At three in the afternoon, Downtown Presbyterian was dim and quiet. Brendan stood at the end of the center aisle and looked down the long nave toward the altar, elevated on a three-foot dais. Behind the altar, an enormous stained-glass window depicted the Crucifixion, and with the afternoon sun slanting through the glass, the dark sky behind Jesus' head took on the same hue as the cobalt bottle that had brought her here.
Clearly, the building had originally belonged to the Catholics, not the Presbyterians. All along the sides of the nave, curved alcoves lined the stone walls—alcoves obviously intended for statues of saints. But when God had vanished, the saints had vacated the premises along with him. The alcoves sat empty now, like the hollowed-out eyes of a skull.
Brendan turned again and considered the crucifixion scene. The crown of thorns, the spikes through the hands and feet, the wound in the side, the deeply recessed, shadowed eyelids, closed against the pain. The corpus mocked her with its silent suffering. No matter what Gram had tried to teach her, she found no grace here, no hope, no purpose. What purpose could there be in such a brutal act of God?
All the old hostility came flooding back, rage she thought had long since been whipped into silence. She could feel her heart beating against her rib cage, hear her pulse pounding in her ears. And above the din, the whispered words, "May I help you?"
For all her anger and disappointment with God, Brendan never thought twice about the source of the question. She shook her head in fury. "It's too late for that. Long ago I needed your help, and where were you? You missed your chance."
"I beg your pardon?"
This time Brendan realized that the voice was coming from behind her, in the doorway to the narthex. All the blood rushed from her face and she turned to find herself facing a tall, rangy man with graying hair and watery hazel eyes.
"I'm sorry—I was—" Brendan stopped. "What did you say?"
"I asked if I might help you."
Brendan looked at him, then glanced over her shoulder at the empty cross. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath.
"It's all right," he said. "People often come in here to pray. If I'm disturbing you, I'll just go back to my office."
"I wasn't—" What could she say? That she wasn't praying? But she had been talking to God, hadn't she? Or at least to the shadow of the God who had made his exit from her life years ago. "Are you the pastor here?"
The man stepped forward. "Yes. I'm Ralph Stinson." He extended a hand, narrowing his eyes at her. "And you're Brendan Delaney, the TV reporter."
"I am. Thank you for recognizing me." Brendan relaxed a little. She was moving back into familiar territory now—the interview, where her natural composure and people skills served her well. "Actually, I came to speak to you."
"To me?" His eyebrows arched upward. "Well, I am flattered. Do come into my office."
He led the way down the hall into a spacious, book-lined room dominated by a large antique desk. Behind his leather chair, in an alcove of the bookcase, a computer screen saver scrolled a Bible verse in neon green across a darkened background: Ask, and you shall receive.
Brendan took the seat across from him and tried to position herself so that she couldn't see the computer screen. Holy e-mail, she mused. Wonder if God ever gets snarled in cyber-traffic on the information highway?
She collected her notes and looked at him. "Pastor Stinson—"
"Call me Ralph."
"All right then, Ralph. I'm doing a follow-up story on the demolition of Cameron House in Montford—"
"Yes, I saw that spot the other night. It was very good," he said. "I espe- daily liked the part where you compared the destruction of the house with the inevitability of death."
"Well, that wasn't exactly me," she hedged. "It was the neighbor. But that's not why I'm here. In doing follow-up research, I discovered that Randolph Cameron's funeral was held at this church, under the direction of a Pastor Charles Archer."
He frowned. "And this was when?"
"Early 1930. January."
"Well, of course, I wasn't the pastor then." He grinned and winked at her, as if Brendan should think this funny She smiled politely. He must be a riot in the pulpit.
"And to tell the truth, I haven't lived in this area all that long—only about three years. There was a Pastor Archer here in the thirties, I know that much, but I'm not much of an expert on this church's history"
For someone who "wasn't an expert," Pastor Ralph Stinson had plenty to say. He droned on about church growth and development, the new building program for the educational wing, and the rising costs of everything. He even asked if Brendan had a church home, gave her a fistful of literature, and invited her to worship with them. Not likely, Brendan thought, especially if his sermons are this long-winded. She had been here over an hour and gotten absolutely nothing she could use. This was a waste of time. She had no choice but to go back to the archives and try again. If she could ever get away from the loquacious Pastor Stinson, that is.
At last she interrupted as politely as she could. "I appreciate your valuable time, Ralph, but I should be going."
He rose from his chair and shook her hand. "Thanks for coming by. If I can ever be of further help, just let me know. Maybe you'd like to do a piece on the Asheville religious community? I could—"
"I'll keep that in mind." Brendan gathered her things and backed toward the door.
"Oh, by the way," Pastor Stinson said just as she was making good her escape. "I did think of one person who might be helpful to you."
Brendan turned.
"Our oldest member, Dorothy Foster. She's in her nineties and in a nursing home over in Chunn's Cove, but she's still sharp as a tack." He scribbled something on a Post-it note and extended it in Brendan's direction. "Here's the address. Dorothy loves visitors."
Brendan shuddered when she saw the name of the nursing home, Many Mansions Presbyterian Retirement Community. The place was a complex of condominiums, assisted-living apartments, and common areas, with a nursing home wing attached to the back—and not a single street of gold. If this place was a reflection of the many mansions of heaven, Brendan believed she'd better look for other accommodations. It reminded her more of a rabbit warren, although she supposed that "in my Father's house are many cubicles" lacked something in charm and elegance.
In one of the central common areas, Dorothy Foster sat in a wheelchair at a window overlooking an autumn-hued mountain. Her white hair was so thin on top that, from the back, the pink scalp showed through. When the old woman turned, Brendan saw a face seamed like folded parchment, with just a touch of pink rouge—the old kind that came in a tin, no doubt—applied in precise little circles on her cheeks. Dorothy smiled and extended a frail, spotted hand.
"Hello, dear," she said in a whispery voice. "Do sit down."
Brendan lowered herself into a creaky vinyl chair while Dorothy, still holding her hand, patted her fingers and smiled. "My name is Brendan Delaney, Mrs. Foster, and I've come to talk to you."
"That's nice, dear. I do so love to have a little company of an afternoon." She smiled broadly, and her teeth slipped a little. "You're a friend of my pastor?"
"Just an acquaintance, actually," Brendan corrected. "May I call you Dorothy?"
"Of course, dear."
The old woman went on patting Brendan's hand, and for a moment Brendan was twelve again, standing at her parents' graveside in the rain, feeling Gram stroke her fingers in a vain effort at consolation. She shook off the memory and squeezed the fragile hand gently. "Pastor Stinson suggested I come to see you. I'm doing research for a story about the Cameron family, who used to attend Downtown Presbyterian. Your pastor said you might remember them."
"I remember everybody," Dorothy whispered. "It's all I have left, my memories. Everything else—everyone else—is gone." Tears filled her rheumy blue eyes and she shook her head. "It's not natural, outliving your own children, you know. I'll be ninety-four my next birthday. Don't know why the Lord just doesn't go on and take me."
"So you were a member of Downtown Presbyterian during the thirties?"
Dorothy nodded. "Grew up there. Got married there. Baptized my babies there." She paused and swallowed hard. "Buried my husband and those same babies there too—although they weren't babies by the time they died."
Something in Brendan wanted to forget about time and the necessity of research and just let this dear old woman ramble about her past and the people she loved. But the reporter in her couldn't wait for Dorothy Foster to get around to telling her what she needed to know "Do you remember the Cameron family?"
"Nice folks," Dorothy murmured. "Mr. Cameron, he was some kind of financial wizard—worked in stocks, I think. Owned a big, beautiful Victorian mansion over on Montford Avenue. Real well off. Gave his share to the church too."
"And Pastor Archer, the one who conducted Mr. Cameron's funeral?"
"Archer," Dorothy repeated. "Yes, that's right. Had a daughter name of Dora, or something like that."
"Adora?"
Dorothy's eyes lit up. "That's it. Adora. Odd name, don't you think?"
"And she would have been a teenager in the early thirties."
"Yes." Dorothy frowned and looked into Brendan's eyes. "Why do you want to know about these folks who lived so long ago? They're all dead."
"All dead?" Brendan's heart sank. So much for answered prayer.
"Well, yes, child. Folks don't live forever, you know." She smiled wistfully. "Except for me. I guess the Lord doesn't want a dried-up old woman like me."
"I'd think the Lord would want you most of all," Brendan said. The sentiment felt foreign on her tongue, especially the words, the Lord, but she couldn't help herself. Dorothy Foster was an absolute delight, and if God didn't want her, then it was God's loss.
"You're very sweet, child," Dorothy murmured.
"Could you tell me more about them—the Camerons and the Archers?"
"Rumor was that Mr. Cameron killed himself after the stock market crash—you know about Black Friday and everything that followed it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I thought so. You seem like a smart girl." Dorothy resumed patting Brendan's hand. "You should see the kids who come in here visiting their grandparents and great-grandparents. Those children know nothing about their history. What do they teach them in school nowadays, anyway? Computer games?"
Brendan laughed and shook her head. "I have no idea, Dorothy. Now, about Randolph Cameron?"
"A couple of months after the crash, Mr. Cameron turned up dead. No explanations, just a quiet funeral. Mrs. Cameron lost everything—the big house, the money, everything. It was a real shame, although, let me tell you, they weren't the only folks hit hard by the Crash. She moved somewhere else—I don't recollect just where. Quit coming to church."
"And what about the Archers?"
"The pastor stayed on for a while. His girl—what was her name again?"
"Adora."
"Yes, Adora." Dorothy frowned as if trying to imprint the name upon her memory. "Adora left town a few months after graduation—went away to college, they said. But there was something funny about it."
"Funny? What do you mean, funny?"
"Well, for one thing nobody had money during the Depression, hardly even enough for food and a roof over their heads. The Archers lived in the church parsonage, of course, so they weren't out on the street. And even without much salary, the parishioners saw to it that they didn't go hungry. But money for college? No one had money for college." She paused and wiped a trembling hand over her eyes. "And then there was that other thing."
Brendan could see that the old woman was getting tired, but she pressed on. She had to. "What other thing?"
"The girl died. They announced it in church one Sunday and had a real quick memorial service. Died of the influenza, they said, and was buried up east, wherever it was she had gone for college."
"Is that so unusual?"
Dorothy smiled and nodded. "To lose a child? No, I'm afraid not. I out-lived two of them. But the uncommon thing was this: That man, that Pastor Archer, never shed a single tear that anyone could see. The wife grieved, grieved herself right into her own grave. But not him. And to my knowledge, no one ever talked about that child again. Never spoke her name. Maybe that's why I had such a hard time remembering it."
Brendan sat back in the vinyl chair and considered Dorothy Fosters words. The old woman was, as Ralph Stinson had indicated, sharp as a tack. She could remember the thirties like it was last night's news.
And Dorothy's memory had just brought Brendan's research to a brick wall.
The Camerons were gone. The Archers were gone. Most of Brendan's hope was gone. She had prayed one genuine prayer, and it had not been answered. Maybe some things never changed. Maybe this story was never intended to see the light of day.
Brendan glanced at her notebook and saw the four names listed there—four young girls whose dreams had probably died long before they had breathed their last breath. It was an exercise in futility, this story she had taken on so obsessively.
She retrieved her pen and drew a line firmly through the first two names on the list: Letitia Cameron and Adora Archer.
"What are you doing, dear?"
Brendan stood up and held the notebook where Dorothy could see it. "These are just my notes on the four girls I was trying to track down. I've crossed off Letitia and Adora. If they're dead, I can't very well interview them, now can I?"
"Letitia?"
"Letitia Cameron, the daughter."
"Tish Cameron is dead? When?"
"Well, I'm not sure." Was the old woman losing touch with reality? Brendan eyed her cautiously. "You told me she was dead."
"I told you no such thing. For a reporter, Miss Brendan Delaney, you don't listen very well. You never asked me about Tish Cameron—just about her daddy and about the Archers. Get your facts straight, dear."
Dorothy lifted a gnarled finger and pointed toward the east door. "Unless somethings happened since dinner last night, Letitia Cameron is alive and well and living in Apartment 1-D of the East Mansion."
Brendan sank back into the vinyl chair, reeling as if she had been struck by a left hook to the jaw. "She's alive? Here?"
"Of course. Some of us old Presbyterians don't die, honey. We just go on forever at Many Mansions."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Dorothy smiled broadly and adjusted her upper plate with an unsteady hand. "If I had told you right off, would you have spent all this time talking to me?"
Brendan narrowed her eyes at the old lady. "You're a sneak."
"Maybe so. But now that we know each other so well, you'll come back and visit me, won't you?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Brendan stood, gathered her notebook and bag, and gave Dorothy Foster a gentle kiss on her weathered cheek. "Thank you."
"You know," Dorothy murmured as Brendan started to leave, "maybe the Lord didn't forget about me, after all."
Brendan turned and leaned down over the wheelchair. "What do you mean?"
"Maybe he left me here just for you. So you could find Letitia—and whatever else you're looking for."
"Maybe." Brendan sighed.
"You have doubts about the purposes of God?" The old woman cocked her head to one side.
"You might say that, Dorothy. You might even say I don't believe in God anymore."
"That's all right, child," she murmured. "God still believes in you." She reached up and patted Brendan's cheek with a hand as soft as old flannel. "Go on now and find Letitia. Find your destiny."
The words—an odd parting, to be sure—dogged Brendan's steps as she made her way through the maze of sidewalks and finally stood at East Mansion, Apartment 1-D. She tried to push them out of her mind, but they echoed inside her like a haunting refrain:
Find Letitia. Find your destiny.
"It's only a story," she muttered under her breath as she stood on the tiny square stoop in front of Letitia Cameron's door. "Only a story, like a thousand other stories."
Why, then, could she not still the hammering of her heart?