November 24, 1994
Brendan sat next to Dee Lovell and gazed around the massive oak dining table at the odd collection of guests gathered for the celebration. At the head of the table, Addie reigned resplendent in a flowing pantsuit of deep turquoise velvet with an enormous peacock feather adorning her platinum hair. To her right, subdued as Addie was bright, sat Letitia Cameron, clad in khaki slacks and a rag wool sweater, with Gertrude Klein, the ever-watchful Doberman, flanking her far side. Across the table, dear old Dorothy Foster beamed over them all as if she were solely responsible for this glad reunion.
"Quite a little family we have here, isn't it?" Dee whispered.
Brendan nodded, and unexpected tears stung at her eyes. Clearly, Dee included her in the "family" designation, as if she belonged. But despite the warm welcome she had received from everyone around the table, Brendan couldn't help feeling like an interloper, a fraud who had wormed her way into their hearts and lives under false pretenses.
Never had she felt so much an outsider as when they clasped hands and each woman around the table prayed, expressing the thankfulness in her heart. Addie and Letitia both offered tremulous gratitude for God's intervention in restoring their friendship. Gert and Dee gave thanks for the Lord's work on behalf of their loved ones, and Dorothy Foster thanked God for bringing Brendan into their lives and using her to accomplish the Almighty's purposes. When it came Brendan's turn, she hadn't the faintest idea what to say. Her heart was full, certainly, but filled with as much confusion and apprehension as thankfulness. She muttered something about being grateful for having friends to share this day with, and when she looked up, everyone was smiling at her as if they were privy to some inside joke she didn't get.
The truth was, Brendan was thankful for being invited to this gathering, and especially grateful for the way Dee went out of her way to make her feel included. But still she stood on the outside, looking in on a perspective of faith she couldn't fully understand.
These women—all of them—believed firmly that God had been at work in their lives for the past sixty-five years: leading them, guiding them, intervening to help them fulfill their dreams, or if not to fulfill them, at least to give them new and better futures than the ones they had envisioned for themselves. And just as surely, they believed that she, Brendan Delaney, self-confessed agnostic, was the instrument of the Almighty that had brought God's will to fulfillment in this reunion.
As dinner progressed, the old women chattered among themselves like geese on a riverbank, leaving Brendan and Dee to conversation of their own. Once she no longer felt as if she were on display as the Miraculous Hand of God, Brendan began to relax a little and actually started to enjoy herself.
For one thing, she truly liked Dee Lovell. The young woman was bright and intensely creative, with an amazingly incisive sense of humor. After their first meeting, Brendan had bought the novel, A Sense of Place, and read it in a single weekend. The words, the emotions of the book, gripped her. She felt as if she had been immersed in the depths of Cordelia Lovell's mind and heart and come out of the waters a new person.
The novel was the story of a career woman, just divorced after a painful and abusive marriage, who had a bright future ahead of her but did not feel as if she fit anywhere. The woman's struggle to find her place, a spiritual and emotional refuge for the healing of her soul, led her to purchase and renovate a run-down old Victorian house. Her labor to save the house from being condemned paralleled the renovations of her own heart, and by the end of the novel she had discovered herself and cultivated a "sense of place" that not only redeemed her, but brought peace and healing to those around her.
It had been a long, long time since Brendan had experienced that kind of connection—either with a book or with another person. But reading A Sense of Place left her with the satisfying feeling of looking down the darkened corridors of her own life and finding hope and light there and with conviction that she and Dee Lovell could be friends—good friends. For the first time in ages, Brendan admitted to herself that she needed such a friend. It was a moment of epiphany for her, and a moment of painful self-examination.
Brendan had never had the time or energy for close relationships. A few years back she had been engaged to a handsome anchorman whose lifestyle dovetailed perfectly with hers. She and Steve had so much in common, she told herself—both of them reporters, both able to understand the crazy schedules and incessant demands of the job. But in the end, the relationship turned out to be less about love and more about convenience. The job always came first, and they spent time with each other when nothing else pressed in to sidetrack them. When Steve received a job offer at Turner Broadcasting in Atlanta, there was no question that he would take it, no question that Brendan would stay behind at WLOS. They parted amiably, wishing each other good luck. Brendan hardly noticed when he was gone.
Now, for some reason she couldn't quite comprehend, Brendan had begun to feel the need for people in her life—not fans or coworkers, but people who cared about her for who she was, people who could fill the place of the family she had lost. When the invitation had come to share Thanksgiving with Dee and Addie and the others, she didn't hesitate to accept. And it wasn't for the sake of the story, either—it was for the sake of her soul.
The awareness of her need for others represented a significant change in Brendan Delaney's understanding of herself and, finally, she was able to admit it. She, like Dee's protagonist, desperately needed a sense of place. A sense of belonging. Following this story, meeting these people, witnessing these friendships had opened up a vacuum in her that she had denied for most of her adult life. Subconsciously she knew, even if she couldn't or wouldn't articulate it, that over the years she had gradually shut down—first with her parents' deaths and then with the loss of Gram.
An image swam to the surface of her consciousness, a picture of herself clad head to toe in heavy, shining armor, like a medieval knight. Arrows that flew in her direction bounced off, leaving her unharmed. But the same armor that defended her kept her from feeling the touch of people who drew close to her in love and friendship.
The price of protection was far too high. She had shielded herself against getting hurt, but what had she given up in the process?
Dee reached over and laid a hand on her arm, and Brendan jumped as if she had been burned with a live coal.
"Deep in thought?" Dee grinned at her.
"Something like that."
"Well, come back to earth. Granmaddie has an announcement to make."
Brendan looked to the head of the table, where Addie Lovell stood tapping a spoon on her water glass for attention. The peacock feather bobbed up and down as the old woman began to speak. "I want to welcome all of you," she said formally, "to our little Thanksgiving celebration. Thanks to Brendan Delaney, that sweet young thing, Tish and I have found each other after more than sixty years, and this time we're not losing touch again." She reached out a spotted hand and gripped Letitia's gnarled fingers. "In fact, my granddaughter and I have invited Tish and Gert to come and live with us here. After all these years, it's about time Letitia Cameron got out of that dismal apartment and into a place with a little elbow room."
Brendan turned to see Dee smiling broadly. "You're really doing this? Taking on another one?"
"They'll be so good for each other," Dee whispered. "And Gert can look after both of them when I have to travel."
"You're amazing," Brendan said.
Dee shrugged. "Not really. I just love Granmaddie and want her to be happy"
"And we have a surprise for Brendan too," Addie went on. She motioned to Letitia, who dug in her purse, came up with a rumpled envelope, and handed it over. "Tish received this in the mail yesterday." She passed it across to Brendan.
"What is it?"
"It's a birthday card to Tish from Ellie. From an address in Atlanta." She narrowed her eyes at Brendan. "If you're still interested in pursuing this story, that is."
Brendan's heart gave a little jump. The reporter in her began to salivate, like a bloodhound closing in on a scent. But it was more than a story now, more than just an obsession to reach the end of a fascinating search. It had become personal—a quest not just to find the four women and discover what had happened to their dreams, but to find herself and understand her own secret longings.
She stretched her hand across the table and took the envelope.
"You bet I am," she said. "I'll leave for Atlanta in the morning."
At noon the next day, Brendan pulled the 4Runner to a stop at the curb in a north Decatur suburb. It was a typical neighborhood from the 1940s or 50s—a tidy little row of brick houses, each with its own small fenced yard, single carport, and brick-bordered flower bed around a small front stoop. Number 305 looked pretty much like the rest of them, with the exception of a large Himalayan cat perched on the porch rail.
Across the street, an old man tottered to the curb supported by a walker, retrieved his mail, and waved a shaky hand in her direction. Brendan waved back. She wondered idly if he had lived here all his life and what he'd think if he knew that his neighbor, Eleanor James, was about to become part of the most fascinating story Brendan had ever imagined.
She locked the car and started up the walk, hefting her bag onto her shoulder, but had barely reached the steps when the door opened and a shadowed figure appeared behind the screen. Brendan shaded her eyes. "Eleanor? Eleanor James?"
The screen door opened, and the cat leaped off the rail and dashed inside. "I'm Eleanor."
Brendan regarded her. She had to be in her eighties, but she looked much younger—sixty or sixty-five, at the most. She was tall and slim and wore khaki slacks, a blue denim shirt with kittens embroidered on the pockets, and brown loafers. Her hair wasn't gray, exactly, but a faded blonde, cut short and brushed back from her temples. Her features—high cheekbones and wide brown eyes set in a heart-shaped face—retained if not beauty, at least elegance, unadorned by cosmetics. A web of wrinkles fanned out from the corners of her eyes, laugh lines that gave her a perpetual expression of merriment.
Eleanor ran a hand through her hair. "Forgive my appearance. I wasn't expecting company."
Brendan stepped onto the porch and held out her business card, and the woman scrutinized it for a minute before looking up again. "You're a reporter?" She chuckled and shook her head. "What would the Asheville TV people want with an old gal like me?"
Brendan smiled. "Actually, I'm here wearing two hats. I'm a reporter, yes, and I'm working on a story I hope you can help me with. But more importantly, I—well, I've come on behalf of some old friends of yours."
She reached into her bag and drew out the blue bottle. "Do you remember this?"
The woman extended a hand and took the bottle. "Dear heavens," she breathed. "I'd nearly forgotten." Her gaze locked on Brendan's face. "The others—?"
"Tish and Adora are alive and well and send their love," Brendan assured her. "I have yet to track down Mary Love Buchanan."
"Adora is alive?" Tears sprang to the old woman's eyes, and she let out a deep sigh. She blinked hard and peered at Brendan.
"And why, may I ask, are you 'tracking us down,' as you put it, after all these years?"
Brendan hesitated. She wasn't sure she could explain it, her compulsion to find out the end of the story. It had become more, much more, than an interesting profile, a diversion from the humdrum of daily news spots. Now it was more like a personal crusade, a quest to find answers to questions she hadn't even identified yet.
"When the Cameron House was demolished recently, one of the workmen found this bottle and gave it to me, and I discovered the papers inside. It started out as a news story—you know, a personal-interest piece—but it seems to have taken on a life of its own." Brendan paused, searching for words. "I really do need to talk with you, if you have the time. Not just for the story, but for myself."
Eleanor stepped aside and motioned for Brendan to enter. "Old folks like me have nothing left but time," she said with a light laugh. "Come on in; I was just fixing some lunch."
Brendan stepped into the tiny living room and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. The small space was crowded with furniture—a Victorian-era settee, marble-topped tables, an ancient oak pump organ, a set of glass-fronted barrister bookcases. Furnishings, she guessed, from the days when the Jameses owned their big home in Asheville's most prestigious neighborhood.
"The furniture doesn't fit in this little house, I know," Eleanor said as if reading her mind. "But I couldn't bear to part with it all." She snapped on a Tiffany lamp and gestured toward an open doorway. "Let's sit in the kitchen; it's more comfortable."
Brendan settled herself at a round oak pedestal table with huge claw feet and matching pressed-back chairs while Eleanor set out turkey sandwiches and tall glasses of iced tea. "Hope you don't mind Thanksgiving leftovers."
"Not at all. I love turkey." Brendan arranged her tape recorder and notepad on one side of the table, away from the food.
"I suppose I should have just gone to the center and had dinner with the others," Eleanor murmured, half to herself. "But it doesn't seem like Thanksgiving unless the house is full of all those good smells." She took a seat opposite Brendan. "Do you mind if I say grace?" Without waiting for an answer, she bowed her head and offered up a brief prayer of thanks. "I bought the smallest turkey I could find," she went on when she unclasped her hands, "but I guess I'll be eating leftovers until way past Christmas."
"Did you have Thanksgiving here . . . alone?" Brendan felt a pang of remorse as she recalled the large happy gathering in Dee Lovell's massive dining room. Eleanor could have been there with them—
Eleanor shook her head. "I had a few folks in—people from church who had no place else to go." She smiled. "Everybody keeps telling me I should get rid of this old house and move into the Assisted Living Center, where I could have my own apartment and access to help when I needed it. But it wouldn't be the same. I have friends there, but nobody really close. Not like—" She pointed to the blue bottle, which caught the autumn sunlight and glowed as if it had a life of its own. "Not like the friends I used to have."
"Can we eat and talk at the same time?" Brendan reached for the tape recorder. "I'm very eager to hear your story. All I know is what you wrote to put in the bottle—that you dreamed of becoming a social worker and helping those who couldn't help themselves."
"Like Jane Addams," Eleanor sighed. "You know about Jane Addams and Hull House?"
"A little," Brendan hedged. The fact was, she had done a good deal of research on the social services pioneer, but she'd rather hear Eleanor's perspective.
"I read Twenty Years at Hull House over and over when I was a girl," Eleanor went on. "She was my hero, my idol. Maybe because she stood for principles so completely opposite of the things my own mother valued." She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully "Life with Mother was very difficult. All she cared about was money and social status and the power and influence she could exert because of her wealth. I often felt like—what was the term Dr. Estes used? A misplaced zygote. As if I had somehow been set down in the wrong family."
Brendan held up a hand. "Wait a minute. You've read Women Who Run With the Wolves!" The bestseller was a favorite of hers, a book she read and reread, finding her own inner longings in the archetypes the author used to explain human behavior and relationships.
Eleanor grinned. "I'm old, Miss Delaney, not dead. My body may be too decrepit to do aerobics, but my mind hasn't given up on exercise."
Brendan felt a flush of shame creep up her cheeks. "Forgive me," she stammered. "I just don't often meet, ah, older women who would read a book like that."
"Or understand it?" Eleanor held up a bony forefinger and wagged it in Brendan's face. "Beware of stereotyping people, Miss Delaney You'd be surprised how much people my age understand."
Not anymore, Brendan thought, but she made a mental note to try to keep her foot out of her mouth for the duration of the interview. "So," she prompted, "you felt like a misfit in your own family?"
"I'm afraid so. Even as a small child, I disagreed with my mothers belief that money equaled worth, that poor people pretty much brought their poverty on themselves and deserved the misery they got. As I grew older, I felt increasingly out of place in my mother's social circles. Mary Love Buchanan was my best and dearest friend—you know about her, I assume?"
"A little. The eldest of eleven children, from a middle-class Catholic family."
Eleanor nodded. "Mother despised Mary Love, thought she was a very bad influence on me. Too common, you know. I endured her nasty comments about Catholics in general and Mary Love in particular—it didn't do any good to disagree with Mother overtly—but I always resented having to keep silent. Then Tish came up with the idea of sharing our dreams with each other, putting them in the bottle. It was a defining moment for me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I was sixteen. Writing out those dreams made me think about myself, about my life, about what I wanted for the future. Everything crystallized, and I was finally able to identify not just what I didn't want for my life—namely, to be like my mother—but what I did want. I wanted to make my life count for something, to mean more than a bank account or a place on the social register. I wanted to leave a legacy behind, like—"
"Like Jane Addams?"
"Yes. Like that." Eleanor pushed her plate aside and picked up the blue bottle. "I was very young and no doubt very naive," she sighed. "I didn't know, at sixteen, what kinds of things, terrible things, could get in the way of a young girl's dream. . . ."