The Blue Bottle Club (45 page)

"Reverend Mother, I wasn't eavesdropping. Honestly, I wasn't."

The Mother Superior raised a hand. "I know you weren't, child. Anyone in the county could have heard Sister Margaret without half trying." She rolled her eyes. "You might as well know—I'll announce it tonight at dinner anyway. Sister Margaret will be leaving Our Lady tomorrow."

"Leaving?" Mary Love stammered. "What do you mean, leaving?"

"She's not forsaking her vows, if that's what you're asking." Reverend Mother exhaled a heavy sigh. "She's transferring to another convent—one where, in her words, 'Holy Rule is followed to the letter and discipline is valued."'

"Is it because of me, Reverend Mother?"

The Superior hesitated for a moment. "Sister Margaret has never been happy under my authority," she said at last. "She feels that I am not strict enough. Your situation simply added fuel to the fire. At first she was angry because I didn't send you packing when she first discovered your deception. Now she's angry because the bishop values your work and she hasn't been given credit for discovering you." She shook her head. "I pray she finds a place of peace."

Mary Love stared at the Mother Superior. "She wants credit for
discovering
me?"

Reverend Mother nodded. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"It would be, only I haven't exactly been discovered. I just do my work and seek God for enlightenment and inspiration."

"Your humility is commendable, child," Reverend Mother said. "But I fear it's a bit more complicated than that." She held up a letter. "The fact is, you
have
been discovered."

"Excuse me?"

"I have here a letter from His Excellency, Bishop Reilly It seems that an old friend of his, a priest from New York, came out to visit and happened to see your painting of the Madonna in the diocese office. This friend, Father Conroy, has a number of people in his parish who are part of the art community on the East Coast. He was so taken with your work that he sent for a Mr. Douglas Eliot, who is curator of a gallery in Manhattan."

Mary Love frowned. "This is all very interesting, Reverend Mother, but what does it have to do with me?"

"When Mr. Eliot saw your Madonna—and your other work that the diocese has acquired—he was apparently very impressed. He asked Bishop Reilly's permission to invite you to New York for a showing in his gallery. He thinks you may have a promising and lucrative future, if the rest of your work measures up to that same quality."

"I can't go to New York. I'm a nun."

"You're a
novice,"
the Superior corrected gently. "You can go, and you will."

Mary Love's heart constricted. So that was what Sister Margaret was referring to when she said
good riddance, if you ask me.
"You're sending me away? Please, Reverend Mother—"

"Do you remember our little talk concerning your reception into the novitiate?" the Superior interrupted.

Mary Love nodded.

"You said, then, that God had not spoken a word to you. You have been waiting and working and listening for nearly two years. Perhaps God is speaking now."

"No, Reverend Mother," Mary Love protested. "I was waiting for God to assure me that I had a vocation, that I could, in good conscience, take my vows. I'm only four months away from my Temporary Profession. God would never tell me to
leave."

"Do not be too certain, child, about second-guessing the Almighty. The Lord has ways that are beyond our understanding."

"But I'm—I'm—"

"Frightened?" Reverend Mother supplied. "I know. But as we've discussed in the past, the convent is not a refuge from the world. You have not found the answers you seek within these walls. Perhaps you will find them out there."

Tears sprang to Mary Love's eyes. She felt as if her heart, her very soul, were being ripped in half. She wanted to stay at the convent, protected, surrounded by the familiar, where she had begun at last to develop a faith of her own. But as much as she hated to admit it, Reverend Mother was right. This was the chance of a lifetime—the chance to fulfill her dreams. Maybe this was why she hadn't been sure about her vocation. Only one thing was certain: If she rejected this opportunity, she would never know.

"So you think I should go to New York, Reverend Mother?"

"I think you should listen to your heart."

"But what if I make a mistake?"

The Superior smiled and cocked her head to one side. "Do you ever make mistakes while you're drawing or painting? You know, get the shape of a face or the curve of a tree trunk wrong?"

"Of course, Reverend Mother." Mary Love felt herself blush. "Lots of them."

"And then you throw the whole sketch away?"

"No. If it's a pencil sketch, I erase the error and correct it. If it's a painting, I paint over it and rework it until I get it just right."

"And do you imagine our Lord is any less committed to the work of our lives?"

Mary Love thought about that for a minute. "You mean," she said at last, "that even if we do make mistakes, go the wrong way, God has a way of correcting our path?"

"Even more than that," Reverend Mother said. "I believe that if our hearts are devoted to God, whatever path we take leads us ultimately back to the One who created and redeemed us." She paused for a moment, then continued. "The Lord is just as present in Manhattan as in this convent, and the vocation of an artist is no less holy than that of a nun. Each of us fulfills God's call by becoming what he designed us to be."

"Then I'll go to New York," Mary Love said with a conviction she didn't really feel. "And I'll trust that, one way or another, God will give me direction."

44

REBIRTH OF A DREAM

May 5, 1934

M
ary Love stood on the sidewalk and craned her neck, looking up and up and up. The buildings were so tall, rising so high that they threatened to scrape the sky. She clutched her gray wool coat, and a fleeting anxiety coursed through her veins. Was this what the Tower of Babel was like, that ancient monument to the pride of humankind?

The streets teemed with traffic, and everywhere she looked were crowds of people. The spring wind whipped through her stockings and stung at her legs. She felt naked and exposed in her civilian clothes and kept reaching into her pocket for her prayer book, but it was packed away in her suitcase at the hotel.

"Come on, honey—we don't have all day!"

A firm hand grabbed her by the elbow and hustled her into a waiting taxicab. Douglas Eliot squeezed in beside her. "New Morning Gallery, Forty-sixth Street," he told the cabbie, then turned to face Mary Love. "Now," he said briskly, "the gallery owners have seen your work and are
extremely
pleased." He exaggerated the word
extremely
and adjusted his pink silk ascot. Were all art people this flashy? Mary Love had no idea, but if Douglas Eliot was representative of the lot of them, she was in for a wild ride. Eliot talked with his hands, making grand gestures and calling everyone
darling
and
honey.

"Most of the major critics will be there tonight," he went on. "Absolutely everyone who is anyone. Believe me, darling, they are going to
adore
you."

His hands flitted over her coat, adjusting her collar. "The exhibition is all set up. When we get there, if you see anything you want changed, just speak your mind."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Mr. Eliot."

"Call me Dougie, darling. Absolutely everyone does." He settled back in his seat. "Now, we'll have an hour or two at the gallery to meet everybody, check out the arrangements, schmooze a little."

"Schmooze?"

"You know, chitchat, play up to the owners, make everybody happy." Eliot peered at her. "You can do that, can't you?"

"I—I think so."

"Then we'll whip back to the hotel, give you a chance to change, and meet the owners at Chez Franzia for dinner. You do like French cuisine?"

"I have no idea," Mary Love said frankly.

Eliot let out a tittering laugh. "Oh, my dear, you are too much! You will captivate the entire city—you'll see!"

The taxi screeched to a halt, and Eliot jumped out. "Here we are." He pointed to a narrow stone building with a lavender door. "New Morning Gallery—the site of your imminent conquest."

Mary Love followed him into the building and up a flight of stairs into a wide, well-lit exhibition hall. A series of partial walls had been erected, forming a kind of maze, and as she walked through, every turn brought her face to face with her own work. She was amazed at the sheer volume and at the creative arrangement of her paintings. When the bishop had first come into her studio, nearly two years ago, she had only a few finished paintings to show him. Now the partitions were covered with oils and watercolors, and Mary Love felt as if she had fallen down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. Maybe she
had
become a real artist, after all.

The Madonna had been brought from the diocese office, as had the snow scene now called
The Face of God.
She gazed at the paintings as if someone else had done them—the peasant countenance of Sister Cecilia smiling benignly in her direction, and over on the far wall, Sister Terese laboring in the garden.

It seemed so long ago that she had stolen work time and given up sleep to do these frantic sketches, and now that they were transformed into oils, she felt awed, as if some divine Spirit had breathed into them a life of their own. She went to the Madonna and peered at the lower right-hand corner. Sure enough, there were her initials, tiny, almost invisibly worked into the grass at the figures feet: MLB. It was her painting, all right. On display in a big New York gallery!

Douglas Eliot stood in the corner talking animatedly to two men in dark business suits. He motioned her over. "Gentlemen, meet your star attraction, Mary Love Buchanan. Miss Buchanan, may I introduce Daniel DeVille and Patrick Langley, owners of the gallery."

She shook hands with the two men, and they continued talking with Eliot as if she were invisible.

"Great job, Doug," Daniel DeVille was saying. "This'll be a smash."

"Where on earth did you find her? In a nunnery, you say?" Langley chimed in.

"My priest at St. Pat's saw her work in the diocese office in Minnesota. When they told me she was a nun, I couldn't believe it."

"She doesn't look like a nun."

"She's a novice, actually," Eliot explained. "She hasn't taken final vows yet; that's why she's in street clothes."

"Well, can you put her in something a little less dowdy, then?" DeVille asked. "Maybe dab a little makeup on her? She's not bad looking, but that getup isn't likely to impress the critics."

Eliot cut a glance at Mary Love. "I'll take care of it."

Mary Love stood there, listening to them talk around her as if she were a commodity to be bartered on the trading floor. She was flattered, certainly, by their obvious respect for her work, but she was exhausted from her trip, and she didn't think she could stand much more of this speculation about how to make her look more presentable.

"Mr. Eliot?" she interrupted. "I don't think you need me here. If you don't mind, I'd like to go back to the hotel to rest before the showing tonight."

"Of course, darling, how boorish of me!" Eliot gushed. "I'll put you in a cab this minute." He escorted her to the street, flagged down a taxi, and opened the door. "Plaza Hotel," he told the driver, then turned back to Mary Love. "Get a good rest, and I'll pick you up at seven."

At six, Mary Love was just stepping out of the bath when a knock sounded on her door. She wrapped herself in the plush terrycloth robe provided by the Plaza—dazzling white, with a gold P emblazoned on the pocket—and went to the door.

"Who's there?" she called timidly.

"Delivery for Miss Buchanan," a crisp voice answered.

The moment Mary Love opened the door, a brisk bellman pushed past her carrying an enormous box. "What is this? I didn't order anything."

He looked at the delivery slip. "Delivered from Macy's. Compliments of Mr. Douglas Eliot, Esquire."

Mary Love opened the box and let out a gasp. It was a dress—the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. A floor-length black satin with long sleeves and a beaded bodice. Along with it there were black satin low-heeled pumps and, much to her embarrassment, silky black under-things.

She held up the dress, and the folds of black satin draped around her legs. "I can't possibly wear this."

The bellman surveyed her with a critical eye. "Looks to me like it will be a perfect fit."

Flustered at his attention, Mary Love thrust the dress back into the box. "All right. You can go now."

The bellman stood smiling at her with his hand extended, but didn't move a muscle. Mary Love stared at him, then finally figured out what he wanted. She reached out and shook his hand heartily. "Thank you very much."

The smile vanished, and the bellman turned on his heel, nearly bumping into a large, frowsy-looking woman who had just come to the door.

"Miss Buchanan?" the woman said. "Mary Love Buchanan?"

Mary Love glanced at the clock and sighed.
What now?
It was almost six-fifteen, and if she didn't hurry, she wouldn't have a prayer of being ready when Douglas Eliot showed up at seven.