The Wishing Jar

  The

  WISHING

  Jar

  The

  WISHING

  Jar

  A Novel

  Penelope J. Stokes

  © 2002 Penelope J. Stokes.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  All poetry in The Wishing Jar is the original work of the author and may not be used without permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stokes, Penelope J.

  The wishing jar : a novel / by Penelope J. Stokes.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8499-1707-7 (hardcover)

  ISBN 0-8499-4466-X (trade paper)

  I. Title.

  PS3569. T6219 W57 2003

  813'.54—dc21

  2002153134

  Printed in the United States of America

  04 05 06 07 08 PHX 6 5 4 3 2

  With special thanks to three people who have challenged me,

  encouraged me,

  and made my work a glory and a joy:

  Ami McConnell,

  Claudia Cross,

  and

  Judith Markham

  Noble women all, and faithful friends

  There are two tragedies in life.

  One is to lose your heart’s desire.

  The other is to gain it.

  —GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: The Very First Wish

  PART 1: What Might Have Been

  Chapter 1: Nana’s Legacy

  Chapter 2: The Fiddler

  Chapter 3: Neal Grace

  Chapter 4: Granny Q

  Chapter 5: The Sky and the Stars and the Music

  Chapter 6: What Makes Devin Tick

  Chapter 7: Metamorphosis

  Chapter 8: Prospects

  Chapter 9: Mothers and Daughters

  Chapter 10: When Wishes Come True

  PART 2: What Was

  Chapter 11: A Glimpse of Yesterday

  Chapter 12: One Small Touch

  Chapter 13: Looking for the Love

  Chapter 14: A Prayer for the Future

  Chapter 15: Connections

  Chapter 16: Passing the Torch

  Chapter 17: Awakening

  PART 3: What Is, and Is To Come

  Chapter 18: Decisions

  Chapter 19: Second Chances

  Chapter 20: The Uncharted Path

  Chapter 21: More Decisions

  Chapter 22: Rethinking Everything

  Chapter 23: Abby’s Dilemma

  Chapter 24: Walking through the Fire

  Chapter 25: One Last Wish

  Epilogue: The Wish That Never Was

  Prologue

  The Very First Wish

  Asheville, North Carolina

  Spring 1904

  The trail leading up Beaucatcher Mountain was rocky and steep, but the view from the top was worth the effort. Breathing hard from her exertion, Gracie Neal Quinn reached the crest and turned, gathered her skirts under her, and settled herself on the stone outcropping at the crest. Her thinking place. Her dreaming rock.

  Long ago, in childhood, she had claimed this spot. From this vantage point, high above downtown, she had watched the city evolve and grow, even as she had transformed over the years from a wild, tomboyish girl into a cultured young lady, and now, at last, the cherished wife of Kensington Quinn.

  Gracie lifted her head and took in the familiar vista. Down to the right, she could just make out Charlotte Street and the green-shingled roof and dark red brick of Quinn House, her new home. On the corner of Oak and Woodfin stood her alma mater, the Asheville Female College, and directly ahead the Vance Monument rose up in the center of Public Square, a great stone obelisk pointing toward the blue heavens. Opposite her on the far hillside, the rambling, ornate towers of the Battery Park Hotel loomed against the horizon. And beyond that, the misty, layered majesty of her beloved Blue Ridge, the mountains she had always called home.

  When he heard her news, Kenzie would be furious with her for making the climb, but she had to get away for a while, had to think. Things had moved so rapidly in the past few months, and now another change. A change that would alter her life forever.

  She pressed a hand to the small roundedness of her midsection. A baby, the doctor said. A child. A new life. A new little Quinn to carry on the name and the heritage of love she and Kenzie had begun.

  Gracie closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Already she loved this child with all her heart and soul, and yet the responsibility of motherhood overwhelmed her. This wasn’t just one baby. It was the future, stretching out before her like the mountains themselves, generation after generation.

  She gazed once more at the hazy ridge beyond the Battery Park Hotel, where rich mantles of gray-blue and green and purple reached toward infinity, lifting their shoulders against a cloudless sky. “God,” she murmured, “help me live up to my name. Let me bring grace and love to this child within me, and to all the generations that sleep in my womb.”

  For a long time Gracie Quinn sat on her thinking rock, letting her mind wander to thoughts of Kenzie and the child who would be born of their love. She imagined a fine strapping boy, strong and gentle like his father. Or perhaps an intelligent, adventurous little girl with her daddy’s bright brown eyes and curious mind. They would come here, she and her children, and climb up this ridge to the place of dreams. She would share with them the wonder of the world, the glory of these mountains. Together they would watch the sun set and wish upon the first bright star.

  Wishes.

  What had the old peddler said about wishes?

  Gracie reached into her bag, drew out a small wooden box, and opened it. Inside, cradled in a nest of dark green velvet, lay a ceramic ginger jar. She had bought it this morning on the street outside the market, only a few moments before she went into her physician’s office. It was a small jar, no more than eight inches high, beautifully crafted, and very old. On both sides, bright against the smooth ivory porcelain, it bore the figure of a phoenix in flight, worked in red and gold.

  Gracie had studied mythology in school and had become fascinated with the image of the phoenix. New life rising from the ashes. Singing as it died, and as it took flight once more. An ancient metaphor of new birth, of resurrection.

  The peddler who had sold it to her had been a curious old woman, her bent body covered with a ragged, multicolored shawl. “It’s a wishing jar,” she had whispered, opening the box with a flourish. “Magic, you know. But only for the pure of heart.” The woman had peered into Gracie’s eyes. “Your heart is pure. Your soul is faithful. When the phoenix flies, your wishes will come true.”

  The peddler had quoted a price, and Gracie had handed over the money. She was not taken in by the claims of magic, of course. Still, the timing had seemed strange—providential even. She had come to town this very morning with a passionate wish in her heart, hoping the doctor would confirm what she suspected—that she carried new life within her . . .

  She turned the jar over in her hands. The afternoon sun caught the gilding on the phoenix’
s wings, and for an instant it looked as if the bird were in motion, turning its head, gathering itself for flight. The scarlet plumage stirred, the golden feathers ruffled, and the bright black eye seemed to wink at her.

  But it was merely a trick of the light. In the next moment, a wisp of cloud passed over the sun, and Gracie saw that the image was simply a beautifully painted bird on an antique ginger jar.

  Laughing at her own foolishness, she replaced the jar in the box. Magic or no, it would be something she could hand down to her daughter—or her son’s wife. Something the Quinn women could cherish for generations to come.

  She got to her feet and started back down the mountain. It was time to go home and break the news to Kensington Quinn that he was about to become a father.

  PART 1

  What Might Have Been

  Every day of childhood

  found me wishing for tomorrow

  with all its glittering promise

  and unseen possibilities.

  Christmas, birthdays, weekends at the beach

  approached in slow motion,

  but passed by in haste,

  littering the sand with shattered toys

  and broken shells.

  I always thought

  maturity brought wisdom in its wake,

  yet still I lose touch with

  this moment,

  in reaching for the next.

  Why does no one ever warn us

  that tomorrow slips like water

  through our fingers,

  leaving us with only

  thirst

  and a misty memory?

  1

  Nana’s Legacy

  Quinn House

  August 2002

  Abby Quinn McDougall stood transfixed, staring at the bookcase to the right of the fireplace. Five minutes ago, she had entered the living room on a wild tear, intent upon getting the dusting and vacuuming done as quickly and efficiently as possible. She had to be at work in an hour. Mama was in one of her moods this morning. Nothing Abby tried seemed to please her, so at last she had given up and turned to the cleaning that had been neglected for more than a week.

  Housework, at least, didn’t fight back. It surrendered easily to Abby’s methodical, pragmatic touch and brought its own kind of pleasure—the satisfaction of seeing immediate results.

  Abby liked results. Efficiency was her byword, sometimes her obsession. And given the creeping chaos that could grow up overnight like kudzu, orderliness was not so much a personal preference as a matter of survival.

  The dusting wasn’t finished. The vacuum cleaner lay silent in the middle of the living room rug. Yet here she stood, unmoving, watching as a beam of sunlight, shot through with dust motes, spiraled down in front of her and landed as precisely as a well-aimed spotlight on a small white ginger jar decorated with a figure of a phoenix worked in red and gold.

  The ginger jar, like this house, had been her grandmother Nana’s, and Great-Grandma Gracie’s before her, passed down through four generations of Quinn women. All of Abby’s girlhood recollections included the memory of the jar, there in its place on the second shelf, displayed against the green velvet of its little wooden box. She passed the jar every day, dusted it every week.

  Even as a child she had been mesmerized by the play of sunlight on the gold leaf, the curve of the phoenix’s lush red tail feathers, the look in its eye as it tensed itself in anticipation of launching into flight. But sometimes, as now, a certain slant of light on the jar could send her thoughts back into the past, back to the days when she was a child without pressure or responsibility, back to those wonderful years when Nana was alive and everything seemed possible.

  “This is a very special jar, child,” Nana’s whisper echoed in Abby’s memory. “It’s a Wishing Jar.”

  “A Wishing Jar?” Abby’s child-voice, full of awe and hope, matched her grandmother’s tone.

  “Yes. Your great-grandmother—my mother—bought it more than fifty years ago, even before I was born. It’s very old and very precious. Do you know what this is, this bird painted on the sides?”

  Little Abby shook her head. “No.”

  “It’s a phoenix, the great and powerful bird from mythology.”

  “What’s missology?”

  “Mythology,” Nana corrected gently. “It’s the tales people used to tell long ago. According to the story, the phoenix has the sweetest song in all the world. When its life is over, it goes up in flames and dies singing.”

  Abby felt the pain in her own heart and bit back tears. “That’s so sad, Nana.”

  “But the story doesn’t end there,” Nana said. “When the phoenix dies, burned in its own nest, it rises up again, brand-new, out of the ashes of its old life. And then its song is sweeter than ever before.”

  “Like magic?” Little Abby had asked.

  “Like a miracle,” Nana had responded.

  Even now, more than forty years later, with her grandmother dead for two decades, Abby could still feel that visceral response, the surge of wonder and childlike faith as she regarded the Wishing Jar and heard an echo of Nana’s mysterious words: “When the phoenix flies, your wishes will come true.”

  Tentatively she reached out a finger and touched the phoenix, very lightly, on the feathers of its breast, then took the jar down from its place and held it in her hand. “If it could only be that simple again,” she sighed.

  What would her life be like, Abby wondered, if a drunk driver had not been on the road careening toward her husband that night? How much more simple would the world be for her if John Mac had lived? If Mama hadn’t suffered the stroke? If—?

  But what ifs were futile. Life wasn’t simple, and never would be. Not for a widow in her fifties with an ailing mother and a difficult seventeen-year-old daughter. She could long all she wanted for a world without such stressful demands, but wishing wouldn’t change anything. This was her life, with all its emotional bills and baggage.

  And so she made no wish—not today, or for many years past. This ritual was merely a gesture to honor her grandmother’s memory. Abby no longer believed in wishes, any more than she believed in prayer. She gave passing reverence to the Almighty, a nod of distant respect, but she no more trusted her petitions to be answered than she expected the Wishing Jar to grant her requests.

  It was not always so. Once she had believed, both in the Wishing Jar and in the God to whom her grandmother prayed. She had been a little girl then, full of faith in magic and miracles and a loving, if shadowy, Deity. But even then her prayers had not been answered, nor had her wishes been granted.

  Nana had tried to explain, but Abby’s childlike mind could not comprehend. If the Wishing Jar really was magic, then whatever you wished should be fulfilled. If the Bible really did say, “Ask, and you shall receive; seek, and you shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened,” then shouldn’t it work for everybody, all the time?

  Not according to her grandmother. It made a difference, Nana said, what you asked for, and why, and how. It mattered what kinds of desires and dreams and longings filled your heart.

  “It’s not like Aladdin’s lamp, sweetie,” Nana tried to explain when Abby complained about not getting her wish. “Some things are bigger than we can understand. The phoenix goes down into the flames singing, welcoming her fate. I wonder, does she know as she dies that she will rise up reborn? Or does she simply live to sing for as long as life will let her?”

  Abby never forgot the question, even after Nana herself went down singing. But she never found the answer, either. Eventually she just let it go. Prayer, faith, the wonder of the Wishing Jar, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy—all of it put away like childish things that had no place in the efficient, orderly, rational life of an adult.

  Yet something deep in Abby McDougall’s heart still mourned the passing.

  2

  The Fiddler

  Three hours later, Abby was still thinking about Nana and the Wishing Jar when a knock sounded on her of
fice door. She looked up to see a tiny, well-dressed woman standing in the open doorway, striking a dramatic pose with her wild red hair thrown back and one arm leaning provocatively against the doorjamb.

  “Birdie! What are you doing here?”

  “Take the picture, quick! Here’s your next cover shot.”

  Abby laughed. Carolyn Wren had been her best friend since childhood. In high school, Carolyn’s petite stature and inexhaustible energy, coupled with her unusual last name, had earned her the nickname Birdie. It didn’t matter that she was now the wife of Taylor Graham, the vice president of Western North Carolina University, or that she had built her own interior design business— she was still Birdie to all who knew her well. What she lacked in stature she made up in personality, and her effusive presence never failed to lighten Abby’s mood.

  Abby shuffled through the photographs scattered across her desk and held one up. “This is Carolina Monthly, not Cosmopolitan,” she said. “Unless you can transform yourself into a hummingbird or a waterfall or a late-blooming rhododendron, we’re not interested.”

  “Kill-joy.” Birdie abandoned her pose and came to sit on the edge of Abby’s desk. “Working hard?”

  “Hardly working. I can’t seem to get focused today.”

  “Perfect. Come have lunch with me.”

  Abby gazed around the office, her eyes lingering on the proofs and photographs and blue-lined pages that occupied nearly every available horizontal surface. The offices of Carolina Monthly were on the top floor of the Flat Iron Building, and through the window between the filing cabinet and the bookcase, she could glimpse the Asheville skyline with rolling mountains behind and just a small wedge of an absolutely clear, deep, Carolina-blue sky. “Sounds tempting, but I have a deadline.”

  “You always have a deadline. And you always meet it, with time to spare. Come on. It’s a beautiful day.”

  Abby threw up her hands in surrender. “All right. Let’s go.” She gathered up her bag and keys and stopped by her assistant’s desk on the way out. “Ford, I’m going to lunch. If I get any calls while I’m out—” She held up her cell phone.