of the oldest and best-known homes in the Montford historic district. Cameron House, originally built in 1883, took its name from Randolph Cameron, a wealthy stockbroker who purchased and renovated the house in 1921. It was a showplace in the twenties, but as you can see behind me, Cameron House has seen better days. It was made into apartments in the sixties and just last month was condemned by city inspectors."

Brendan adjusted her scarf as the cameraman shifted to the house, panning in for a closeup of the rickety, rotting porch, the front door hanging off its hinges, the broken windows. As the camera came back to her, she cleared her throat and wrapped it up.

"Neighbors in the Montford district expressed mixed feelings about the demolition of Cameron House. Most were sorry to see the landmark go, but admitted that the vacant building was an eyesore and a public health hazard. As one neighbor summarized, 'None of us lives forever.' For WLOS, this is Brendan Delaney." She gave a brisk nod and smiled into the camera.

The red light blinked out. "We're clear," the cameraman said, and Brendan heaved a sigh of relief.

"Let's pack it up and get back to the station," she suggested. "It's getting colder."

Buck, the cameraman, nodded. "Sounds good to me. Want to stop at Beanstreets and get a cup of coffee?"

"Not today, thanks," Brendan murmured absently. "I've got work to do." The truth was, she didn't-feel like company—not even Buck, whose friendship she had counted on for almost six years. The demolition story had depressed her, and she wasn't sure why.

She was good at her job, that much she knew. The station vault was full of outtakes from the other reporters, mistakes worthy of a spot on that Sunday night bloopers show. Every year at the station Christmas party, someone inevitably dragged out the most recent composite of editing scraps and gleefully played it, much to the chagrin and humiliation of the reporters. But Brendan Delaney's face was rarely seen on the cutting room floor. She almost always got her spots right on the first take—even that horrible, hilarious report at the Nature Center, when a pigeon landed on her head and pooped in her hair.

If nothing else, Brendan Delaney was composed.

She was a good reporter, and regular promotions at the station confirmed it. But she didn't feel as if she was getting anywhere. What difference did it make if she did an outstanding job of on-the-scene coverage of traffic accidents and spring floods and the demolition of a hundred-year-old house in Montford? Nothing she did seemed to have any lasting significance.

But that was the news business, she reasoned. Today's lead story went stale by midnight. It was like manna in the wilderness—if you didn't get it fresh every day, it rotted on you.

As the image flitted through her mind, Brendan shook her head and gritted her teeth. If she lived to be a hundred, she'd probably never be completely free from the religious stuff her grandmother had drummed into her. Gram had spent her life trying to get Brendan to see the benefit of believing in God. But God hadn't been there to protect her parents from a drunk driver—why should she give the Almighty the time of day now that she was grown and on her own?

Brendan Delaney was no atheist. She called herself an agnostic, but if she were to be perfectly truthful, she supposed she was more of a combatant. She admitted the possibility—even the probability—that God might indeed exist. But the idea brought her no comfort. She didn't disbelieve; she just didn't like God very much.

And so she had come to an uneasy truce with the Almighty. She pretty much left God alone, and God, in turn, didn't bother her.

Gram would have told her, of course, that if she was in doubt or uncomfortable with the way her career was going, she should pray about it, seek God's direction. Well, Brendan didn't want God's direction; she was doing just fine on her own, thank you very much. She would discover her own way, make her own destiny

In the meantime, however, she had better get to the bottom of this depression that came over her every time she went out to do a field report. This was an ideal job—why wasn't she happy with it? Why did she feel as if her life, like Cameron House, had been condemned and was just waiting for the demolition team to show up?

She couldn't go on this way. She had no passion for her work, no enthusiasm. And it was bound to show sooner or later.

Brendan watched as Buck got into the big white van and drove away Maybe she should go to Beanstreets after all. It might do her good to sit in that crowded little corner cafe, have a cappuccino, and try to sort out the warring emotions that were assailing her. Her assignment, such as it was, was wrapped up. She still had to do the edit, but that wouldn't take more than an hour. She could spare a little time for herself.

She got behind the wheel of her 4Runner, pulled down the visor, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her appearance was okay, she supposed, for thirty-three. People were always telling her that she looked ten years younger, that she had the perfect "image" for TV: a kind of healthy, natural athleticism, she supposed—dark hair, dark eyes, not too many crow's-feet. She had a promising future. And she was, in the words of LaVonne Howells, her best friend from high school, "living her dream." So what was wrong with her?

Vonnie, of course, would have mocked her depression, as surely as Gram would have advised her to pray about it. But then Vonnie was a confirmed optimist, the kind of person who got up every morning excited about the day, anticipating the wonderful developments to come. Vonnie was a psychologist, with a booming private practice, and Brendan secretly wondered how she could be an effective therapist if she loaded her Pollyanna tripe onto her clients.

She couldn't have explained it to Gram or to Vonnie, but Brendan was feeling . . . well, stuck. She was successful, certainly, but everything—her job, her life—seemed so predictable. She could sum it all up in one sentence:
She wanted something to happen.

Anything.

But it wasn't going to happen here, on Montford Avenue, in the middle of an unseasonably chilly October afternoon. She'd better just shake it off and get back to work.

She rummaged in the bottom of the huge leather bag that served as both purse and briefcase, found her key ring, and shoved the car key into the ignition. But before she had a chance to start the car, a knock on her driver's side window arrested her attention. She looked up to see a big burly man in a plaid jacket. Dwaine Bodine, his name was. He was one of the demolition crew She had tried to interview him for a spot in the Cameron House piece, but found him too eager, too camera-hungry. Maybe he was just trying to be helpful—he was, after all, what people called a "good old boy." But if Brendan let some uneducated clod hog the spotlight, she'd be the laughingstock of the newsroom—and the main event at this year's Christmas out-takes showing.

That well-meaning, earnest enthusiasm filled Dwaine's simple face now, and Brendan shuddered. He tapped on the window again and motioned for her to roll it down. Might as well see what he wanted. At least Buck had taken the cameras, so Dwaine Bodine wouldn't have any success getting his face on the six o'clock news—no matter how hard he tried.

Brendan cranked the 4Runner and pushed the button for the window. Before it was all the way down, Dwaine had his face inside the car and was yammering excitedly about his "discovery." The man had obviously had a meatball sub for lunch; his breath filled the car with the pungent scent of garlic.

"What discovery?" Brendan asked, leaning as far away from him as she could get.

"Look," he said, reaching into his jacket and drawing out a blue glass bottle. "Lookit what I turned up in the attic."

He handed it over and crossed his arms, looking immensely pleased with himself. "I thought it might, you know, be something you'd want to use in your story I could tell how I found it, way up in the rafters—"

"Sorry, Dwaine," Brendan muttered absently, turning the bottle over in her hands. Bucks already on his way back to the station with the him, and we've wrapped up for the day. But thanks. Do you mind if I keep this?"

"Naw, go ahead." His broad smile deflated, and he laid a hand on the car door. "Guess I'll get back to work."

"Me too." Brendan smiled and patted his hand. "Thanks for everything, Dwaine. You've been a big help."

"Really?" The grin returned. "I'll watch you on TV tonight, Miss Delaney You're my favorite." He lowered his big head and gave her a sheepish look. "Do you think I could have an autograph?"

Brendan suppressed a sigh. She was, she supposed, a celebrity of sorts, especially to a guy like this. Even local newspeople had fans now and then. "Of course."

He fished in his pocket and came up with a stained paper napkin. Marinara sauce, it looked like. She had been right. Meatball sandwich.

"How about a picture instead?" He was a nice fellow, and he had tried to help. She could afford to be generous. She slipped a publicity photo and pen out of her bag and wrote across the corner:
To Dwaine—Thanks for your
invaluable assistance, Brendan Delaney, WLOS.

He took it, read the inscription, and beamed. "Thanks a bunch. Hey, maybe we'll work together again sometime."

"Maybe." Brendan raised the window, put the 4Runner in gear, and pulled away with a wave. "In your dreams," she muttered.

For once, Beanstreets was almost empty. Brendan sat at a small corner table sipping cappuccino decaf and doodling in a notebook. On the other side of the small cafe, a man with a ponytail and three gold earrings sketched on an art pad, looking up at her every now and then.

She had been here an hour. The first page of her notebook was filled with journaling—a practice she had begun in her early teens when she imagined herself going off to New York and taking the publishing world by storm. This afternoon's entry, however, was more literal than literary—an attempt to get at the root of her depression, to map out strategies for the future, to determine some kind of direction.

Brendan was a planner; always before she had been able to write her way into hope, to chart out a course and follow it. But today nothing seemed to work. She just kept writing around in circles and finally abandoned the exercise altogether. The only conclusion she had reached was that she needed a change, something that would hold her interest and give her life and work some meaning beyond a thirty- or sixty- or ninety-second spot on tonights newscast.

But how was she supposed to do that? She couldn't just march into the news directors office and declare that she needed more meaningful assignments. It didn't work that way. A reporter—a good one, anyway—made her own drama, discovered for herself the kinds of stories that would touch the pulse of her audience.

She thought about her piece on Cameron House—an ordinary, unremarkable stand-up, with background shots of the decrepit old house and herself in the foreground spouting clichés about "the end of an era." Not exactly Emmy-nomination material. Good grief, the story didn't even interest
her
—how could she expect it to interest an audience? She envisioned a citywide drop in water pressure at 6:26 tonight as toilets across the county flushed during her forty-five-second demolition spot.

Brendan glanced at the bill the waitress had left—$2.75. Well, she wasn't doing herself any good here. Might as well go back to the station, get her tape edited, and call it a day

She reached into the bag at her feet, groping for her wallet, and her hand closed over something cool and smooth. The bottle Dwaine had brought to her from the attic of Cameron House. The blue glass bottle.