The Blue Bottle Club (46 page)

"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."