November 1, 1940
Ellie awoke with a start to find Mount Pisgah sitting squarely on her abdomen blinking at her with that inscrutable cat stare. The whole bed vibrated as the beast's purr sent tremors, like aftershocks from an earthquake, through Ellie's midsection and down into her hips.
"All right, all right. I'm getting up."
Pisgah stood and began to knead her paws on Ellie's stomach, then moved up, lay across Ellie's chest, and rubbed her whiskers under Ellie's chin. Despite her irritation at being awakened so early—not to mention the discomfort of having a twenty-three-pound feline anchoring her to the mattress—Ellie smiled. Pisgah was, she had to admit, a godsend. A companion who loved her, accepted her, brought her affection and joy, and even a mouse or two now and then.
Ellie could have done without the sacrificial offerings, but you couldn't change a cat's nature, and Pisgah meant well. She always seemed so proud when she laid her kill on the mat outside the door. The first time Pisgah had brought such a gift to Ellie's feet, Ellie had screamed and hurled the dead thing as far as she could fling it into the woods. But the cat hadn't understood; her tail went limp and she had spent the rest of the day yowling morosely every time Ellie came into view.
And so Ellie had steeled herself to the reality of discovering Pisgah's trophies at the doorstep of the little cottage. Clearly, this had been a common occurrence when Rome had lived there; he had simply declined to give Ellie the gory details at breakfast every morning.
Rome.
Ellie still thought about him, wondered where he was and how he was faring, but it had been over two months since he had left, and the pain was gradually dissipating. At first she had thought it would be impossible to take up residence in the cottage he had so recently inhabited, but Ellie discovered that it wasn't difficult at all.
When Catherine Starr had brought her an offer on the house, back in September, the deal included accommodations for Ellie in the little stone cottage. Once the papers had been signed, Catherine had set her own workers to expanding the one-room cottage, adding on a nice bathroom and a small kitchen, as well as a separate bedroom. By the time the renovations were completed, the cottage had been transformed, and Ellie was thoroughly delighted with the results.
Catherine, it seemed, was equally pleased with her part of the bargain. Eleanor James's house had originally been built both as a society showplace and as a home designed to accommodate guests. The downstairs, with its spacious parlors, enormous formal dining room, and ample kitchen, provided more than adequate gathering space. Upstairs, the numerous bedrooms, sitting rooms, and suites had been adapted to the needs of the residents, and two of the large walk-in linen closets had been converted into additional bathrooms. Except for the removal of the back stairway to install an electric elevator, the main house remained pretty much unchanged—right down to the furniture, parlor rugs, and grand piano Catherine had purchased from Ellie in a separate arrangement.
Just enough change, Ellie thought, hut not too much. She still felt at home in the grand old house, but it no longer held the chill of emptiness.
Ellie nudged Pisgah off the bed and went into the tiny kitchen to make coffee. It was a glorious autumn morning, and when she opened the door to let Pisgah out, she looked across the yard to see Catherine Starr, in flannel pajamas three sizes too big, tossing old coffee grounds into the garden plot. Catherine waved and smiled. "Come on over—the coffee's just about ready."
Ellie picked her way across dew-covered steppingstones to the back door and followed Catherine in. She sat at the table, watching in amazement as one of the wealthiest women in the Southeast puttered about the kitchen like an ordinary housewife, dressed in her late husband's castoff pajamas. "Sugar or cream?"
Ellie shook her head. "No, thanks. Just black, please."
Catherine set a mug of coffee in front of Ellie and settled in the chair across the table. "Better get it now. Rumors are that once we get into this war, we'll be facing rationing—sugar, meat, a lot of things we're used to having."
"Do you really think it'll come to that? War, I mean?"
"I don't know. The last one was supposed to be 'the war that ended all wars,' but apparently it didn't turn out the way people hoped."
Ellie sighed. "Life rarely does." She took a sip of her coffee and changed the subject. "So, are you getting all settled in?"
"Yes, and it's a good thing. The residents are being moved in on Monday. That gives us exactly three days to finish up. The contractor says the elevator will be operational by tomorrow afternoon. That's cutting it close, but—" She shrugged. "It'll all work out. Fortunately, this house was so perfect that we didn't have to do any major renovations. It's a gift from God, Ellie."
"And from you." Ellie regarded Catherine Starr with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. The woman had used her own funds to purchase the house and pay for the renovations. Her offer to Ellie had been more than generous—considerably more than the actual value of the house, and that didn't include the money she had spent to enlarge Ellie's cottage and put in new bathrooms and the elevator. But the biggest surprise of all was the fact that Catherine Starr actually intended to live here. She had claimed the library and adjoining music room as an office-bedroom suite for herself, and with the help of a resident nurse, who would take one of the upstairs bedrooms, would provide full-time care for the occupants of what was now called the Eleanor James Home for the Elderly.
Additional paid staff and volunteer helpers would come during the day, but responsibility for the entire venture rested upon the shoulders of Catherine Starr.
And broad shoulders they were too.
Maris Cameron had been right. The woman was a saint. She had given herself, heart and soul, to those who needed a helping hand. Ignoring the protests of her family and society friends, she had single-mindedly determined to use her wealth to do good, to make a place of comfort and security for people who had nowhere else to go. But she didn't just dole out money. She gave herself—her time, her energy, her attention, her love. And she expected nothing in return.
The odd thing was, Saint Catherine seemed to be completely oblivious to her own nobility. Simple and self-effacing, she appeared to accept the calling she had been given as a matter of course, not an opportunity for self-aggrandizement or personal glory. She wore humility like a second skin, taking no notice at all of the praise she elicited from those around her. She never explained herself, not in public, anyway. But Ellie knew, after just a few conversations with Catherine Starr, what motivated her to give herself as she did. She was one of those rare individuals who took seriously God's command to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, love the unlovable, and work for justice.
She didn't preach the gospel; she lived it. And in Catherine's case, living it meant emptying bedpans and changing linens and listening to the same stories day in and day out; sitting up all night with the sick, and helping the dying to let go of life and meet their Maker in peace and dignity.
Catherine's voice interrupted Ellie's reverie. "Deep in thought?" "What? Oh, sorry. I was just wondering what this place will be like when everybody gets moved in." Catherine grinned. "Sometimes it will be so rowdy that you'll be glad you have the cottage out back." She leaned forward and whispered, "They love to dance."
"Dance?"
"Oh, yes. Burgess Goudge—he's our oldest resident, at ninety-three—has just learned how to jitterbug. He's a corker, I'll tell you. Makes passes at all the 'young gals,' as he calls them. A 'young gal' to Burgess is any female under ninety. He loves the big bands—Benny Goodman, especially. We have to keep him out of the kitchen, or else he gets out all the pots and pans and plays drums along with Gene Krupa."
"Really?" Ellie shook her head. "I guess I figured the residents would be . . . well, rather sedate."
"Some are. But just because they're old and can't live on their own anymore doesn't mean they're finished." Catherine shrugged. "We do our best to keep them active, interested. One of the women, Frieda Hawthorne, was an artist—quite a good one too. She teaches watercolor classes twice a week. Hazel Dennison conducts poetry readings. And of course they like radio drama, especially The Shadow."
What would the past ten years have been like, Ellie wondered, if Mother had been exposed to watercolor classes or poetry readings? Rather than just sitting in a chair or lying in bed, dying by degrees, might she have found some reason to come out of the darkness and go on with life? Ellie had no way of knowing. But she did know, beyond any doubt, that Catherine Starr's faith, both in God and in the elderly people she served, was a beacon of light in that darkness.
"So," Catherine was saying, "are you adjusting to your little cottage?"
"There's not much adjusting to do," Ellie responded. "It's just right for me—much better than having this big old house to myself."
"And you think you'll stay a while?"
Ellie considered her answer. The money she had received from the sale of the house and furnishings was more than enough to pay for college. If she wanted, she could start in January, and perhaps someday fulfill that long-awaited dream of becoming a social worker. Months ago, she had told Tish that she had neither the funds nor the energy to start over. Now she had the money, and her energy and optimism were beginning to return. But something else held her back, something she didn't quite understand.
The fact was, although she wouldn't admit it openly, she wondered if God was telling her to stay put.
There were a lot of rational reasons for the feeling, of course, reasons that had nothing to do with hearing God's voice. Ellie had been through a great deal of change in the past months—the death of her mother, the loss of Rome and her hopes for marriage, the sale of her house—and everybody said you shouldn't make major life decisions during a time of extreme grief or emotional turmoil. In addition, she had become increasingly attached to East Asheville Methodist Church and its little congregation of enthusiastic believers. For the first time in years, she was experiencing a sense of belonging, a realization that she was loved and accepted for herself, rather than for what she could do for others. She had found a family, and she wasn't ready to let go of that, even to follow her dreams.
And then there was Catherine.
Catherine Starr was the kind of woman Ellie always dreamed she would become. Catherine, with her worn flannel pajamas and no-nonsense approach to her call from God. Catherine, who knew exactly what she was to do with her life. Secretly, Ellie hoped that Catherine might become her guide, might help her sort through her options and find her way to that same kind of self-confidence and assurance. A role model, perhaps. Or, at the very least, a friend.
Whatever part Catherine was to play in her life, Ellie knew instinctively that it was important. Important enough for her to stay where she was, to watch and listen and learn.
The answer she wanted to give to Catherine's question was, God has put you in my life for a reason, and I need to find out what it is.
But she didn't have the courage, yet, to be quite that honest. Instead, she said, "Well, I have no place else to go, so I guess I'll stay for a while."
Catherine's dark eyes probed Ellie's gaze. For a minute or two she kept silent, watching, waiting.
"I see," she murmured at last.
I see. Just two words, nothing more. But those two words left Ellie with the disconcerting conviction that Catherine Starr knew more than she was telling.