The Blue Bottle Club (34 page)

Tears boiled up and coursed down her cheeks, and through glazed eyes she saw Hazel lift her head one final time.

"Trust, child," she whispered. "Let go of regret. Love. Forgive . . ."

Then she squeezed Ellie's hand, smiled, and closed her eyes forever.

Hazel Dennison's funeral, like her life, was a simple ceremony, unadorned by ritual but marked by great depth and faith. The little family from the Eleanor James Home for the Elderly, some in wheelchairs or leaning on walkers, gathered at the graveside to bid their final farewells.

Hazel's grave was only a stone's throw from the massive James headstone, under which Ellie's own parents lay, but she barely sent a glance in that direction. Her real kin were here, beside her, supporting her with love and understanding—almost as if she were the bereaved daughter.

All during the service, Hazel's parting words echoed in Ellie's mind.
Don't
give your future to the past. Don't look hack. Let go of regret. Love. Forgive.
Ellie couldn't shake the haunting sensation that Hazel had been trying to prepare her for something, to impart a wisdom for her to hold on to.

As the coffin was lowered into the grave and the little crowd began to disperse, Ellie felt an arm go around her shoulders and looked up through her tears to find Catherine standing close beside her. "You loved her a great deal, didn't you?"

Ellie nodded.

"Sometimes giving yourself to God's purposes bears a high price tag," Catherine said gently. "Love can hurt, so much that you wonder if it's worth it."

Fresh tears gathered in Ellie's throat so that she couldn't speak.

"But it
is
worth it," Catherine went on. "She loved you too, you know. Like you were her own."

"I know," Ellie said at last. "I only wish there was something I could have done—"

Catherine pulled her into a strong embrace. "There was something," she whispered into Ellie's ear. "And you did it. You loved her. Your presence made a big difference in her life."

"Are you sure?" Ellie sobbed. "It doesn't seem like enough."

Catherine leaned back and held Ellie at arm's length. "Love is always enough. It's the finest thing we can give to another. Love is God's hand in human flesh."

"But just loving feels so . . . so inadequate," Ellie said. "I always wanted my life to count, to be significant. I wanted to do something—something—" She shrugged, at a loss for words.

"Something important?" Catherine finished. "Your life
does
count, Ellie—only not in the way you envisioned when you were a teenager with big dreams. The significance happens one person at a time."

Catherine linked her arm through Ellie's and steered her away from the mourners, toward the tree-shaded hilltop above the cemetery. The memories of her own mother's funeral flooded over Ellie: the losses, the regrets. But today was different. No longer was she isolated, alone. Now she had love, a place of belonging. And she knew, perhaps for the first time in her life, that whatever the future held, she could face it without fear.

No regrets,
Hazel had said.
Only lessons to be learned.

Catherine pointed toward the grove of trees at the top of the hill. "There's someone here to see you."

Ellie looked. A tall figure stood in the shadow of the trees—a man wearing an army uniform and leaning heavily on a cane. He took a couple of limping steps forward, out of the shade into the spring sunshine. The light glinted off his sandy hair, and he raised his free hand in an uncertain wave.

Ellie shut her eyes and took in a shaky breath. Her mind resisted the truth, but her heart knew better:

Rome Tucker had returned.

32

PLAN B

C
atherine, I can't see him. Not now. Maybe not ever." In the kitchen of her tiny cottage, Ellie propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. She had thought she had exhausted all her tears at Hazel's bedside and at the funeral. But here they were, forming a knot in her throat again, threatening to overwhelm her once more.

This time not for the dying, but for the living.

Ellie felt Catherine's hand stroking her hair, and she looked up. "I can't do it. Not after all this time. Tell him to go away—please."

"If that's what you really want, I'll tell him," Catherine said evenly. "But before you make that decision, there are a few things you ought to know"

"Such as?"

"I spoke with him at some length. Ellie, he's been absolved of any responsibility for the fire or for his wife's death. The authorities hadn't really counted him as a viable suspect—until he ran away, that is. Only when he disappeared did they begin to question his motives." She looked into Ellie's eyes. "What he told you was the truth. When he lost everything, he just gave up. Began to drift."

"And what about the ring—his first wife's engagement ring?"

"The ring was his mother's, just as he said. The rest was just rumor."

Ellie exhaled a ragged sigh. "So why didn't he tell me all this? Why did he just leave?"

"He saw the expression in your eyes that day, Ellie. You were afraid of him. You didn't trust him."

"No, I didn't. I couldn't help it. And how can I trust him now?"

"A wise old woman I once knew defined trust as 'risk taken and survived.' You won't know for sure, Ellie, until you take the risk."

"But it's been so long, Catherine. Why didn't he contact me? Why didn't he let me know what was happening, where he was . . . something?"

"There's been a war on, remember? Except for ration books and scrap drives, we've pretty much been isolated from the reality of it. But Rome hasn't. By the time everything was settled—the fire was ultimately determined to be an accident, by the way, caused by a cracked stovepipe—Rome was called up for service. He didn't want to try to explain in a letter, he said, but before he had a chance to get back here, he was shipped out. Spent nearly a year on the front before getting wounded, then was in and out of hospitals getting his leg put back together."

Ellie averted her eyes from Catherine's penetrating gaze. "So you think I should just welcome him back with open arms because he's wearing a Purple Heart? My patriotic duty, is that it?"

"I think you have a duty, yes," Catherine replied in a low voice. "But not to Rome. To yourself. If you send him away without ever talking to him, you may live with that regret for the rest of your life."

Something jerked in Ellie's mind, a sharp pain, as if a probe had pricked a sensitive area of her brain. Live
without regret,
Hazel Dennison had told her. Love.
Forgive.

But how could she forgive someone who had abandoned her without explanation, a man who had professed his love for her and then left her in a heartbeat? She had almost gotten over him, almost begun to forget, and now . . .

"I'm not suggesting that you simply forgive him and pretend it never happened," Catherine went on as if she had read Ellie's thoughts. "But I do believe you owe it to him—and more importantly, to yourself—to give him a chance."

"He had his chance," Ellie snapped. "We don't get second chances in this life."

"Don't we?" Catherine smiled briefly and raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that what grace is all about—getting a second chance, even when you don't necessarily deserve it?"

Catherine's words sent a flush of shame coursing through Ellie's veins, and she felt heat rise up her neck and into her cheeks. Much as she despised admitting it, Catherine was right. Ellie had been given a second chance—an opportunity to make her life count for something, a miracle of hope in the midst of mind-numbing despair. When she had been at her lowest ebb, God had reached into her life and lifted her up on a tide of fresh challenges, new relationships, and an unaccustomed intimacy with the Almighty that had altered her life forever.

The Lord hadn't given up on her, even when she had been angry and bitter and completely hopeless. And she knew, with a sinking sense of inevitability, that she couldn't give up on Rome, either—at least not until she had heard him out.

"All right, you win," Ellie said at last. "I'll talk to him. But I'm not making any promises, understand."

Ellie wasn't quite sure what to expect as she followed Catherine into the front parlor, but what she saw certainly wasn't like any reunion she could have envisioned. Rome sat on the sofa, leaning back, his bad leg stretched out on a footstool, surrounded by most of the residents of the Eleanor James Home for the Elderly. Burgess Goudge had "Moonlight Serenade" playing full blast on the record player and was demonstrating his ability to dance like Fred Astaire, with his cane in one hand and a hatrack in the other. Mount Pisgah perched on Rome's chest, kneading his lapels and drooling on his medals. Frieda Hawthorne was squeezed in beside him, chattering about her most recent mountain panoramas and explaining watercolor technique in her high-pitched voice.

Burgess was the first to see Ellie. He abandoned the hatrack and swept her into his free arm for a dance. In the time it took them to make one circuit of the parlor, he had managed to croak into her ear, "Don't let this fella get away, honey. He's a winner."

When the music stopped, everyone, including Rome, was focused on Ellie. Frieda heaved herself off the sofa and tottered over to her. "Such a nice young man you have, child," she squealed happily, patting Ellie on the arm. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Rome pushed Pisgah to the floor, retrieved his cane, and tried to struggle to his feet. "Forgive me, Ellie, I—"

"Don't get up," she said, infusing her voice with as much iciness as she could muster. "I can see your attention is occupied."

"I was just getting to know some of your friends while I waited," he said smoothly. "And hoping you'd see me."

When he got up and began to walk toward her, his eyes locked on hers, Elbe's composure began to slip. His expression was so open, so hopeful, that despite her resolve to keep him at a distance, she felt drawn to him, as if she could see into his soul and witness the love that was still there. By the time he reached her, she was trembling.

"May I have this dance, Miss James?" He put out a hand and grinned. "It's been a long time since this old soldier has had the opportunity to dance with such a lovely lady."

Ellie's eyes went to the cane, to his twisted leg. "Is it all right? I mean, can you—?"

"I'm afraid I don't hold a candle to Burgess," he said with a wink as he tossed the cane onto the sofa. "But I can manage with a little help and support."

Burgess started the record player and the strains of Tommy Dorsey filled the parlor. "I'll
never smile again, until I smile at you. ..."

Ellie made a face at Burgess over Rome's shoulder, but the soothing music and romantic lyrics worked their way into her heart, and she found herself relaxing in his arms. His grip tightened around her waist and pulled her close, and his lips brushed against her ear as he whispered, "I've waited so long for this. Give me a chance, Ellie, and I'll explain everything."

"I'll
never love again, I'm so in love with you,"
the Dorsey singers crooned in the background.
Within my heart, I know I will never start to smile again
until I smile at you. ..."

When the song ended, wild applause broke out all around them. Frieda clasped her hands to her bosom and shrilled, "Oh, it's so romantic! Just like in the movies!" Ellie felt herself blush.

"Let's get out of here, okay?" Rome said softly.

She hesitated only for a minute. She hadn't wanted to be alone with him, but anything was better than this public display. "All right." She turned on her heel and made for the door, and, amid the laughter and applause, heard Rome's odd little step-scrape behind her.

Alone in Ellie's cottage, they both turned self-conscious. Ellie busied herself making coffee, and Rome wandered aimlessly through the rooms until he came full circle to the kitchen table.

"You've done a real nice job with this place."

"Correction.
Catherine
did a nice job. She had the additions done before I ever moved in here."