All for a Song (12 page)

His brow rose quizzically.

“I mean, a girl who would just go out to lunch with a strange man. Or any man. Or even . . . lunch.”

His amusement grew with her frustration, and for the first time it seemed he was actually laughing
at
her.

“I’m sorry,” she faltered, finally. “I don’t mean to insult you.”

“I’ve been called worse than a ‘strange man,’” he said, “and I didn’t intend for my invitation to imply anything about your character. I simply saw you, remembered you, and thought it might be nice not to eat another meal alone. But if I’m making you uncomfortable . . .”

He began to scoot his chair away from the table, and a new guilt washed over her.

“Don’t leave.” Her words stopped him midstand. “You
were very kind to ask me to join you. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

The warm smile returned as he settled back into his chair, and the food arrived soon after. Dorothy Lynn looked down at the bowl brimming with strips of meat and vegetables—some she didn’t even recognize—in a lake of noodles. Steam rose from the dish, and she inhaled her first taste, leaving her mouth watering for more. She looked over to see that Roland had bowed his head to pray, and she followed suit, asking not only for a blessing on the food before her and the hands that prepared it, but also forgiveness for her unintentional sin.

When she opened her eyes, Roland had taken up the pair of narrow sticks that had been laid beside his bowl and used them to bring up a heaping mouthful. Not finding a fork, she picked up her own sticks and attempted to do the same, only to find he’d made the procedure look deceptively easy. Less than a full bite of food made it into her mouth, but that taste was enough to whet her appetite.

“Here,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Watch me. You need to balance them, see? First this stick on your third finger, and then the second . . .”

Dorothy Lynn tried to match his grip, and she felt successful until it was time to actually grasp the food. She fell into laughter even as the pile of noodles and peppers fell back into the bowl. “I’m hopeless.”

“Nothing’s ever hopeless. Try again.”

This time, when he reached for her hand, he purposefully took her fingers, positioning them to hold the chopsticks properly. Like never before, she was aware of the roughened texture of her skin and nails, and she curled her fingers in an attempt to hide them away.

“It’s all right,” he said, so softly that she barely heard him. “This is one skill worth learning. When it all comes together, you’ll be so happy.”

Somehow it happened, and though it meant a messy trail of sauce on her chin, she managed to fill her mouth with beef, peppers, and noodles all at once.

Roland applauded her achievement, and people from the surrounding tables joined in. Dorothy Lynn managed not to laugh until she’d swallowed the entire bite, but then she brought a napkin to her face and twisted in her chair to offer an appreciative wave to her audience.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s the best thing I ever ate,” she said, eagerly working her chopsticks for the next bite.

“It’s good, but nothing like what you’d get in California. San Francisco, especially.”

The image of her brother’s postcard flitted through her mind, threatening to steal the pure joy of this moment. “Don’t think I’ll be goin’ to California any time soon.”

“Fiancé not an adventurer?”

“Not sure
I
am, but I’d like to hear about it.”

And so, as they ate, Roland talked. His travels with Sister Aimee had taken him all over the country, but he spoke most fondly of California. The excitement and uncharted opportunities. As she listened, she could imagine why Donny would want to stay there, if it was half as wonderful as it all sounded. Midway through the meal, she’d become quite proficient with her chopsticks, eventually able to snag a single thin slice of onion between the tips. Though he was in the middle of a rambunctious tale, he paused midsentence to acknowledge the accomplishment.

“You’re a quick study.”

She beamed under his praise and looked down into her empty bowl.

“Still hungry?”

“Oh no,” she protested, but he raised a finger and moments later the stealthy waiter reappeared with two plates, each bearing a slice of dense, sticky cake. She followed Roland’s example and picked it up, taking nibbling bites and licking her fingers. By the time it was gone she felt ready to burst.

Their waiter made another discreet appearance, at which time Roland reached into his pocket and produced a folded bill, which he pressed into the Chinese man’s hand. Dorothy Lynn’s heart raced. A dollar! She’d no idea her meal would be anywhere near that expensive, and with some trepidation she opened her pocketbook. As she did, though, the waiter thanked Roland, saying it had been a great honor, and disappeared.

“Thank you, but you didn’t need to pay for mine,” she said through a queer mixture of resentment and relief.

He chuckled as he stood. “I suspect a lot of men would appreciate such an attitude.”

She thanked him again as he held the door open to the sidewalk, where she had to stand for just a moment to orient herself.

“You came from that direction.” Roland pointed up the street behind her. “I saw you through the window.”

“Yes.” The revelation that he’d seen her before she walked into the restaurant left her a bit too unsettled to thank him yet again. Maybe that step across the threshold was like a step into a snare. She swallowed, still tasting the salt of foreign food. Somehow she’d allowed herself to be trapped into this spot—unfamiliar inside and out. A voice deep within her said,
Go home,
but home was miles away. She’d need a streetcar to get to Darlene’s house, a bus to get to Heron’s Nest. She had only her feet, and they were
in danger of melting in this spot. But then she remembered—home was just half a block away, waiting for her in the music store.

She thanked him a final time and had taken only a few steps when there he was again, right beside her.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be out alone in the city.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, but even as she did, she hoped he wouldn’t agree. Although the newness of him rumbled with the noodles in her stomach, his presence also brought an unexpected comfort. Her protest proved unconvincing as he simply dropped his hands into his pockets and fell into a slow step beside her.

They didn’t speak at all as they walked, making an oddly comforting pocket of silence in the midst of the city’s noise. When they came upon the Strawn Brothers Music Store, Dorothy Lynn said, “I’m goin’ in here,” at which point Roland—after a quick, curious, twisting smile—opened the door for her and followed her in.

Mr. Strawn emerged from the back room before the front door had closed behind them, carrying her guitar stiffly like it was a treasure to be presented.

“I would say good as new,” he said proudly, “but good guitar is like good wine: better and better with age.”

Dorothy Lynn took the instrument, gingerly by the neck at first, then instinctively brought it against her body, her fingers hovering over the strings.

“You play?” Roland asked, sounding truly impressed.

“A little,” Dorothy Lynn said.

“You should play now,” Strawn said. “See how it feels.” He gestured toward a chair, and Dorothy Lynn sat down and curled herself around the guitar. She began strumming a few
chords—nothing like a song—and cocked her head at the new sound.

“Is in tune,” Strawn said. “Play.”

Her mind drifted back, stopping and sifting through every song she knew, but none would make the journey to the strings. Only the tune born in this city, the one she’d been humming since the night before, seemed ready for this moment, playing itself through her as she hummed along.

“Is nice, right?” Strawn said.

Dorothy Lynn glanced up both to acknowledge and agree, flashing a quick smile at Roland, who seemed equally impressed.

“I don’t recognize the song,” Roland said.

“It’s mine.”

“You wrote it?”

“Not yet. It’s still just in my head.”

“The lyrics?”

“They’re waitin’ too.”

“I’d like to hear them.”

No stranger had ever requested to hear one of her songs. While Brent had expressed interest in them, she could never separate his appreciation from his affection. For the most part, her songs came to life in isolation, never offered to anybody until the words were safely in her journal and the notes perfectly settled in the strings. To sing this one felt like pushing a baby bird from its nest before the mama had a chance to teach it to fly. Before the feathers, even. “It’s not ready.”

“Please,” Roland insisted. “I’ve never heard a half-written song.”

She looked back down, concentrating her gaze on where the hem of her borrowed dress spilled out beneath the curve of the wood, and started again. The song remained wordless through
what would become the first verse, but when the chorus found its way, her voice filled the shop.

Jesus is coming!

Are you ready

to meet your Savior in the sky?

He, on his white horse,

will come a-riding

to gather the faithful to his side.

When Dorothy Lynn looked up, Roland was smiling again—a smile unlike any she’d ever seen before on anyone. Not affection, but admiration, and she wished she had a dozen songs to sing.

“Is nice, right?” Strawn said again, though he was clearly more impressed with the sound of the guitar than anything.

“Very nice,” Roland said, never taking his eyes off Dorothy Lynn.

“Is seventy-five cents for the strings. And I have case for you too.”

Roland was once again reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clip of folded bills.

Dorothy Lynn jumped up from her chair to stop him, saying, “You can’t.”

“You’ve never heard of the expression ‘Sing for your supper’?”

“You already bought me lunch.”

Mr. Strawn unceremoniously held his hand out to Roland. “Let a gentleman be a gentleman. You modern girls will spoil everything.” He took the dollar bill and headed to the back room.

“Perhaps,” Roland said once they were alone, “I could take you to supper sometime.”

“I told you,” Dorothy Lynn said, grateful for the guitar that anchored her in place, “I have a fiancé back home.”

“In Pigeonville, I know. I just meant—the song. I’d like to hear it when it’s done. More than that, I’d like Aimee to hear it.”

Immediately the palms of her hands went slick with sweat. “Sister Aimee? Why?”

“Come back tonight.”

“I can’t.”

“We’ll be here all week. Just promise me you’ll come back.”

Her fingers tightened around the neck and she repeated, “Why?”

“Because I think you may be exactly what we need.”

There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.

ECCLESIASTES 1:11

BREATH OF ANGELS

9:05 A.M.

Three raps on the door, and it opens.

Charlotte has been sitting quietly beside her, contentedly watching the last part of the
Today
show. It’s a cooking segment with that terrible Martha Stewart. Darlene would have loved her, had she lived long enough.

At the sound of the knock, Charlotte jumps off the edge of the bed like a shot and immediately brings her thumb to her mouth for a new round of chewing.

Stop that. It makes you look like an idiot.

As if she hears, Charlotte obeys.

Kaleena Patrice, a nursing aide at Breath of Angels, walks in, pushing an empty wheelchair.

“You the CSV?”

Kaleena may only be an aide, but she speaks with an undeniable authority, due mostly to her accent. Jamaican, Lynnie would guess. It makes every word she says sound like it has been born after much consideration. When she asks if Charlotte is the CSV, she’s not really asking at all. It’s a confirmation, just in case Charlotte herself has forgotten why she’s here.