The Blue Bottle Club (47 page)

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.

45

THE GIFT

September 2, 1935

S
ister Angelica?" The voice drifted through the heavy oak door. "Sister Angelica? Its time to go."

Mary Love frowned at the interruption. This was a
convent,
for heavens sake, not a barnyard. Why couldn't people be just a little quieter when she was trying to work?

The voice came again, this time followed by an insistent rapping Suddenly Mary Love jumped to attention.
She
was Sister Angelica! Would she ever get used to that name?

Exactly twelve months ago she had stood in the chapel of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, received her black veil, and made her Temporary Profession—the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. It would be another two years before her final vows, when she would receive the wedding band that marked her as a perpetually professed Bride of Christ. But time no longer mattered. The true confirmation of her vocation had come that rainy May night in Manhattan. Not in a blaze of glory or a thundering affirmation from the sky, but in a still small voice, in that secret place in the heart where God can most often be heard. On that night, with the fulfillment of all her dreams spread out before her and a future of fame and fortune awaiting her, Mary Love had made her choice and knew it to be right.

"Angelica!"

"All right, all right, I'm coming." Mary Love opened the door.

The smiling face of Sister Jeanne greeted her, and Mary Love grinned in return. "Oh, it's you. Why didn't you just come in?"

"I didn't want to disturb you. Reverend Mother has made it very clear that you're not to be bothered."

"Great." Mary Love swung into step beside her. "Now I'm going to be treated with kid gloves."

"That's not what Reverend Mother intends, and you know it. But face facts, Sister Angelica. You are—"

"I know. I'm the convents greatest commodity"

"What you are," Sister Jeanne corrected, "is a gift. A gift to us, and to God, and to the children."

They stepped out the front door of the convent into a crisp autumn morning. Across the road, where once had been a vacant field full of burrs and thistle, a beautiful two-story stone building shone in the sunlight.

Mary Love and Jeanne joined the ranks of nuns who were making their way toward the crowd gathered around the door. When they reached the front sidewalk, Bishop Reilly, with a smiling Reverend Mother at his side, motioned for Mary Love to come forward. He raised his hand, and the murmuring subsided.

"This is a glorious day in the history of our diocese," he said. "A year ago, the convent of Our Lady was on the verge of being shut down. But today, thanks to Divine intervention in the person of our own Sister Angelica, Our Lady begins a new venture. A new life."

He pointed above the double doors, where a massive stone was engraved with the words:
See, and know . . . and understand... that the hand of the Lord
hath done this, and the Holy One of Israel hath created it. Isaiah 41:20.

Mary Love's eyes wandered to one side, where a group of children in little plaid uniforms looked on with wide eyes and slack jaws. So innocent, so open. Who among them, she wondered, would have the gift? Which one of them would enter the art room of this new school, pick up a paintbrush, and discover a lifelong passion and calling?

The bishop waved her to the front, and all eyes turned upon her. She went reluctantly, uncomfortable with being the focus of attention.

"God has worked in mysterious ways to bring us to this place," he said. "Sister Angelica is an accomplished artist, as most of you know by now. But rather than seek fame and fortune for herself, she has followed the call of God into a life of poverty, chastity and obedience. The proceeds from her paintings have made this new school possible, and future earnings will help to maintain it for many years to come. May the Lord bless you, Sister, and prosper your work."

Mary Love nodded her thanks and lowered her eyes.

"And now, on behalf of the diocese, I wish to make a presentation. Reverend Mother?"

The Mother Superior stepped forward.

"When she was only a postulant, Sister Angelica began a journey that was completely unknown—and, if truth be told, a bit unorthodox." A ripple of laughter coursed through the crowd, and the bishop continued. "But you, Reverend Mother, had the vision to encourage her and to allow her to find her own way. When I first saw Sister Angelicas paintings, I was overwhelmed with the vision this young woman had of God's presence in all things, and I purchased two of her early works on behalf of the diocese. At this time, we give back to the convent—and to the school—the magnificent painting that has come to be known as
The Face of God.

"That painting," the prelate went on, "is now hanging in the central hall-way of the school, where it will remain as a reminder to all of us that God does not always operate in the way we expect and that the Lord Christ is present in every aspect of our lives."

Amid a smattering of applause, Mary Love took the scissors he handed her, cut the ribbon, and threw open the doors. His Excellency then led the procession, offering blessings of consecration on the new building. The children shoved and jostled to get inside, dashing through the halls and squealing with excitement as they inspected their new surroundings.

One child, however, held back—a lean, wiry boy of about ten, with deep-set eyes and a shock of black hair falling over his face. He stood in the central hallway and stared up at the painting on the wall. Mary Love watched him as his eyes took in every detail, and one hand reached out longingly, as if he wanted to trace the contours with his finger.

Finally he looked at her. "Did you really paint this, Sister?"

Mary Love nodded. "Yes, I did."

"I didn't know nuns were allowed to do stuff like this."

She smiled at the child. "What's your name?"

"Francis. Francis Fabrini. Everybody calls me Frankie."

"Well, Frankie, I'll tell you the truth. I was a very rebellious postulant. "His head jerked up, his eyes round as saucers. "Really?"

She nodded. "Really. But God was gracious to me. And so was the Reverend Mother."

He grinned. "You mean you weren't supposed to paint, but you did it anyway?"

"Something like that."

His countenance grew somber and contemplative. "You know what, Sister? I think you're wrong. I think you
were
supposed to paint this. Just everybody didn't know it."

"Maybe you're right, Frankie."

"Can you teach me to do it?"

Mary Love hesitated. She had been through this discussion with Reverend Mother a hundred times during the construction of the school. All the other nuns would be teaching, but Reverend Mother had relieved her of that responsibility Her assignment was to paint, to create. The walls of her studio were already filled with sketches, and every three months or so that sweet, eccentric Douglas Eliot in New York called, clamoring for more paintings for the New Morning Gallery. She didn't have time to teach, Reverend Mother insisted. Not if she was going to get her work done.

Her mind drifted to that wild, confusing week in New York, when critics had hailed her and collectors had poured money into her lap, vying for the chance to own one of her paintings. The doors of opportunity had opened to her, and the world had been laid at her feet.

Then, at last, she had understood. The real challenge of life was not fulfilling one's dreams, but being willing to give them up for the sake of a greater call. God had not asked her to lay down her art—that was a Divine gift and would not be revoked. God had only asked her to lay down her pride.

Poor Dougie had been devastated at first, but it hadn't taken him long to begin making plans to capitalize on her anonymity, to make the most of her "mystique," as he called it. Mary Love could not have cared less about his promotional schemes. All that mattered was that she could return to the convent, knowing, finally, that when the time came, she could take her vows with integrity. She could follow in the footsteps of Christ and become an invisible servant. She could, forever, be Sister Angelica—not by default, but by design.

"Sister?" The boy's voice drew her out of her reverie, and she looked down to see him gazing up at her.

"I'm sorry, Frankie. What did you say?"

"I asked if you would teach me. To draw like that. To paint." He pointed at the snow scene, and his narrow little face held an expression of awe and wonder.

Mary Love knelt down beside him and took his hands. "Where do you think art comes from?" she asked.

He frowned for a minute, then his countenance cleared. "From God," he said firmly "And from in here." He laid a hand on his chest. "I think it's like a fire that needs to get out. Something burns inside. Like being hungry, but not for food."

Mary Love rocked back on her heels. "Yes, I'll teach you, Frankie." No matter what she had to do, she would convince Reverend Mother that a few hours a week wasn't much to sacrifice for a ten-year-old who already knew that creativity was an inner fire blown to flame by the breath of the Almighty.

A light came on in the boy's eyes. "Thank you, Sister. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Frankie."

He ran off down the hall to join his schoolmates, leaving Mary Love standing alone in front of the painting that had set her on this journey The hidden face in the woods stared back at her, with just the hint of a smile around the eyes.

Everyone had marveled at how much she was willing to sacrifice for the sake of her vocation, how much she had relinquished to be obedient to God. But no one could understand, unless they had done it themselves, that it wasn't a sacrifice at all. She had let go of her dreams, but in return, she had been given passion and fulfillment, vision and direction. Not to mention a little boy named Frankie, who felt the fire burning inside him.

All things considered, her so-called sacrifice was a bargain. And a very good bargain at that.