The Blue Bottle Club (7 page)

That left Tish and Philip alone, pretty much ignored by the adults.

It had been an unseasonably warm week. Even in winter, the temperate mountains of North Carolina sometimes surprised folks with a gentle turn. On this particular Christmas Eve the temperature hovered in the low fifties and every star shone bright and distinct against a cloudless velvet sky

Philip took Letitia's hand and led her out onto the stone patio, away from the noise and clamor. Christmas carols drifted faintly on the breeze, and the conversations inside muted to a low hum. He took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders, then sat beside her on a wrought-iron bench.

"Tish," he said solemnly, "there's something I need to talk to you about."

She tried to shush the hammering of her heart. "All right, Philip."

"You realize, I suppose, that everybody says we were made for each other

Tish nodded.

"And everyone—your father included—assumes that we'll be getting married as soon as you're of age."

She wanted, at that moment, to throw herself into his arms and shout, "Yes! Yes, Philip, I will marry you!" But that wouldn't be proper. The gracious thing to do was wait, at least, for him to finish his proposal.

"Well, I'm not very comfortable with those kinds of assumptions," he went on hesitantly.

What was this? Was he going to reject her, right now, on Christmas Eve? Letitia's stomach clenched and she braced herself for the worst. She lowered her eyes and fought back tears, but when she raised her head again, he was smiling.

"I'd like to make it official, to go back in there and announce it to everyone." He reached in his pocket and drew out a small velvet box. "Letitia Cameron," he whispered, flipping the box open to reveal a huge diamond solitaire—at least a carat and a half, Tish thought. "Would you do me the honor of consenting to become my wife?"

A squeal of glee rose up in Tish's throat and pierced the night air—a noise that sounded, much to her dismay, exactly like her mother's banshee shriek. But Philip didn't seem to notice. He was still smiling, fumbling to put the ring on her hand, reaching to embrace her.

She leaned toward him, and their lips met in a kiss that was more passionate than proper.

"I take that as a yes?" he murmured into her hair.

"Yes, yes, YES!" she shouted.

"Then let's go tell our parents." He got up and extended a hand to help her to her feet. "We're going to have an incredible life together," he said as he wrapped his arm around her. "We'll have a big, beautiful house and lots of children. Your father and I will build the business together, and I'll be a partner, and—oh, Tish, it will be just wonderful."

Tish took a deep breath and steadied herself against his side. It was all happening, just the way she had planned. Just as she had dreamed.

6

NOT MY WILL

January 1, 1930

L
etitia Cameron awoke with a delicious feeling of well-being. She could vaguely remember dreaming about Philip, about a starlit night on the patio, and him proposing in a most romantic way.

Then she sat straight up, jerked her left hand from under the covers, and let out a squeal of delight. It was no dream! The proof was there, on her ring finger—a carat and a half of absolute brilliance, casting rainbow prisms around the room as it reflected the morning sun.

It was the first day of a new year, a new decade. And, for Tish, a whole new life.

Adora had mocked her a little for having no other dream than to marry Philip and live happily ever after. But Tish didn't care. She possessed everything a girl could want—a handsome fiance, a father who doted on her, a best friend who, despite her own wild dreams of becoming an actress, would support Tish and serve as her maid of honor, and a future that spread out before her with glittering promise.

Tish lay back under the quilt and sighed. It had been the perfect Christmas. Perfect. First Philip's proposal on Christmas Eve, then the gathering on Christmas Day, when she and her friends had committed their dreams to each other's keeping. Never mind Adora's ridicule; never mind Ellie's gloomy practicality about what
might
happen because of this stock market setback. Tish was seventeen and engaged; nothing could stand in the way of her happiness. Nothing.

Besides, Adora hadn't really meant to belittle Tish's dreams. And Ellie was just being . . . well, her usual pessimistic self. The fact was, Tish knew she could depend upon her friends. The ceremony in the attic had been like a blood bond, joining them as sisters forever. You fought with sisters, sometimes, but you always loved them.

In her mind's eye Letitia could see the blue bottle that held all those dreams, wedged high in the rafters amid the dust and cobwebs. It gave her a feeling of safety and security, as if she had committed her future into someone else's hands, someone who could be counted on to cherish and protect her.

Perhaps it was God, after all.

Tish didn't think much about God, if truth be told. She went to church, but mostly because her friends were there and Adora's father was the pastor. She had been baptized and confirmed, just like everybody else, and she figured that was enough religion to keep her on God's good side. Daddy gave a great deal of money to the church—there was even a plaque on the wall acknowledging his contributions for renovations when Downtown Presbyterian purchased the old cathedral from the Catholic diocese in 1924.

Letitia had only been a little girl when the Presbyterians moved into the huge old stone church, but she remembered her reaction the first time she had gone into the place. The renovations had not yet begun, and the sanctuary had been full of statues set into curved alcoves along the walls. Dark and cool, with huge stained-glass windows backlit by the sun.

She hadn't heard a word of the service that first Sunday; she had been too preoccupied with the unfamiliar sights and smells. The scent of old incense permeated the stone walls and wafted back an odor that made her eyes burn. All around, the statues stared down at her as if piercing through to the core of her young soul. And above the high marble altar, from the stained-glass window that dominated the sanctuary, the eyes of the crucified Christ scrutinized her every move. It was eerie and frightening, seeing that broken and bloody form hanging there on the cross. She didn't know how Mary Love stood it, week in and week out, being reminded of sin and suffering. Maybe that was why Catholics spent so much time in confession; every time they went to church, they had to look into those eyes.

Downtown Pres was different now. Thanks to her father's money, the statues had been removed, and at Christmas or Easter, poinsettias or lilies sat in the stone alcoves like bouquets on a gravestone. The dark confessional boxes in the back of the sanctuary—which had reminded Tish of big coffins stood on end—were also gone. The stained glass stayed; it was much too valuable to be replaced, so she still had to confront the face of Jesus every Sunday. But eventually she got used to it and hardly even noticed.

Now Tish thought of that face and remembered everything she had heard over the years about God's love and grace and about Jesus' sacrifice. She was getting older—for heaven's sake, she was almost a woman, engaged to be married. She would have to raise her children, when she had them, to believe
something.
Maybe it was time she thought about God a little more.

And what better time than on New Year's Day—the beginning of a new decade, the outset of a new life as a woman headed toward the ultimate fulfillment of womanhood? Tish smiled to herself and thought again of the blue bottle hidden in the attic. The cobalt glass reminded her of the dark sky behind Jesus' head in the crucifixion window.

"God," she whispered, "I guess you saw us in the attic when we shared our dreams—you know, me and Adora, Ellie and Mary Love. We didn't pray then, not really, so I'm going to pray now. If you're up there, would you watch over our dreams and help them come true?"

Her mind wandered back to the church, to the left side of the nave where another window depicted Jesus praying in the garden. She had always liked that one—the dark burgundy color of his robe, the iridescent light shining from heaven on his face. Snatches of Bible verses flitted through her mind, words that had lodged in her subconscious through sheer repetition. "Into thy hands I commit that blue bottle," she added, feeling pretty spiritual. "And not my will but thine be done."

Her prayer finished, Letitia clambered out of bed and pulled on the new quilted dressing gown her father had given her for Christmas. The scent of bacon wafted up to her from the kitchen, mingled with the aroma of fresh coffee. Mother was undoubtedly cooking up a fancy breakfast to celebrate the new year—fresh mushroom omelets, probably, with pancakes in the shape of stars and animals.

They could afford a cook, of course, but Mother wouldn't allow anyone else "messing in her kitchen." She did it all herself—meals for the family, birthday cakes and holiday pies, even the huge spreads of canapes and aspics and petits fours necessary for the parties Daddy put on for his clients. This little eccentricity of Mother's would have been another source of gossip among Asheville's high society—except that she was so good at it. Everyone raved over her cooking; it was the one contribution she could make to Daddy's success, and she did it brilliantly Now, if Tish could only make her understand the necessity of being a little classier, a little more reserved.

Letitia entered the kitchen and gave her mother an obligatory hug, then poured herself half a cup of coffee and sat down at the big oak table.

"Coffee?" Mother asked with a quizzical smile. "And when did you start drinking coffee, young lady?"

Tish shrugged. "I am not a child, Mother. I am a woman engaged to be married."

Mother set a platter of bacon on the table and kissed Letitia on the forehead. "Do forgive me, madam," she replied. "For a moment I thought you were my daughter."

Despite herself, Tish giggled. She poured milk into the cup and added three teaspoons of sugar, enough to dilute the bitterness and make the coffee palatable. To tell the truth, she didn't like the taste one bit, but if she intended to be treated like a woman, she had better learn to drink coffee like one. "Where's Daddy?"

"He got up early, I guess. He was gone when I woke up." Tish's mother frowned and shook her head. "If I live to be a hundred, I'll never understand how that man can sleep for three hours and be ready to go again."

"That's probably why he's so successful. I just hope Philip can keep up with him."

"Your young man will do just fine, dear. I'm sure of it."

Tish stared into her coffee cup and smiled. Mother really was a dear soul, always encouraging, always doing her best to make other people feel important and valuable. When it was just the two of them, when Mother wasn't surrounded by their aristocratic friends and putting her foot in her mouth, Tish could actually be proud of her. She was slim and attractive and devoted to her family; she just wasn't—well, elegant. Maybe now that Tish was engaged, she could approach her mother on a more equal basis, help her with her hairstyle and clothing choices, train her a bit in how to fit in. Or maybe Elbe's mother could take her under wing, teach her the finer points of social decorum. As much as Letitia despised the way Big Eleanor treated her daughter, the woman did possess a certain charm and grace. If only she could communicate the style without the snobbery. . . .

Tish's coffee had grown tepid, and she grimaced as she took a sip. It was worse cold than hot. She got up and dumped it in the sink, ignoring her mothers grin at her expense. "Do we have any orange juice?"

Mother nodded. "Fresh squeezed. I'll pour it for you. Go up to your father's study, will you, and tell him that breakfast is almost ready. We'll eat right here, in the kitchen."

As she passed the open doorway on her way to the stairs, Letitia cast a longing eye at the formal dining room. A brightly decorated Christmas tree—one of three in the big Victorian house—sat in the corner, and the mantel and windowsills were draped with greenery and ribbons. The Dorns, she was certain, would be having
their
New Year's breakfast in the dining room, served from silver platters by white-gloved attendants. Unless they were having company,
her
mother favored the kitchen, where she could talk to everybody while bustling about with her preparations. So gauche. Something had to be done about her, really. Especially if Tish expected to be welcomed into the circle frequented by Philip and his parents.

The door to her father's study was open a crack, and Tish knocked lightly, then stepped inside. The stained-glass banker's lamp on the desk burned, and every horizontal surface in the study was covered by piles of papers and files in disarray. The glass-domed stock ticker sat idle in the middle of the room, its narrow paper printout curling across the carpet like an impossibly long tail.

Daddy was nowhere to be seen.

He was probably in the library downstairs—a room designed for formal reception of his clients, but far too large and imposing for a working office. She backed out of the study, closed the door, and started toward the stairs again.

On the landing, however, something stopped her. A cold breeze, a draft that raised goose bumps on her arms, even through the warmth of her quilted robe. She turned and looked. The door to the attic stairs stood open, just a little. The musty smell that drifted down into the house tickled her nose, and she suppressed a sneeze.

Just like Daddy, she thought ruefully, to leave the door open and let all the heat out of the house. Honestly, sometimes that man got so preoccupied that he'd forget his own name. He kept his old records up there, in a tall filing cabinet against the far wall. She could almost see him rummaging through the drawers, then coming downstairs and leaving the door ajar.

Tish reached for the doorknob, then paused. Surely he hadn't found the blue bottle they had hidden up there on Christmas Day! She knew you couldn't see it unless you got up on a chair or trunk, but the very thought of her father discovering their secret and reading those papers sent a chill up her spine. There was nothing incriminating in what
she
had written, of course—Daddy already knew that she intended to marry Philip. But what about Adora's dreams? If he read how Adora intended to leave home and go to New York or Hollywood to become an actress, would he feel obliged to warn Pastor Archer of his daughter's plans? If he read Elbe's dreams of becoming a social worker, would he tell Big Eleanor, toward whom he had what he called a "fiduciary responsibility" so that she could nip Elbe's liberal notions in the bud?