The Blue Bottle Club (48 page)

46

THE ARTIST

November 30, 1994

F
or years, then, I taught and painted and lived at the convent of Our Lady," the old nun concluded.

Brendan leaned back in her chair and smiled. "And found your vocation," she added.

"Indeed I did." A faraway expression filled the old woman's eyes. "After a while, the initial excitement over my work—all that hoo-ha in New York—died down somewhat. But by then, my paintings had made enough money to see the convent school through for many years. And Frankie—my very first student—that boy went on to become quite an artist in his own right, working as a cover designer for a big New York publishing house."

She paused and smiled. "Odd, isn't it, how God works sometimes? I often think that if I hadn't become a nun, I would have been just one more obscure artist struggling to find a niche in the market. Dear old Douglas Eliot, God rest his soul, used to tell me that it didn't matter how much talent you had, you needed a hook, something to get people's attention. The habit did that for me, I suppose." She smiled, and the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes deepened. "No one expected a nun to paint with such passion and life. I rather suspect people think we abdicate our humanity when we take our vows."

"No one who ever met you would believe that." Brendan took the blue glass bottle in her hands and stroked its contours with her fingers. "Looking back, do you see yourself as having fulfilled those dreams you put in this bottle?"

"Yes and no," Mary Love answered. "An important part of the dream, as you know by now, was to live alone, to have solitude." She grinned broadly. "A nun has times of solitude, certainly, but mostly it's a life lived in community—a bigger community, even, than my family. I never got away from the responsibilities of that kind of life, and ironically, I found myself with a lot more children than I had to take care of at home. But by then I had grown up a little, and the dream had changed. My values had changed."

"So you don't regret entering the convent?"

"Heavens no, child. Sometimes we do the right thing for all the wrong reasons. And somehow, the Lord manages to sort it out and make it work." She chuckled. "If we have our eyes open to see the miracle, we find our dreams fulfilled in ways we could never have imagined."

"Someone else told me almost exactly the same thing," Brendan mused.

"And do you believe it?"

Brendan smiled. "I'm trying, Sister. I'm afraid my eyes have been shut for a long time. It takes a while to get them open and working again."

"So, now that you've got the final piece of your story, what are you going to do with it?"

Brendan set the bottle down on the table and clenched her hands in her lap. Since about halfway through Mary Love's story, an idea had been niggling at her. It might not work, but she had to take the chance. "I've been thinking about that. How would you feel about going back to North Carolina for a few weeks?"

The old woman's eyes flashed with interest. "North Carolina?"

Brendan nodded. "It would take a while to put it together, but I'd like to do more than just a personal interest story on the four of you. If I can convince my boss, I'd like to put together a whole hour's program—have all of you there, interview you on camera—"

"Like a Barbara Walters special?" Mary Love let out a cackling laugh. "That sounds like fun—as long as you don't ask probing questions about my romantic life." She gave Brendan an exaggerated wink and nodded. "They don't need me here. Count me in."

"Then you could get away?"

"I'm due for an extended retreat. I'll have to clear it with the Reverend Mother, of course, make sure it's all right with her. But she's a marshmallow. It shouldn't be a problem."

"Can you leave, say, on Monday? That's December 5. For about six or eight weeks."

"I'll check my Day-Timer." At Brendan's quizzical look, she grinned. "Just kidding. It should be fine. But where will I stay?"

"I'll take care of everything." Brendan smiled to herself. She would call, of course, but she had no doubt that Dee and Addie would be delighted for Mary Love to stay with them. Then she'd go back to Atlanta and bring Ellie up for the occasion. What a Christmas it would be, with the four of them reunited.

"All right, Monday, then. I'll make the arrangements." Brendan stood and gathered her equipment. "Thanks so much, Sister, for your time." She pointed toward the wheelchair. "Do you want me to take you back downstairs?"

"No, leave me here." The old nun waved an age-spotted hand. "I need some time to myself. You've given me a lot to think about."

Brendan nodded. She had some thinking of her own to do. "If you need me," she said, "I'll be staying at the Holiday Inn. I'll call you later and let you know our flight times."

She headed for the door, only to be arrested by the nun's voice: "One more thing, child."

Brendan turned back. "Yes, Sister?"

"I'll say prayer for you. Keep your eyes-open."

December 3, 1994

Brendan sat at the small table in the cramped hotel room, her laptop computer open and her tape recorder at her elbow. She had just finished transcribing the last of Mary Love's tapes, and she had a sketchy outline of the story all ready to fax to Ron Willard, but she didn't feel any sense of accomplishment.

For the past three days she hadn't set foot out of this room. The bed was a rumpled mess—a testimony to her sleepless nights—and a stack of dirty

There was more, so much more to this story that couldn't be communicated even in an hour's worth of film. It would be a great personal-interest piece, certainly. Ron was going to love it. This story would draw people in, compel them, the way she had been compelled at the outset of her research.

It wasn't just a story about four friends who, despite all odds, found each other again after sixty-five years. It was about
dreams
—the fulfillment of dreams, and the death of dreams. That was the common denominator, the factor that would make viewers identify with these women. Everybody had dreams, and most people, Brendan thought, never had the chance or took the risk to fulfill them. Failure was the great human leveler—the dreams that never came true. This story had everything—love, loss, pathos, fulfillment. And it raised one of the great universal questions of life:
What are your
dreams? And what are you willing to sacrifice to see them realized?
But there was something else—something that nagged at Brendan and wouldn't let her go. Something that kept her awake and then invaded her sleep when she finally fell exhausted into bed. Something that she didn't know how to address in the story—or in her own life.

It was the God factor.

Every one of these women—despite the disappointments and pain of their lives, despite the odd turns their paths had taken—acknowledged that even in the darkness, when they were unaware of it, God had somehow been at work in their lives. Letitia never married, but God gave her many children. Adora never became a star, but God brought great love and contentment into her life. Ellie never became a social worker, but God enabled her to make a difference in her world. And Mary Love—Sister Angelica voluntarily gave up fame and fortune, only to have God use her talent in a totally unexpected way.

None of these women had found their dreams, at least not in the way they had originally envisioned. And yet all of them had been given a great gift—the ability to see beyond the surface, to find significance and purpose in the calling placed on their lives.

This truth now stared Brendan squarely in the face, and her evasive maneuvers no longer worked. For years she had closed her mind and soul to the possibility of God because life hadn't turned out the way she expected. Her entire life—past, present, and future—had been defined by a single moment of disaster: the untimely deaths of her parents.

Yes, it was a horrible, senseless tragedy. But now, faced with the story that had consumed her attention for the past two months, Brendan was forced to realize that she wasn't the only person in the world who had faced tragedy and sorrow. What about Letitia, who had found her fathers body after he committed suicide? Or Adora, who had faced pregnancy out of wedlock and watched as her own father declared her dead? Or Ellie, who stood by helpless and trapped while her mother descended into madness? Yet none of them interpreted their sorrows as the result of the callous indifference of an uncaring God. On the contrary, they had discovered a loving God in the very midst of their struggles, a God who brought them out of the darkness into the light.

A phrase floated through Brendan's mind—the deathbed advice Ellie James had received from Hazel Dennison so many years ago:
The path is
before you, not behind. Don't give your future to the past.

Was it possible, she wondered, that some power beyond herself—God, perhaps—had brought her to this story for reasons she could never have imagined? You could call it chance, she guessed, doing the demolition story and finding the blue glass bottle. Just one of those quirky things that can't be explained. But she suspected that the four women who had become so important to her would call it something besides mere coincidence.

Brendan let her mind drift, and a series of images begin to rise to the surface. Seemingly unconnected events from her past began to take on a pattern. Her parents' deaths, which led to her living with Gram, which led to her becoming best friends with Vonnie Howells. It was Vonnie who had encouraged her to take journalism classes in college and to apply for the job at WLOS when Brendan didn't think she had a prayer of landing it. And it was ultimately the job at WLOS, and her dissatisfaction with the mundane daily grind, that had compelled her to explore the blue bottle story, where one piece of information led to another, and another, and another. Now the completion of the story had brought her full circle, face-to-face with herself—and with God.

Too many coincidences, she thought. If she had been tracking a story that had this many chance encounters, she would suspect a conspiracy—or at the very least, a plan.

But if there was a plan at work in her life, where was it leading her? She hadn't a clue. Yet for the first time in many years, she was willing to find out. Willing to explore the possibilities. Willing not to be in total control.

Keep your eyes—and your heart—open,
Mary Love had said.

It was wise advice. Advice that, at long last, Brendan Delaney just might follow.

47

WHAT SHALL I BRING HIM?

December 25, 1994

I
nside and out, Dee Lovell's big house was a fairyland of greenery and tiny white lights. In the corner of the library, a massive Christmas tree brushed its topmost branches against the high ceiling, and a golden angel with gossamer wings peered down over the scene.

The gifts had been opened. A first edition of
The Secret Garden
for Letitia, a rare publicity cel from
Gone with the Wind
for Adora. Ellie cradled in her lap an autographed copy of
Twenty Years at Hull House,
and Sister Angelica—who insisted upon being called Mary Love—gazed with wonder at a fine reproduction of Giotto's
St. Francis Feeding the Birds.

The aroma of turkey and dressing wafted in from the kitchen, and Brendan's stomach growled. It was a perfect day—just perfect—with a light snow sifting down, a fire blazing in the fireplace, and carols playing softly in the background.

Mary Love stood up, leaned on her walker, and cleared her throat. "Before we get caught up in the wonderful dinner I smell cooking in the other room, I want to take the opportunity to thank Brendan Delaney for everything she has done to make this day a reality." A murmur rippled through the room. "I know she didn't do this just for us—she has a report to do, and from everything I've heard, she's going to work us like pack mules in the next few weeks. But if it weren't for her, we wouldn't be together today."

Brendan gazed around at the now-familiar faces—women she hadn't even known existed at this time last year. She could hardly believe how dear they all seemed to her—like four grandmothers, all doting on her. And Dee, of course, who had become like a sister. For the first time since her grandmother died, she felt as if she truly had a family. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she bit her lip.

"Now, child, don't go blubbering all over the first editions," Mary Love scolded. "Besides, I want your undivided attention." She motioned to Dee, who went into the office off the library and returned with a large package wrapped in brown paper. "I've kept this for years," she said. "It was one of the first paintings I ever did, but I never showed it to anyone. And now I want you to have it, Brendan—not just from me, but from all of us."

She pulled the wrapping off and, when the framed portrait stood revealed, a gasp went around the room.

"It's called
Four Friends,"
Mary Love explained. "As you know, my life took some unexpected turns, but like all of us, I never forgot that Christmas Day so many years ago, when we met in Tish's attic and shared our dreams."