All for a Song (11 page)

“I have money,” Dorothy Lynn protested, the thought of taking from her sister infringing on her fledgling freedom.

“Just this once. If you want to get some chop suey for lunch. You should try it at least once before you go back home.”

“But I wanted to try it with you.”

Darlene patted her mounding stomach. “Not these days. Stuff makes me swell up like a dirigible.”

They exchanged a kiss good-bye, and the next thing she knew, her sister had disappeared around the corner, though she’d disappeared in the crowded sidewalk long before that. Dorothy Lynn turned in the opposite direction and looked at the slip of paper where Roy had written the directions and address of the music store. It would be a walk, but she knew she would enjoy it.

Never had she imagined so many automobiles could try to occupy a single road, but here they were, four abreast in the street, horns honking to get other drivers’ attention, echoed by shouts and pumping fists when the horns were ignored.

And people walked so fast! Men in suits wove in and out of girlfriends strolling arm in arm, leisurely taking in the displays in the myriad of store windows. Those on foot traveled twice as fast as those in cars, and if Pa were here, he’d advise those frustrated drivers to abandon their cars and walk like the good Lord intended.

When it came time to cross the street, Dorothy Lynn held up at the corner and waited until some semblance of a crowd had formed around her—not only to create a buffer from the oncoming traffic, but to give her an idea of when it was safe to
venture into the street. More than once her guitar was jostled against her, though she tried to hold it as protectively as possible.

Soon she was back on Grand Avenue, where she could see the massive
Missouri
lettering, no less impressive in the daylight. The thought of its cool air almost tempted her in that direction; after all, she had more than enough money to take in a matinee. Judging from the line of people at the door, she wasn’t alone in her thinking. But her destination—the Strawn Brothers Music Store—was, according to her notes, just around the corner and two doors down. With renewed spirit, she strode right past the looming Valentino poster and followed the curve of the sidewalk.

It was a modest storefront by any measure. A window lined in green velvet held a display of several stringed instruments, with a trio of violins at its center. There was no hint of a neon sign here, only simple painted letters on the glass. According to the printed sign in the corner, they repaired all instruments, sold all accessories, and gave lessons on violin, cello, and viola.

A bell rang when she opened the door, and within seconds a stocky man with a bushy moustache popped up from behind the counter. She presumed him to be one of the Strawn brothers.

“Good afternoon, miss. How can we help you today?” His accent was thick, making him pronounce
good
like
goot
, and he pronounced
we
like
vee
. Dorothy Lynn wondered just how many dozens of accents one would hear by simply stopping in at all the shops in downtown St. Louis.

This particular shop may have had a humble exterior, but inside, the walls were stained a rich mahogany meant to showcase the instruments displayed on hooks at all levels.

“I need to restring my guitar,” she said, painfully aware of the lowly sack cinched just above its head.

“That there?” Strawn pointed a stubby finger, making her feel worse.

“Yes.” Dorothy Lynn untied the rope, letting the burlap fall to the floor, then lifted the instrument by the neck and placed it on the counter. “It’s havin’ trouble holding its tune. Needs new strings.”

Strawn took a pair of spectacles from his vest pocket and turned the instrument over and over.

“Martin. 1912. Fine specimen.”

“It was my brother’s.”

“You play?”

Dorothy Lynn nodded before realizing the man was too absorbed in the guitar to see. “A little.”

He strummed a few notes, wincing. “And you love this?”

“I do. At first it made me feel close to my brother, but now . . . well, it’s become like a part of me. I suppose that sounds silly.”

“Not silly at all. You want silly?” His tufted eyebrows inclined toward the burlap-sack puddle on the floor. “
That
is silly. It is miracle this has not become worthless kindling, carted around in such a way. You need a case.”

Dorothy Lynn hung her head, wondering what he would say if he could see her running through the forest without even the burlap sack. “I guess I never thought about that.”

“Well, you should.” His voice was stern, and she felt a sudden pang for her father. Then, just as Pa would, he softened and said he would look in his storeroom to see if he had an extra one.

“Thank you,” she said, clutching her handbag tighter. She’d come to St. Louis with three dollars and still had most of that, but a guitar case wouldn’t be worth sacrificing her bus fare home.

Strawn seemed to understand. He made a
psh, psh
sound through his moustache.

“I would be happy to clear out the space for such an instrument. You go. Come back in one hour.”

He turned on his heel without another word and walked through the door at the back of the shop. One hour? What was she to do for one hour? She’d imagined that she might be allowed to restring the instrument herself—something Donny would never have allowed. Still, she could tell the guitar was in fine hands, and the idea of an hour to herself with the entire city at her disposal was an unexpected treat. The bell above the door rang again as she exited, and the sounds of the street exploded in contrast to the quietness of the shop. She looked up one side of the street and down the other. Drugstores, shoe shops, bookstores, and stationers. There were signs for bakeries and watch repairs and one boutique that seemed to sell nothing but women’s stockings.

Briefly, she considered what Brent would have to say about such a place. For the life of her, she couldn’t picture him here, surrounded by what he would call the excess of humanity. True, he had come from a big city himself—Chicago—but he never talked about his hometown with any hint of either fondness or disdain. Only that he was meant to live a quiet country life, even if he hadn’t been born to such.

“Sometimes,” he’d said, “you need a good dose of what you don’t want before you can know what you truly do.”

She breathed deep, finding it oddly thrilling to sense no hint of nature in the air. The acrid smell of automobile fumes might not be pleasant, but as she took her first few steps toward the corner, better odors found their way to her. And then one, foreign and exotic, overpowered the others, enticing two senses at once. She found herself looking through a window with bold red letters slashing through her reflection.

Golden Bowl Chinese Restaurant.

This must be the place Darlene had wanted to visit last night after the movie. Savory, unfamiliar scents enveloped her like a cloud, their warmth enticing and welcome even in the heat of the afternoon.

Here, then, her taste of adventure.

She grasped the door and walked inside only to stand, blinking, as her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. Slowly, the room revealed itself. Red, everywhere. The walls, the table coverings, the tassels hanging from the delicate chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. Even with a whole life lived near a kitchen, nothing sparked a memory. Her stomach gurgled both in anticipation and nerves. She’d only been in a restaurant of any kind a handful of times, and never alone.

As the room came into full focus, though, she realized she was not alone. At all. In fact, as her eyes scanned the tables, there didn’t seem to be a single empty seat.

An ageless Chinese man appeared at her elbow.

“You have seat here.” He gestured toward the window with a menu featuring a somber-faced younger image of himself set within an ornate red frame.

Dorothy Lynn could just barely understand the words through his accent. How odd it was to hear so many different accents in one day.

“I’d like to eat,” she said, holding one hand in the shape of a bowl at her chin while scooping invisible food with the other.

“Yes, yes, miss.” He gestured again, pointing toward a row of chairs lined up against the window. “Sit by window, please. Few minutes.”

She looked over her shoulder, confused. Did he intend to serve her there? People all around were eating long, steaming noodles. Was she to be forced to eat without a table?

“Perhaps you’d care to join me?”

The voice was familiar, distinctive, and she felt it touch the back of her neck long after he’d stopped speaking. She turned around, and there he was—the man who’d tried to stop them from leaving the church service last night. No suit coat today, just a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and suspenders, but his hair was meticulously combed and slick.

“Oh, hello.” Dorothy Lynn knew the blush to her cheeks must be bringing her face to roughly the same shade as the table coverings, as she was wearing the exact same outfit as the night before. Perhaps that’s how he’d recognized her.

“Please.”

Before she could think, he’d taken her arm, steered her through the narrow passageway between the tables and pulled out a chair at a small table in a dark corner. In one fluid motion, he was sitting across from her.

“You’ll have to forgive my bad manners,” he said, after asking the ever-attentive waiter to bring a second glass of water. “A gentleman should always introduce himself before rescuing the damsel.” He reached his hand across the table. “My name is Roland Lundi.”

She took his hand in the spirit it was offered—shaking it like a man would, in good humor with a firm grip. “Dorothy Lynn Dunbar.”

“Nice to meet you, Dorothy Lynn Dunbar. I trust you and your sister made it home safely last night?”

He remembered. “We did.”

The waiter arrived with a glass of water, which he placed in front of her, giving a slight bow before leaving. She took a sip, not to calm her nerves, but because she had nothing else to say. Truth was, she didn’t feel nervous at all.

Roland Lundi leaned back in his seat, his demeanor as cool as the water in the glass. “I sincerely hope I did not make the two of you feel uncomfortable as you were leaving. In our ministry we see so many people touched by the Holy Spirit, but they are affected in different ways. Some run to Sister Aimee; others run away.”

“Well, I wasn’t runnin’ away, and I don’t know who Sister Aimee is. I was just goin’ home.” Even in the midst of her reply, she knew she sounded rude, and she would have apologized if he had not laughed.

“You don’t know what a relief it is to hear something spoken with such honest clarity.”

Dorothy Lynn smiled along, assuming the remark to be a compliment. Anything Roland Lundi said would probably sound like a compliment. His words were not so much accented as smooth, the consonants buried in the stream, but she noticed again a certain hoarseness to his voice, a soft quality that begged the listener to lean forward and listen closer. So she did.

“In a ministry such as ours, it seems everybody either wants to run us out of town or try to win some sort of spiritual favor.”

“I don’t think I understand exactly what you mean.”

“They believe, sometimes, that our prayers are stronger than their own. Or they assume they are entitled to some cut of the provisions God has made for us. They look for intercession and healing, without regard to the fact that such things must be Spirit-led.”

“Well, Mr. Lundi, I don’t want anything.” Which wasn’t exactly true, and her conscience nipped. “Although, I’ll say, I did find Sister Aimee to be a fascinatin’ sight to behold. Like an angel, almost. But then, to think, she’s just a woman same as me—”

Something changed in his countenance, and she wondered if referencing herself as a woman might be seen as a vulgarity.

“Well, maybe not like me. Guess I’m more of a girl.”

He laughed. “These days, it seems your sex is working hard to blur the line between the two.”

“I don’t care about blurring any line. I just want to be what God made me.”

“Which is exactly why I need to spend this afternoon with you. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to a holiday in a very long time.”

She reached for her water again.
This afternoon,
he’d said. Where she’d only planned on the hour. And for the first time since she’d walked into the restaurant, she wondered if even that was a good idea. What would her sister think if she were to change her mind, come by, and see her through the window? For that matter, what would Brent say? Suddenly it all smacked of illicitness. Her eyes darted to the door, yet she didn’t move.

Roland picked up the menu. “So, what would you recommend?”

Now it was her time to laugh—soft and self-conscious. “I’m new to this.”

“Really?” He set the menu down and leaned forward. “To this restaurant? Or to Chinese cuisine in general?”

“To both, I guess.”

“If it weren’t for restaurants, I’d starve.”

Such a sad sentence from such a handsome man.

“Your wife doesn’t cook?”

His eyes held her every bit as much as did his hand when they first sat down. “I’m working to bring the message of Jesus Christ to the entire country. That doesn’t leave me any time for a wife.”

She wanted to say she understood, but she didn’t. “My father was a minister. We never felt neglected.”

“Let me guess.” His speech changed to an exaggerated drawl. Not mocking, but bordering on affection. “A tiny white clapboard building with a steeple and a big ol’ bell somewheres out in the woods?”

Dorothy Lynn giggled—something she rarely did. In the back of her mind, Darlene accused her of flirting, but before the guilt could fully take hold, the waiter had returned.

“We’ll both have the beef chow mein,” Roland said. Then, to her, “If that sounds good to you.”

She nodded. The interruption afforded a moment for her to come to her senses, and the minute the waiter said, “Very good,” and bowed away, she cleared her throat and sat up with a straighter resolve. “I’m going to be a preacher’s wife. The man who took over the pulpit when Pa died, he and I are engaged. We’re gettin’ married in October. That’s why I’m here, in St. Louis. My sister’s makin’ the dress.” It all poured out of her like a confession. “I’m not one of those girls.”