The Blue Bottle Club (23 page)

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Grace stuck her head into the apartment. "You busy?"

"Come on in. Nick went right to sleep after his feeding, and I was just about to put him in his crib." Addie got up and went into the small bedroom, settled her son with his blanket and teddy bear, and returned to the living room.

"You're really taking to this motherhood thing," Grace said with a smile.

"Do you think so?" Addie sighed. "Sometimes I wonder. Nick is such a good baby, and I love him with all my heart." She paused. "I never knew I could feel this much love. But I'm not sure it's enough. A child needs more than that. . . doesn't he?"

"More than love?" Grace frowned in thought. "I don't know. Seems to me love is the most important thing a person can have in life."

"But more than just—well, a mother. Doesn't a child—especially a boy—need a father too?"

"You're wanting to get married?"

Addie let out a cynical little laugh. "Be serious, Grace. Who would want to be saddled with me—an unmarried mother with a six-month-old son?"

"Surely you're not thinking of giving him up for adoption?"

A shock of pain knifed through Addie, and she closed her eyes against the thought. "I've wondered if it might be the best thing for him. But I couldn't do it—not now."

"That's a relief." Grace leaned forward and took Addie's hand. "You know I love you—both of you—like my own, don't you?"

"Of course I know that. You've been so good to me—to us. But I was thinking that maybe I should, well, at least let my parents know that they have a grandson. I've tried to avoid it, Grace, but the idea won't go away It's like—"

"Like God is telling you something?"

"Yes." Addie chuckled and shook her head. "Can you imagine me saying such a thing a year ago?"

"You've changed," Grace said simply. "You've let God into your life, and now you can't ignore the urgings of the Spirit in your heart."

"I guess not. Do you suppose it means that my parents have changed too? That they—especially Dad—would be willing for me to come home with my baby?"

"I don't know." An expression of pain and resignation washed over Grace's face, and she averted her eyes. "I don't want you to leave, of course. I'd miss you something awful. But you have to follow your own heart, and far be it from me to stand in the way of what God's doing." She raised her head, and Addie saw the unshed tears that threatened to overflow. "The Lord's got purposes we can't fathom," she went on. "The same hand that brought you here might lead you away again. But you probably won't know the purpose until you've been obedient to what God's telling you to do."

Grace stood up and laid a hand on Addie's head. The simple touch communicated a depth of love that shook Addie to her roots. It felt as if all the love in Grace's heart, all her commitment to God, all her strength and compassion, flowed through her fingertips and into Addie's body. It was a silent blessing, a benediction.

"I'll leave you to your letter," she said at last. She leaned over, kissed Addie on the cheek, and was gone.

June 17, 1932

Addie was just finishing cleaning up after the lunch rush when the letter came.

It was a plain envelope, addressed to Addie in care of Grace Duncan's Hometown Cafe. No return address. But Addie knew where it had come from. She would recognize her mother's handwriting anywhere.

She sank down in a chair, trembling, holding the unopened envelope in one hand. For two weeks after she had mailed her letter, she had eagerly awaited a response. But as the days dragged on with no word from home, her hope flagged. And now that the long-awaited letter had finally arrived, she found herself unaccountably agitated. This letter held her future in the balance.

Grace came out of the kitchen and sat down beside her. She didn't need an explanation—one glance at the envelope in Addie's hand was sufficient.

"From your folks?"

Addie nodded. "From Mama, actually." She turned toward Grace and frowned. "It's odd, you know. Mama always supported Daddy, always agreed with him. I never once felt any sense of approval or encouragement from her. But the few letters I've received since I've been in Hollywood were from her. Not both of them. Her. She even sent me money a time or two."

Grace nodded. "I've seen all kinds of mother-daughter relationships in my time. Some of them good. Some of them not so good. None of them perfect, the way people would like to make you think. But during difficult times, even the worst mother usually stands up for her children. Think about Nick. What if he grew up and made some decisions you didn't think were very wise?"

Addie smiled. "He would never do that, of course. He's going to be the sweetest, kindest, most intelligent, wisest young man the world has ever seen."

"Certainly. But what if he made some choice that you didn't like?"

"I would do my best to trust him, naturally. And to support him. And no matter what, to make sure he knew I loved him."

"Maybe that's what your mother is doing, even though she doesn't know quite how."

"Oh, I hope so." Addie looked from Grace's face to the envelope she held in her hand. "But what if this is bad news?"

"Then you'll deal with it, just like you always have." Grace gave a resolute little nod. "Are you going to open it?"

Addie heaved a deep sigh, picked up a knife from the table, and slit the envelope. She pulled out the contents—a single page bearing a rumpled newspaper clipping. And across the top, three words: I'
m sorry. Mama.

For a minute Addie couldn't speak as she scanned the contents of the article. Then she began to weep, huge hot tears of disappointment and despair. Grace waited, patting her arm and stroking her fingers. When she finally got control of herself, Addie handed the paper over. "It's worse than I thought."

Grace looked, but said nothing. At last, without a word, she laid the article on the table and put her arms around Addie.

Addie leaned into the embrace and gave a shuddering sigh. And over Grace's shoulder, the words from the newspaper clipping jumped out at her, mocking her, tormenting her wounded soul:

LOCAL PASTOR'S DAUGHTER DIES

Adora Archer, daughter of Reverend Charles Archer of Downtown Presbyterian Church, died last week from complications of influenza. Miss Archer, a university student, was taken ill with the disease two weeks ago. A memorial service will be held at Downtown Presbyterian on Saturday, June 25, at 2:00 P.M. The family requests no flowers.

June 25 was Addie's twentieth birthday.

June 25, 1932

The sanctuary of Downtown Presbyterian seemed different to Addie—dark and cloying and claustrophobic. She had waited in the alley around the corner until a little after two, then slipped in unnoticed to stand at the back of the nave and watch her own memorial service.

Addie didn't know why she was here—only that she had to come, to witness it for herself. Unless she saw her own father standing in his pulpit delivering his daughter's eulogy, she would never be able to believe him capable of such outright deception.

But oh, was he capable! He stood tall and erect, in a dark suit—without his holy robes—and intoned in a somber voice what a wonderful girl his daughter had been and how much everyone would miss her. "You all know," he said with a catch in his voice, "that after graduation, Adora left Asheville to pursue her education up east. She never returned to her family—with the expenses of her education there wasn't money to bring her all the way home for a visit. And that is my sole regret, not seeing my beloved daughter before she died."

But the influenza had taken hold quickly, he continued, and before they knew it, she was gone.

He droned on about Adora's brief but significant time on earth, how today was her birthday, and the angels in heaven were welcoming her to a feast in her honor. How even though her life had been tragically cut short, she had gone to a new home and a better place and would always be remembered in their hearts.

Addie tuned him out and let her gaze wander around the sanctuary Alice and Stuart Dorn were there, flanked by Philip and Marcella. Her mother sat in the front row with her head down and her shoulders shaking, not meeting her husband's eyes. But Tish and Mavis Cameron were nowhere to be found, nor were Big Eleanor and Ellie James, or Mary Love Buchanan. Did they even know about the memorial service? Or had her father kept it completely quiet, burying the notice on page 32 of the newspaper?

Nick stirred in her arms, and she smoothed a hand over his velvety head. This should have been the great reunion, the chance for Mama and Daddy to get their first look at their beautiful grandson—a day of celebration and excitement. But there was no fatted calf for this Prodigal. No feast, no dance, no father waiting on the road to welcome and forgive. Only the declaration that Adora Archer was dead.

Well, she would stay dead. She would get back on the train and return to California, to the surrogate mother who loved and wanted her. She would raise her son in oblivion, never letting him know what kind of man his grandfather was. She would do what she had to do.

As Addie turned to leave, a ray of sunlight pierced through the sanctuary, illuminating one of the stained-glass windows left from the days when Downtown Presbyterian had been a cathedral. Her eyes went to the depiction of another unwed mother—Mary, dressed in a blue gown, holding the infant Christ. She wondered idly what her father would have done if Mary had been his daughter. Probably the same thing—turned his back on her and the Jesus he claimed to serve and left them alone to fend for themselves.

And a sword will pierce her heart. . .

An involuntary shudder ran up Addie's spine. The prophecy, spoken to Mary during the first few days of Jesus' life, seemed to apply to Addie as well. Watching her own father conduct her funeral service was a blade to the soul unlike any she could have ever imagined. And only God knew what further swords awaited her in the future.

She looked back at the stained-glass portrait of Mary and Jesus one last time. The woman, younger than herself, had already been told that the sword would pierce her heart. And yet she bore an unaccountable serenity, a peace that did not rest in circumstance, a hope that looked beyond tomorrow.

Of course. She held Christ next to her heart. Immanuel was with her.

An image rose to Addie's mind—the beloved countenance of Grace Duncan, with her wild red hair and coarse features, whose hard shell covered a tender and compassionate heart. Grace had helped her understand Immanuel, God With Us—not as a doctrine to be adopted, but as a Lord to be worshiped and adored.

She gave a solemn nod in Mary's direction and snuggled little Nick closer against her breast.

Immanuel was with Addie Lovell too.

No matter what tomorrow might bring.

23

ADORA'S DREAM

A
nd so," Addie finished, "I went back to California. Once or twice over the years I considered coming home. But by then Grace was ill, Nick had gotten married, and I had taken over the restaurant." She shrugged. "Besides, my family was all in California. I wasn't about to leave then, not when my first grandchild was just getting ready to start school."

Dee looked up, and Brendan could see the tears in her eyes. "That was me," she explained. "Daddy went into the restaurant business while he was still in college."

Addie nodded. "When Grace passed away, she left the cafe to Nick. He's done quite well for himself too—established a whole chain of restaurants all over the West Coast."

Brendan put a new tape into the recorder—her fourth—and motioned for Addie to continue.

"There's not much more to tell. I still wanted to act—did bit parts now and then, and a few television commercials when they needed a really old lady to sell biscuits or maple syrup."

"Granmaddie! You were never
that
old."

"Well, I felt old. But my biggest acting job was the role I played for years, never letting anyone know—not even your father, Cordelia—what had really happened in those days." She paused and blinked back tears. "I'm sorry, child. I never meant to deceive you. I just, well—"