May 5, 1934
Mary Love stood on the sidewalk and craned her neck, looking up and up and up. The buildings were so tall, rising so high that they threatened to scrape the sky. She clutched her gray wool coat, and a fleeting anxiety coursed through her veins. Was this what the Tower of Babel was like, that ancient monument to the pride of humankind?
The streets teemed with traffic, and everywhere she looked were crowds of people. The spring wind whipped through her stockings and stung at her legs. She felt naked and exposed in her civilian clothes and kept reaching into her pocket for her prayer book, but it was packed away in her suitcase at the hotel.
"Come on, honey—we don't have all day!"
A firm hand grabbed her by the elbow and hustled her into a waiting taxicab. Douglas Eliot squeezed in beside her. "New Morning Gallery, Forty-sixth Street," he told the cabbie, then turned to face Mary Love. "Now," he said briskly, "the gallery owners have seen your work and are extremely pleased." He exaggerated the word extremely and adjusted his pink silk ascot. Were all art people this flashy? Mary Love had no idea, but if Douglas Eliot was representative of the lot of them, she was in for a wild ride. Eliot talked with his hands, making grand gestures and calling everyone darling and honey.
"Most of the major critics will be there tonight," he went on. "Absolutely everyone who is anyone. Believe me, darling, they are going to adore you."
His hands flitted over her coat, adjusting her collar. "The exhibition is all set up. When we get there, if you see anything you want changed, just speak your mind."
"I'm sure it will be fine, Mr. Eliot."
"Call me Dougie, darling. Absolutely everyone does." He settled back in his seat. "Now, we'll have an hour or two at the gallery to meet everybody, check out the arrangements, schmooze a little."
"Schmooze?"
"You know, chitchat, play up to the owners, make everybody happy." Eliot peered at her. "You can do that, can't you?"
"I—I think so."
"Then we'll whip back to the hotel, give you a chance to change, and meet the owners at Chez Franzia for dinner. You do like French cuisine?"
"I have no idea," Mary Love said frankly.
Eliot let out a tittering laugh. "Oh, my dear, you are too much! You will captivate the entire city—you'll see!"
The taxi screeched to a halt, and Eliot jumped out. "Here we are." He pointed to a narrow stone building with a lavender door. "New Morning Gallery—the site of your imminent conquest."
Mary Love followed him into the building and up a flight of stairs into a wide, well-lit exhibition hall. A series of partial walls had been erected, forming a kind of maze, and as she walked through, every turn brought her face to face with her own work. She was amazed at the sheer volume and at the creative arrangement of her paintings. When the bishop had first come into her studio, nearly two years ago, she had only a few finished paintings to show him. Now the partitions were covered with oils and watercolors, and Mary Love felt as if she had fallen down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. Maybe she had become a real artist, after all.
The Madonna had been brought from the diocese office, as had the snow scene now called The Face of God. She gazed at the paintings as if someone else had done them—the peasant countenance of Sister Cecilia smiling benignly in her direction, and over on the far wall, Sister Terese laboring in the garden.
It seemed so long ago that she had stolen work time and given up sleep to do these frantic sketches, and now that they were transformed into oils, she felt awed, as if some divine Spirit had breathed into them a life of their own. She went to the Madonna and peered at the lower right-hand corner. Sure enough, there were her initials, tiny, almost invisibly worked into the grass at the figures feet: MLB. It was her painting, all right. On display in a big New York gallery!
Douglas Eliot stood in the corner talking animatedly to two men in dark business suits. He motioned her over. "Gentlemen, meet your star attraction, Mary Love Buchanan. Miss Buchanan, may I introduce Daniel DeVille and Patrick Langley, owners of the gallery."
She shook hands with the two men, and they continued talking with Eliot as if she were invisible.
"Great job, Doug," Daniel DeVille was saying. "This'll be a smash."
"Where on earth did you find her? In a nunnery, you say?" Langley chimed in.
"My priest at St. Pat's saw her work in the diocese office in Minnesota. When they told me she was a nun, I couldn't believe it."
"She doesn't look like a nun."
"She's a novice, actually," Eliot explained. "She hasn't taken final vows yet; that's why she's in street clothes."
"Well, can you put her in something a little less dowdy, then?" DeVille asked. "Maybe dab a little makeup on her? She's not bad looking, but that getup isn't likely to impress the critics."
Eliot cut a glance at Mary Love. "I'll take care of it."
Mary Love stood there, listening to them talk around her as if she were a commodity to be bartered on the trading floor. She was flattered, certainly, by their obvious respect for her work, but she was exhausted from her trip, and she didn't think she could stand much more of this speculation about how to make her look more presentable.
"Mr. Eliot?" she interrupted. "I don't think you need me here. If you don't mind, I'd like to go back to the hotel to rest before the showing tonight."
"Of course, darling, how boorish of me!" Eliot gushed. "I'll put you in a cab this minute." He escorted her to the street, flagged down a taxi, and opened the door. "Plaza Hotel," he told the driver, then turned back to Mary Love. "Get a good rest, and I'll pick you up at seven."
At six, Mary Love was just stepping out of the bath when a knock sounded on her door. She wrapped herself in the plush terrycloth robe provided by the Plaza—dazzling white, with a gold P emblazoned on the pocket—and went to the door.
"Who's there?" she called timidly.
"Delivery for Miss Buchanan," a crisp voice answered.
The moment Mary Love opened the door, a brisk bellman pushed past her carrying an enormous box. "What is this? I didn't order anything."
He looked at the delivery slip. "Delivered from Macy's. Compliments of Mr. Douglas Eliot, Esquire."
Mary Love opened the box and let out a gasp. It was a dress—the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. A floor-length black satin with long sleeves and a beaded bodice. Along with it there were black satin low-heeled pumps and, much to her embarrassment, silky black under-things.
She held up the dress, and the folds of black satin draped around her legs. "I can't possibly wear this."
The bellman surveyed her with a critical eye. "Looks to me like it will be a perfect fit."
Flustered at his attention, Mary Love thrust the dress back into the box. "All right. You can go now."
The bellman stood smiling at her with his hand extended, but didn't move a muscle. Mary Love stared at him, then finally figured out what he wanted. She reached out and shook his hand heartily. "Thank you very much."
The smile vanished, and the bellman turned on his heel, nearly bumping into a large, frowsy-looking woman who had just come to the door.
"Miss Buchanan?" the woman said. "Mary Love Buchanan?"
Mary Love glanced at the clock and sighed. What now? It was almost six-fifteen, and if she didn't hurry, she wouldn't have a prayer of being ready when Douglas Eliot showed up at seven.
"I'm Flossie Forrester, the hotel hairdresser," the woman said with just a touch of pride. "I'm here to get you ready for your big night. Hair, makeup—the works."
Mary Love started to protest, then ran a hand through her short, damp hair. Even in her preconvent days, she had never been very adept at hairstyles. She had always looked a little—well, dowdy, as Mr. DeVille from the gallery had described her. When she had overheard him say that, it stung a little, but she had to admit it was the truth. And nuns, after all, did not give in to the sin of pride where fashion was concerned.
Still, this was an important night, not just for her, but for the gallery and for Douglas Eliot and for the diocese. She still had reservations about the dress, but she might as well give it a try. When in Rome . . .
"All right," she conceded. "I guess I could use some help. But nothing too flashy."
The woman tugged the padded stool away from the vanity. "Have a seat, hon. When I'm done with you, you won't recognize yourself." That's what I'm afraid of, Mary Love thought. But she sat down obediently, with her back to the mirror, while Flossie Forrester pulled out a curling iron, combs and brushes, boxes and bottles, and went to work.
At fifteen minutes before seven, Flossie declared herself finished. "You're gorgeous, hon. A real transformation. Take a look."
Cautìously, Mary Love swiveled around on the vanity seat and ventured a glance into the mirror. A stranger stared back at her—a young woman who might have been a more sophisticated cousin, perhaps. Her brown hair curved softly in short curls around her face; her aqua eyes had been accentuated with a sable-colored shadow, and her cheeks heightened with just a touch of rouge. It didn't look like her face—the plain, unadorned novices face surrounded by a white veil and wimple—but the effect was quite pleasing, in a worldly sort of way.
"Now, the dress." Flossie handed her the black undergarments and pointed toward the bathroom. "Put those on, then come back."
When Mary Love returned, clasping the white robe against her chest, Flossie was holding up the dress, shaking the wrinkles out of it.
"That dress will never fit me," Mary Love declared. "I'd better stick with my suit."
The suit was a puce-colored dress and jacket someone had donated to the convent's charity box for the poor, an outfit the word dowdy didn't begin to describe. It had seemed all right when Mary Love had chosen it from the charity box, but now that she was in New York, surrounded by a style of living totally unfamiliar to her, she realized how completely inadequate it was. "Just try it," Flossie urged.
Mary Love slipped the dress over her head and Flossie buttoned up the back. When she turned toward the mirror, she couldn't believe her eyes.
"It does fit," she hedged, "but I don't know—"
"It's perfect." Flossie fiddled with the hem as Mary Love stared at her reflection. She had always been pudgy with a round face and plump arms and legs. But somehow, without her realizing it, her body had transformed itself from the chubbiness of childhood into the sleek curves of a full-grown woman. The habit had hidden the metamorphosis. And, to be perfectly honest, Mary Love hadn't given a second thought to her body since she had entered the convent.
She pulled at the sparkling bodice, trying to bring it up in front a little. "Don't you think it's a little, ah, daring?"
Flossie let out a high-pitched laugh. "Daring? It's beautiful, it's chic, it's outrageously expensive. But daring? No."
"Then you don't think it's too revealing?"
"What could it possibly reveal?" Flossie countered. "The neckline doesn't show a thing, you've got those long sleeves, and the hemline goes all the way to the floor. Unless you're Queen Victoria, there's not much else that could be covered up. Honey you could be a nun in that dress."
Mary Love suppressed a smile. "It does look nice, doesn't it?"
"It looks stunning. What's the occasion?"
"The opening of my first show, at the New Morning Gallery."
"You're an artist?"
Mary Love nodded.
"Well, congratulations, honey. There aren't many women who can do that—make it in the art world, I mean. Knock 'em dead, sweetie—for all us working gals."
Flossie gathered up her supplies, and as she headed out the door, Mary Love thought, What a wonderful saint's countenance that woman's face would make.
"You look absolutely fabulous, darling," Douglas Eliot crooned as he steered Mary Love toward the refreshment table. "That dress is a knockout."
Mary Love assumed this to be a compliment, but she didn't respond. "Are all these people here to see my work?" she asked, looking around at the milling crowd. One man was taking notes on a small clipboard as he studied each of the paintings. Others simply pointed and commented. One gentleman in a clerical collar stood before the Madonna with his hands folded and a look of rapture on his face.
"Every single one of them," Eliot assured her. "By tomorrow morning you're going to be the toast of the city."
Mary Love wasn't sure being the toast of New York was exactly what she'd had in mind when she sat in Tish Cameron's chilly attic and placed her dream of being an artist in the blue glass bottle. She had never thought for a minute about becoming famous; all she had wanted—then, and now—was to be free to do the one thing she loved most.
Reverend Mother was right—God certainly did work in mysterious ways. Who would have thought that a lowly novice hidden away in a Minnesota convent would have her talent discovered and put on display in New York City? This was, she had to admit, the culmination of her dreams, the answer to prayers she hadn't even dreamed of praying. Still, something was missing. Something wasn't quite right.
"Smile, darling. Mix. Mingle. Let the people see you." Eliot squeezed her elbow and gave her a little push toward a crowd of people who were staring at her. "I've got some business to attend to. Ta-ta."
One of the women in the group stepped forward—an elegant-looking matron with upswept hair and enormous diamonds dangling from her earlobes. "Tell me, Miss Buchanan," she said, "what is your background? Where have you studied?"
"I—I haven't studied at all," Mary Love stammered. "Actually, I'm a novice."
"A novice!" A sandy-haired young man laughed. "Miss Buchanan, you may be untrained, but your work clearly shows monumental talent and great complexity. No false humility now. There's not an art critic here who would call you a novice."
Mary Love opened her mouth to explain, then thought better of it and kept silent. How could these cultured and sophisticated people understand the simple faith that inspired her work, the simple lifestyle that had engendered it? They expected her to be as cosmopolitan as they were. Tonight, she looked the part, but an expensive beaded dress and a pair of satin pumps couldn't change who she was on the inside.
"Miss Buchanan, may I speak with you?"
Mary Love turned to see the gentleman with the clerical collar standing next to her. Perhaps here was someone who could understand the spiritua significance of her art. Someone who would know what it meant to be inspired by a source beyond yourself.
"I'm Father Conroy." He held out a hand, but Mary Love just stared a him blankly. "Tim's friend—your Bishop Reilly?" he prompted. "I came to Minnesota to visit the diocese and saw your work."
At last the name connected, and Mary Love nodded. "Of course. You're the priest who sent for Douglas Eliot." She shook his hand. "The one who started all this."
He threw back his head and laughed. "Guilty as charged. I see that Doug has been doing some work on you personally as well as on this exhibition.
Mary Love looked down at the dress and ran a nervous hand over her hair. She felt a flush run up her neck and into her cheeks. "I guess I don't look much like a nun, do I?"
"Not even like a novice." His warm brown eyes crinkled with delight. "But don't worry. You look just fine. Very"—he groped for a word—"modest."
"Thank you, Father." She gripped her hands together. "I feel like a fish out of water."
"Well, you don't look out of place. And believe me, everyone is quite impressed with your talent."
"I'm glad—I think."
"Tim—Bishop Reilly—told me that you had some misgivings about your vocation. Do you think this might be why?" He waved a hand in the direction of the crowd. "You obviously have a bright future in the world of art, i you want it. And, if the prices I've heard are any indication, a rather lucra tive one."
Mary Love gaped at him. "You mean people are buying my paintings?"
"Except for the two that belong to the diocese and are not for sale, believe almost every piece in the exhibition has been bid on." He chuck led at her amazement. "When I walked by a few minutes ago, two women were haggling over the one of the little boy with the butterfly, trying to out bid each other. DeVille was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He stands to make thousands tonight, just on his commission."
"What do you mean, thousands?"
"Didn't Doug Eliot tell you that the gallery takes a ten percent commis sion on any sales?"
"Yes. But—"
"Miss Buchanan, let me make this very plain. Your paintings are selling for very high prices, particularly considering the fact that you're a newcomer to the art scene. These people are collectors, critics. They know what's good when they see it and what's likely to appreciate in the future. You will leave here tonight with enough money to support you for years."
"But why do I need it? When I return to the convent—"
"The larger question is, will you return to the convent? Unless I miss my guess, Bishop Reilly and your Mother Superior very wisely encouraged you to come to New York to find out whether or not that's what you really want."
Mary Love hesitated. "It's what—what I've thought I wanted."
"Then I would counsel you to consider your options carefully. There's nothing wrong or unspiritual about being successful. Besides, you may not have a convent to go back to."
Mary Love felt her heart lurch into her throat. "What are you talking about?"
Father Conroy scratched his head and looked away. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but it's something you need to know. When I was in Minnesota, Tim—Bishop Reilly—told me that the diocese is considering shutting down Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. Money is tight everywhere, and the church is going to have to make some sacrifices. Our Lady, even though it is a small convent, has become a drain on the diocese budget. A cloistered order simply doesn't pay its way. There's talk of transferring your Mother Superior to Florida and assigning the other nuns elsewhere."
"They can't do that!"
"They can, and they will. Your Reverend Mother wants to start a school where the nuns could teach, and that could eventually solve the financial problem. But the start-up costs are prohibitive; there's just not enough money to do it." He patted her on the shoulder. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Miss Buchanan, but I thought you should know. It might make a difference in your plans."
Mary Love's mind swirled with a hundred questions, but before she could ask even one of them, Douglas Eliot reappeared, preening in his tuxedo like a penguin. "This is fabulous!" he gushed. "Darling, I simply must speak with you. Father, you will excuse us, won't you?"
"Of course." Father Conroy tapped Eliot on the shoulder. "Bring her to Mass in the morning, Doug."
"I'll do that."
The priest backed away and Mary Love was left alone with Douglas Eliot.
"It's just the most marvelous showing ever," he said. "I expected it to go well, but darling, this is beyond my wildest dreams! People are fighting like junkyard dogs to see who can pay the most for your paintings. Now, we have to talk about your future."
He backed her into a secluded corner and lowered her into a chair. "Do you want something to eat? A drink? The champagne isn't exactly Dom Perignon, but it's not bad."
Mary Love shook her head. "No, thanks."
"All right, then, let's get down to cases. Your showing, my dear, has the potential of putting New Morning Gallery at the center of New York's artistic community. DeVille and Langley are in heaven. They want to know what else you have, or how quickly you can produce it. Anything you paint, they can sell. At a modest commission, of course."
"Of course."
"They want to set you up in a studio—overlooking Central Park, if you like. A nice big loft with fabulous light and lots of privacy. Anything you need."
Mary Love closed her eyes and tried to still the churning in her stomach. "You mean they want me to live here—in New York City?"
"Where else would you live?"
"At the convent, of course. I can do my paintings there, can't I? Wouldn't Mr. DeVille and Mr. Langley want them, no matter where I painted them?"
"Yes, but why in heavens name would you want to? This city is the hub of civilization, the most exciting place in the world for an artist—second only to Paris, perhaps. You wouldn't even have to go back to Minnesota at all. We can set it all up in a matter of a week or two, and in the meantime you can stay at the Plaza." He gripped her hands. "You'll adore it, darling—parties, night life, fantastic shopping. Anything your heart desires."
Mary Love looked beyond him, where the milling crowd was beginning to disperse. Past the shoulders of a tall fellow in a tuxedo, she could see the face of Sister Cecilia peering down at her from the wall. A little farther over, Adrianas countenance, captured in the Madonna, radiated with an ethereal glory. Their presence comforted her, brought a familiar warmth in the midst of this alien culture.
"I'll need some time to think about it," she said. "To pray."
A startled look crossed Douglas Eliot's face, as if he had forgotten that she would consider prayer part of the equation. "Certainly," he said at last. "Can you give me an answer tomorrow?"
Mary Love sighed. "Yes. Tomorrow." She smoothed her hands over the beaded satin of the dress. "Let me ask you one question, Mr. Eliot."
He drew up his face in a grimace. "Dougie. Not Mr. Eliot. Please."
"All right"—she forced the name out—"Dougie."
"Much better. Ask your question."
"Exactly how much money are we talking about?"
A gleam shot through Eliot's eyes. "Well, let's see. We've got, what—twenty-five or thirty paintings?"
"Twenty-eight. The Madonna and The Face of God belong to the diocese, remember?"
"Oh, yes. It's too bad too. Everybody wanted that Face of God thing." He shook his head. "So. Twenty-eight paintings. Just for a rough figure, I think we're averaging about ten thousand apiece—some less, of course, but some a good deal more."
"Twenty-eight thousand dollars?" Mary Love gasped.
"Math isn't your strong suit, I take it," Eliot quipped. "No, darling, not twenty-eight thousand. Two hundred eighty thousand, minus the gallery's ten percent." He gave her a sly wink. "And more where that came from."
"I—I don't know what to say"
Eliot grinned at her. "It makes a difference, does it, in your decision about your future?"
"Yes," Mary Love admitted. "It makes a big difference."
She stood in the dark overlooking the lights of Central Park. A misty rain was sifting down, coating the streets and walking paths with a glaze like sugar candy Above the trees, the moon hung suspended in a bank of clouds. The orb itself was invisible, but its rays pierced through, an angle of light, a path that stretched from heaven to earth.
Mary Love gazed, transfixed, at the tranquil scene. Her subconscious mind assimilated the details: the subtle colors, the slant of the moonbeams, the hidden face of the source of the illumination. But her consciousness focused on one wonder alone: that on a chilly, rain-soaked spring night, the Almighty was present in New York City.
As she watched the rain drift down, peace settled into the deep places of her soul. At last she understood her calling and vocation—how she could use her gift for the glory of the One who had given it. How she could fulfill those dreams, so long ago written out and hidden away in a blue glass bottle.
Prayer evaded her, but it didn't matter. As full as her heart was, words were unnecessary. Besides, she already had her answer.
Once more, in the silence, God had spoken.
Once more, Mary Love Buchanan had listened.