Yes? What is it?"
Brendan's head snapped up as the door to Apartment 1-D jerked open. A broad, square woman in white towered over her, completely blocking the doorway. Her florid face pinched in an expression just shy of a snarl.
"If you're selling something, we're not buying."
"No, no, I'm not selling anything—" Brendan fumbled in her bag and handed over a business card. The woman took it gingerly between a thumb and forefinger and held it away from her as if it might be contaminated. "I'm Brendan Delaney, of television station WLOS," she stammered, pointing at the card.
The woman gave no ground. "So I see."
"This is Letitia Cameron's apartment?"
"What if it is?"
Brendan took a deep breath and met the narrowed gaze of the solid woman who stood before her. "Miss—" Her eyes focused on the small brass name tag pinned above the left pocket. Gertrude Klein, LPN. "Miss . . . Klein, is it?"
The woman nodded and said nothing.
"Miss Klein, as I said, I'm Brendan Delaney, and I'm here to talk with Letitia Cameron, if you don't mind."
The nurse raised one eyebrow "Miss Cameron is not available."
"This is very important to me," Brendan insisted.
"Miss Cameron's health is very important to me," the nurse countered. "And she will see no visitors."
Brendan took a step back. When Dorothy had told her—finally!—that Letitia Cameron was alive and within reach, Brendan had assumed that at least this first step of the journey would be a relatively easy one. But Dorothy hadn't mentioned the rather formidable presence of Frau Klein. Now Brendan felt as if she were facing down a snarling Doberman, trained to kill and eager to take a chunk out of anyone who took a step in its master's direction.
But she wasn't about to give up without a fight. If you couldn't out-maneuver a Doberman, at least you could outwit it. And Brendan had developed plenty of tricks, over the years, to get unwilling subjects to talk.
They stood there toe-to-toe, waiting to see who would make the first move. And suddenly it occurred to Brendan that the prayer she had uttered out of sheer desperation had, in its fashion, been answered. Letitia Cameron was alive. She wasn't willing to accept the idea that God necessarily had anything to do with it—she, after all, had been the one to find the obituary, follow the lead to Downtown Presbyterian and then to Many Mansions. But something had led her here—if not divine Providence, then instinct, or as Dorothy Foster had implied, destiny. Whatever the source, it was a good sign, and it bolstered her hope and courage. Now if she could just get her foot in the door.
She kept her eyes firmly fixed to Frau Klein's impenetrable gaze and sent up another experimental prayer for help and inspiration. "Miss Cameron will want to talk to me," she said with more confidence than she felt. "Please tell her I'm here."
At that moment a voice drifted out from the next room. "Gert? Who's at the door?"
Brendan's heart leaped, and she leaned forward to peer around the nurse's bulk. "Miss Cameron?" she called out.
Frau Klein shifted her weight to block Brendan's view and answered over her shoulder, "No one, ma'am. Just a reporter. I'll get rid of her."
Then, just as the nurse began to close the door, the inspiration came. Brendan reached into her bag, came up with the cobalt blue bottle, and held it up with a triumphant flourish. "Show her this," she demanded. "If she still dÒesn't want to talk to me, I'll leave."
"You must forgive Gert's lack of manners," Letitia Cameron said with a wan little smile. "She can be rather overprotective."
Brendan nodded and took a sip of coffee. "So I noticed."
She watched in silence as Letitia Cameron sat on the sofa, turning the blue bottle over and over in her trembling hands. The old woman wore a pale pink housedress and soft slippers, and her hair, an odd shade of bluish white, cascaded over her shoulders like foam from a waterfall. Her eyes, a faded gray-green, bore a lost, faraway expression, and between the eyebrows, a deep frown line made a permanent furrow in her brow
"Oh, dear. I must look a fright," she muttered. One spotted hand went to her neck, pushing the hair into place. "I just got up from my nap, and Gert hasn't had a chance to put my hair up."
"You look just fine," Brendan assured her.
The pale eyes fixed on Brendan's face. "What was your name again?"
"Brendan Delaney. I've come to talk with you about the bottle."
The faraway expression returned. "I remember this," she said, stroking the glass. "I remember it all so well. It must have been fifty years ago."
"Sixty-five."
"Ah. Time does pass, doesn't it? While you're not paying attention, while you're busy with other things, it just slips away. And then it's gone, and you can never get it back." She paused. "And who are you?"
Brendan cut a glance at Gert, who hovered at the bar in the kitchen. "Arteries," the nurse said curtly "Short-term memory loss. Some days she's pretty lucid, and other days—" She shrugged.
"But I've had a good day today, haven't I, Gert? Haven't I?" Letitia's voice went soft, like a child pleading for affirmation.
"Yes, honey, today was a good day."
"We had macaroni and cheese for lunch. I remember that."
"I know, honey, it's your favorite."
Brendan listened to this exchange and watched the obvious affection between the two women. "Do you think you could talk to me, tell me about the bottle, and about your friends?" she asked gently.
"The bottle? Oh, yes, the bottle." An indignant expression washed over the old woman's countenance. "I'm old, child, but I'm not crazy. I might not remember lunch, but I remember 1930 like it was yesterday. I can never forget that, no matter how much I might try."
She looked up at Gert and nodded. "You go on to the grocery store. I'll be just fine. We'll sit here and have ourselves a little talk."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Brenda here will stay with me until you get back, won't you, Brenda?"
"Yes, ma'am." Brendan suppressed a smile.
Gert gathered up her purse and car keys. "I won't be long."
"You take your time, now," Letitia said. "Brenda and I have got lots to talk about, I think. And bring me some of those little cupcakes, please."
"I always do." Gert came over and kissed Letitia on the top of her head. "There's more coffee in the kitchen," she said to Brendan, "and cookies in the jar."
"We'll be all right." Brendan smiled up at Gert. Frau Klein wasn't so terrifying after all. The killer Doberman was just a puppy at heart.
When the front door closed gently behind Gert, Letitia settled back on the sofa. "I get so mad sometimes," she said, clenching her fists in frustration. "Some days everything is so clear, like I was forty again. And other days—" She waved a hand in the air. "Other days aren't so good." She sat up straight and fixed Brendan with an intense gaze. "Don't ever let anyone tell you it's a blessing to live a long life," she said fiercely. "It's a curse, old age—not what you forget, but what you're condemned to remember."
"And what," Brendan prodded gently, "do you remember?"
"I remember that bottle. I remember making a solemn promise. And I remember, every day, that I failed to keep that vow. It's my one regret in this life."
The old woman let out a heavy sigh. "Getting old wouldn't be so bad, I suppose, if it weren't for the loneliness. Except for Gert, bless her soul, I think I'd go mad." She shook her head, and an expression of deep sadness filled her rheumy green eyes. "The hearing fades and the eyesight dims, and the old body just won't obey any longer. But you can endure all of that with grace as long as you have friends." She pointed a shaky finger at the blue bottle. "Friends like that."
"Do you mind talking about it?" Brendan asked. "It's not my intention to cause you pain."
"Pain is a fact of life," the old woman muttered. "Besides, I'd think about it whether you were here or not. It's just when you showed up at my door with this bottle, everything came rushing back like a flood." She picked up the bottle from the coffee table and caressed it with arthritic fingers. "The house is gone, you say?"
"I'm afraid so. It was condemned by the city. I covered the story of the demolition."
Tears swam in her eyes. "It was a wonderful old house, full of memories."
"Yes, it was. A landmark. I was sorry to see it torn down."
"Some of the memories aren't so good," Letitia whispered. "But the memory of that day, that Christmas—" She smiled and closed her eyes.
Brendan reached into her bag and brought out her notebook, a small tape recorder, and the photocopies of the papers she had found in the blue bottle. "Would you like to read what you wrote and put in the bottle?"
Letitia shook her head. "I don't need to read it. I know it by heart, every word. I was seventeen that Christmas, and so sure of everything. Sure of the future. Sure of the man I was destined to marry." She let out a long sigh. "I, Letitia Randolph Cameron, on this twenty-fifth day of December, 1929, here set forth my dream for my life. ..."