February 11,1995
Dreamers wasn't exactly an earth-shattering journalistic expose, a candidate for the Emmy nomination. But it held its early prime-time slot—just after the evening news—moderately well, generating a mild flurry of local interest.
"A sweet story," the Citizen-Times called it. "A tiny beacon of hope in a bad-news world."
Brendan, for her part, couldn't have cared less about the reviews. She was proud of the story—proud of the work she had done. For the first time in recent memory, she had produced a piece worthy of airing, a story that wouldn't be forgotten as soon as the closing credits rolled.
She pressed the pause button on the remote and chuckled to herself as Dwaine Bodine's face filled the screen. Ron Willard had pitched a fit when she told him she intended to use the gregarious demolition worker in the opening and closing scenes.
"You're going to let that redneck camera-hog get his fifteen seconds of fame in our film?" Ron shook his head in disbelief. "What's happened to you, Brendan? If I didn't know you better, I'd think you'd gone completely soft."
Brendan had done her best to contain her amusement, albeit unsuccessfully. "Dwaine's not a redneck," she had insisted. "He's a sweet guy, really. Just wants to help. And besides, he's the one who started this story in the first place, by finding the bottle and giving it to me. He's a crucial part of the whole plan."
"What plan? What are you talking about?"
"What I'm saying is that I want to show him a little appreciation," Brendan had said firmly "All right?"
"All right," Ron conceded. "It's your show. But try to keep a lid on him, will you?"
Dwaine, as it turned out, had been absolutely brilliant. Humble and self-effacing, he fairly emanated the kind of "aw-shucks," homespun philosophy Brendan was looking for. A common, uneducated person, but one whose dreams were every bit as valuable and important as the grand schemes of the educated and elite.
She pushed the play button, and Dwaine's boyish face came to life. "I found it up in the rafters, y'know?" he was saying. "It was a purty thing, that nice blue color. Thought it might make a real good souvenir for you, Miss Delaney." He grinned broadly into the camera. "Just goes to show that you never know what you're gonna find when you keep your eyes open."
Brendan clicked the television off and went into the next room. Everywhere she looked, boxes were piled up—some sealed and ready to go, some still open. She really ought to finish packing.
Tomorrow morning she was moving into the guest house behind Dee Loveil's big home in Hendersonville, and together they would begin work on the new book. The house on Town Mountain had sold in one day, along with a lot of the furniture and other possessions she had acquired over the years. It was time to scale back, to simplify, to streamline. Time to give herself to the new direction her path was taking. She wondered, briefly, if she would miss the old life.
Her laptop lay open on the desk, pulsing a blue light into the dimly lit room. She sat down, poised her fingers over the keypad, and began to type—a dedication for the book that was yet to be written:
To the Blue Bottle Club,
Letitia, Adora, Eleanor, and Mary Love,
whose faith, strength, and determination helped me discover my dreams.
An appropriate inscription, she thought, for the women whose lives had touched her own so deeply. They could never have imagined, on Christmas Day in 1929, that their dreams, their lives, would turn out to be a gift beyond price to a young woman who had not yet been born. But Someone Else knew—the One whose birth they celebrated that day, the One whose hand had guided the four of them through the years, even when they were not aware of the Presence.
Brendan gazed at the words on the screen. It wouldn't be easy, this new life she had chosen. No regular paychecks, no paid vacations, no insurance benefits, no expense account. But it was the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance to find out if she could really make it as a writer. And amid all the conflicting emotions—the fear, the exhilaration, the apprehension, the sense of adventure—Brendan Delaney knew that, no matter what the outcome, the dream itself was worth the risk.
It was all a gift. A frightening, uncertain, bewildering gift—but a gift, nevertheless.
"Thank you," she breathed into the darkness.
As she uttered the words, the fear began to dissipate, replaced by a warm infusion of something else. Peace. Assurance. Confidence. Not in herself, in her abilities, but in the One who had brought her to this place and time. She smiled, and then, almost instinctively, added one final line to the dedication:
And to Dwaine, whose profound insight taught me an important bit of wisdom:
"You never know what you're gonna find when you keep your eyes open."