All for a Song (19 page)

“Of course not,” he said with a smile that would make any other woman regret the notion. Then, back to Dorothy Lynn, “Could I speak with you alone for a moment?”

“No, you cannot,” Darlene said.

“Very well,” he said, unfazed, “we can speak here. Would you sit down?”

“I can’t,” Dorothy Lynn said. “Pins.”

But Darlene could, and she dropped herself heavily in a brocade chair, clearly ready to listen to every word.

“We’re leaving town tomorrow.”

She had nothing to say.

“And I am here to humbly request that you come with us.”

She wasn’t aware that she’d been holding her breath, but it wrapped itself around any possible response.

Darlene, however, was plagued by no such silence. “My sweet Moses,” she said, a phrase common back home, but one Dorothy Lynn was sure Darlene never uttered among her St. Louis friends. “You must be out of your mind.”

“I’m not,” he said, not taking his eyes off Dorothy Lynn. “You don’t know—we didn’t know—how you could affect the audience. Last night, at the altar call, more than fifty souls came to seek Jesus as their Savior.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, not doubting for a moment the genuine emotion holding him in its grip.

“They saw themselves in you—”

“Stop—”

“And at the end of the night, as they were leaving, people asked after you. Where you were. When they could see you again.”

She brought her hands up to cover her ears. “Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to hear it. You deceived them. You said I was from here. They’re never going to see me again.”

“He doesn’t care what they think,” Darlene said, folding her hands across her belly. “Ask him how much money they took in. That’s what this is really all about.”

“All right,” Roland said, not wavering. “I’ll tell you. We took in twice what we did any other night here.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Maybe not, and trust me when I tell you that Sister Aimee isn’t thrilled at the possibility that you made any difference at all, but our stakes are too high to ignore the possibility.”

“What stakes?”

“We’re building a church, out in Los Angeles, California. Bigger than anything anybody has ever seen.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“We’ve got two more stops—Kansas City and Denver. Then on to Los Angeles.”

“Winning souls and taking money,” Darlene said.

“Hush,” Dorothy Lynn said, suddenly protective. “She’s not like that. You don’t know how powerful she is.”

“With this church, millions will hear her preach. And that’s not an exaggeration. Millions, Dorothy. Los Angeles is a growing, vibrant city, destined to be a godless one. There’ll be nothing like it anywhere in the world. It’s Aimee’s vision, the Angelus Temple. But it takes money, sacrifice. We need people who believe in the gospel, who are willing to be part of Christ’s church.”

“I have a church,” she said. And a home, and a husband waiting for her. All rolled together.

“Just come with me to Kansas City. Just there. Only a few days, and we’ll put you on a train home, to here or Pigeon Tree—”

“Heron’s Nest,” she corrected.

“Wherever you want to go.”

She could tell he wanted to touch her; his fingers flexed as if he gripped her, but the fact that she was wearing a wedding dress or the pins that held it together or the pregnant sister in the corner kept him from making any such overture.

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice, as if that would shut Darlene out of the room. “Would you rather go back to your circle of Sunday school children under the tree?”

“Are their souls any less worthy?”

“Of course not,” he said, and she felt dangerously soothed. “But they’ll have you forever. We’ve only got a short period of time. A moment, and it’s gone.”

“Couldn’t you just find some other girl in Kansas City?”

He laughed—no, chuckled. Deep and warm and with absolute affection. “We could, I suppose. But what are the chances of finding one as magical as you?”

“Magical?”

“Oh, no.” Darlene worked to get out of her chair. “She might have a soft spot for such talk, but I can spot a line. I’m married to a car salesman; I know flattery when I hear it.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Roland said, relegating her to matronly status with a single word, “Dorothy is a grown woman. She can speak her own mind.”

A familiar sound came from the kitchen—the clattering of four active feet punctuated by the slamming of a door and the inevitable call of “Mama!” Mrs. Mevreck must have reached the limits of her patience.

“I’ll go see to them,” Darlene said, looking at Roland side-eyed with renewed suspicion. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

After she left the room, Roland said, “I take it I won’t be invited to stay?”

“She’s very protective,” Dorothy Lynn said.

Emboldened by Darlene’s absence, he reached out, lightly running the backs of his fingers along the sleeve of the dress. “Do you know what it means to be the bride of Christ?”

“Of course I do.” She tensed her arm, drawing herself away from his touch.

“Scriptures tell us that we will be clothed in our acts of righteousness. Think about it: living this life, continuously adding to our eternal garment. Fifty souls were saved last night, largely because of your unselfish act. How many more could come to know Jesus if you would just obey your calling?”

She stepped away. “Your desire is not my calling.”

“No, but can you deny the music God has put in your heart? Could you not feel his pleasure surging through you as you sang last night?”

How could she tell him that whatever pleasure she’d felt was tainted by her own pride? “It was a lark, Mr. Lundi. Nothing more.”

He looked to be on the bridge of acceptance, his hat halfway to his head. “So, no Kansas City?”

“No.”

He used his hat to gesture toward the photograph on the mantel. “So that’s going to be you in a few weeks?”

“Yes,” she said, only there would be no father, no brother, and she would be wearing this very dress turned right-side out.

He must have picked up on her thought before it was fully formed, because his hat was mere inches away from his head when he brought it back down. “Didn’t you say your brother was in California?”

Her mind raced back to their lunch at the Golden Bowl Chinese Restaurant where she’d told him so much—too much—about her wandering brother. Perhaps he’d picked up on the thread of envy she’d kept so closely stitched to her heart. He seemed poised to pull on it, unravel the truth, or worse, wrap it around her yearning to bring her brother home.

“He’s in Culver City.”

“I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing him again.” Once more, his hat was up, hovering mere inches above his head. “I take it he’ll be at the wedding?”

How could he know? Not about Donny, but about the hold he could have by using her brother as the rope to rescue them both? “Is it far?”

“From here?”

“Culver City. Is it far from Los Angeles?”

“The two are practically in each other’s backyard.”

“Would you have any way to find him, do you think? Donny Dunbar—it’s an unusual name. And I know he’s workin’ as a carpenter on movie sets. How many could there be?”

“I’m a busy man, Miss Dunbar.” The hat was firmly on his head. “As your sister might say, souls to save; money to raise.”

“I’ve never been anywhere, Mr. Lundi. You can understand how terrifyin’ this very idea is for me.” Now she knew exactly what it felt like to close a deal. Carefully crafted sincerity, tinged with early triumph.

“You won’t be alone,” he said, picking up the thread of their unspoken agreement. “We’re like a family, all of us. Your travel, your meals—maybe even a few new dresses. The kind that don’t come with pins. All for God’s glory. And then home by—how long until the wedding?”

“Six weeks.”

He snapped his fingers. “Plenty of time. You have my word.”

“And you’ll help me find Donny?”

“You have my word on that, too.”

“I need to think,” she mused aloud. “And to telephone Brent and my mother. And talk to Darlene.”

“Let them bury themselves,” he said, heading to the front door. “Our train leaves at eight.”

Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us.

ECCLESIASTES 1:10

BREATH OF ANGELS

10:20 A.M.

Breath of Angels has three distinct worlds. There’s the world filled with card games and dominoes and concerts performed by local high school choirs. The residents there move slowly but surely from room to room through quiet, carpeted halls. They congregate with each other in the lobby, bring family members to lunch in the dining hall, and sometimes even step away for a trip to a local museum or shopping mall. Lynnie had been one of them, her calendar full of penciled events, twenty-minute conversations at the mailbox, swim aerobics three times a week. Even after the first stroke, when she’d been forced to use the walker and keep a battery-operated call button around her neck at all times.

Even then, she knew she’d move on. They all did—either move on or die. The day you couldn’t get yourself out of bed, out of the shower, onto the toilet. Every night, late at night, a soundless Angel in soft-soled shoes patrolled the halls of the Breath of Angels apartments, placing a yellow Post-it note on each door. The residents knew to be out of bed and to remove that little square before 10 a.m. That was the sign that all was well. That’s how they knew you were alive and ready to function for the day. Otherwise, you moved on.

Moments before the third, and so far final, stroke, Lynnie had just put a
bowl of instant oatmeal in the microwave and was making slow progress to open her door and remove the note. Clearly, she remembers thanking God for another day. In fact, she’d write as much on the note and stick it on her refrigerator, which had become a sea of yellow.

August 12, 2001.
Thank you, Lord, for another day.

August 13, 2001.
Thank you, Lord, for another day.

One piled atop another, curling at the corners.

When she woke up in her new room after moving on, she wondered what had become of the notes. Everything else she owned had been neatly boxed away.

Now she is at the mercy of Charlotte Hill, piloting the wheelchair.

They lurch around a corner, so close Lynnie can clearly see the dimples in the paint as her footrest scrapes along the wall.

“Sorry about that,” Charlotte says.

Had she the power of speech, Lynnie might say something soothing, intended to assuage the girl’s anxiety, despite her own terror. Instead, she’s locked in her silence, clenching her jaw, fingers curled on the armrest of the chair, as if she has the strength to hold herself in.

One more corner, and they’re in an unfamiliar lobby. The furniture is pristine—a rose-colored sofa flanked by an end table and lamp. A low coffee table in front of it boasts a color-coordinated bouquet of obviously silk flowers and a perfect fan of magazines. Clearly, nobody sits here. Nobody waits here. Perhaps they will be the first, she and Charlotte, and Lynnie tries to picture the girl settling on the sofa, the stiff, cheap cushions scraping beneath her jeans. The awkward space seems custom-made for conversation with an invalid.

But Charlotte’s not stopping at the couch. She’s headed straight for the massive glass doors at the front of the room. At least, Lynnie hopes Charlotte recognizes the barrier of glass between them and the picturesque autumnal vision on the other side. Their momentum hasn’t decreased in the least.

Then, with a force worthy of a carnival ride, she is spinning, the world a serene, pastel blur, and she’s looking at a long, low, unmanned reception desk.

“Your family sent doughnuts in honor of your birthday,” Charlotte says. “I figure the staff’ll be in the break room for a good twenty minutes unless somebody rings the bell.”

She says it with a mix of triumph and conspiracy, and then Lynnie knows. Charlotte Hill is taking her out. As in,
outside
. The girl pokes into her line of vision long enough to press the oversize silver button that activates the automatic door. Seconds later, she’s backing across the threshold.