All for a Song (24 page)

“Evening, Howard. Big shindig happening tonight, eh?”

Howard shrugged. “One tycoon has a birthday, and the sheiks come out of the woodwork.”

The arrow above the door made its arch. A bell rang, and young Howard excused himself to slide open the gate and stand at the ready. Three women emerged, each wearing a dress more revealing than the next. Intrigued by the expression on Howard’s face, Dorothy Lynn followed his gaze, shocked to see that one of the young women had her entire back exposed, framed in rippling pink chiffon anchored at sharp, protruding shoulder blades.

“Winky-dink,” Howard said appreciatively, momentarily forgetting that Roland and Dorothy Lynn were waiting. The tips of his ears turned bright red, and he stepped to the side with near-military precision.

The operator inside the elevator wasn’t nearly as young or talkative as Howard. Roland said, “Fourth floor,” and with the slightest acknowledgment, the compartment shook and they were on their way. Mere seconds later, the operator announced, “Four,” and silently asked them to leave.

“Hold here, please,” Roland said as they exited.

The hallway was carpeted in a lush, thick weave that absorbed each footfall. Dorothy Lynn fought to appear calm, not wanting Roland to mistake her nerves for fear, as fear might be insulting to his integrity. He walked at a respectful distance beside her, not talking, not touching. For the first time she noticed the key adorned with a silver medallion; when they arrived at room 403, she stepped aside as he opened the door.

“Your room,” he said, taking her hand and placing the key in her palm. “Your bags should arrive shortly, and I took the liberty of ordering up your supper.”

She glanced over his shoulder at the amber-lit room, not knowing what to say.

He gave a playful tap to the tip of her nose. “Then straight to bed. And sleep as late as you please. Meet me tomorrow in the lobby at noon.”

He spun on his heel and was halfway down the hall before she thought to call out, “What’s tomorrow?”

He turned and removed his hat, managing to walk backward and bow at the same time. “Ah, sweetheart. I ask myself that every day.”

In her dream, Brent walked among the trees, stepping in and out of them like a silent, stately sprite. She heard music all around—hers, she assumed. Deep and rich, she stood within it, able to feel the very notes touch her skin. More than touch her, they held her. Catgut cords lashed around her ankles, anchoring her to the moist, cool earth. Somehow, she knew she need only call out to Brent and he would save her; his strong arm would reach through the fog of notes and pull her to the safety of the trees. But she kept silent, merely watching until little by little the music faded, the forest became light, and she opened her eyes.

The sheets were drawn up to her nose, and she could smell the hint of lavender that had so thrilled her last night when, clean from a hot bath and sated from the enormous steak that had magically appeared at her door, she’d fallen, exhausted, between them. She stretched her legs before scooting over to the cool, unmussed empty half to better see the time on the softly ticking bedside clock.

Ten fifteen.

In any other circumstances—in any other
world
—she would have jumped out of bed, horrified at the hedonism. But for all
she knew, the revelers of last night’s party were strewn throughout the rooms around her. Today, she was accountable to only one person—Roland—and she hadn’t the first clue as to where to find him. Noon in the lobby, he’d said. Why, she could close her eyes and go back to sleep, and she might have if not for the soft knock on her door.

“Just a moment,” she said, her voice rough after so many hours of silence in sleep.

She hadn’t bothered with a housecoat last night, seeing as she had the entire room to herself, but she’d draped it across the foot of the bed. She wrestled with it now, pulling her arms through as she untangled her feet from the sheets. Once at the door, she rose to the tips of her toes to peek through the tiny hole. Fully expecting to see Roland, she rocked back to her heels at the sight of a gentleman in the familiar hotel staff uniform standing there with a large, flat box under one arm.

Cautiously, she opened the door just enough to peer between it and the frame and said, “Yes?”

“Miss Dunbar?”

Again, “Yes?”

“Delivery for you. Courtesy of Mr. Lundi.”

“What is it?”

He shrugged. “I just deliver, ma’am. I don’t ask questions.”

“Well, thank you.” She took the package from him, though he kept his hand extended long after she’d taken possession. “Oh, of course.” Her purse still sat on the table just by the door; the dime she fetched from it looked a bit forlorn in the pristine white glove.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said with heroic grace.

Once again alone, Dorothy Lynn ran back to the bed and tossed the package onto the rich, blue velvet cover. The box was
tied with a thick, pink ribbon, which she tugged at with cautious curiosity. Once the ribbon was removed, she lifted the lid off the box to find a puddle of soft, rustling tissue paper and a note.

For today. We’re going to church.

—R

She pushed the tissue paper aside and lifted out a dress made of soft knit jersey. Its color so reminded her of the piney trees back home that she held the fabric to her nose and inhaled, half-expecting to breathe in the scent of them. She held it out to notice the style—straight and narrow with a band that would fall well below her waist. The skirt below was pleated and would probably hit right at her knees. A row of bright-yellow wooden buttons ran down the length of the bodice, with one enormous, exaggerated disc that seemed designed to sit right on her hip. In the box, too, was a beautiful, ornate head scarf that incorporated both colors of the dress, as well as a pair of nylon stockings.

Dorothy Lynn laid everything out on the bed, trying to ignore that nagging bit of shame. It certainly wasn’t the first time for Roland to give her a dress, but those were for the stage. More precisely, for the character she played on that stage. They oozed innocence to the point of being childish. This, clearly, was a sophisticated dress meant for a modern, sophisticated woman. This, in fact, could be worn by any woman she’d seen in the lobby last night. For good measure, she turned it over, just to make sure the garment had a fully covered back.

Something shiny peeked through the tissue at the corner of the box, where she found a pair of black patent-leather shoes—high-heeled with an ankle strap. Tucked inside the toe of one
shoe was a tin of face powder; in the other, a bright-red lipstick and a kohl pencil.

“Well, won’t I look smart having lunch at the Hotel Alexandria?”

Speaking the words out loud gave Dorothy Lynn a boost to the courage she lacked. She took off her housecoat and strode into the bathroom, yanking the ribbon used to tie back her hair as she did so. A flip of the switch flooded the room with light—almost blinding as it bounced off the white porcelain tub and sink. She’d left her hairbrush on the marble pedestal between the two, and she grabbed it, pulling it through her long, chestnut hair which, she had to admit, would be beautifully complemented by the green of the dress.

She turned on the tap and held the bristles of her brush under the running water before going over her hair one more time, leaving it smooth and damp. After braiding it, she rolled and pinned the plaits at the nape of her neck in the style that looked much more fashionable under the guidance of Agnes, or even Darlene. She washed her face with the cake of scented soap in the crystal dish on the sink’s edge and patted it dry with the thick, soft towel hanging from a brass hook on the wall. With inexperienced hands, she powdered her face and lightly kohled her eyes, leaving the deep-red lipstick for last. Some instinct told her to touch a finger to her lips, then to her cheeks, where she rubbed the stuff into orbs of a paler shade.

“Oh my.”

The mirror’s ornate, gilded frame held a new face for her this morning, and a confusing one at that. But then, she was still wearing her nightgown. Minutes later, even with the new dress clinging perfectly to her body, something seemed amiss, like a mesh of different fashions had come to roost upon her—the
makeup not suited to her face, the dress too revealing of her shape, her hair clinging to a world that had disappeared with the Great War. Something was missing.

And then she remembered the scarf.

It was silk, she knew, but heavier than any silk she could remember, and the colors within its pattern were as rich as those in the woods back home. A good yard long and eight inches wide, she held it at arm’s length, trying to decide exactly what to do. She sat down on the edge of the bed, dislodging Roland’s note, sending it fluttering to the floor. When she bent to pick it up, she noticed for the first time a drawing on the back of it—a simple sketch, really, of a woman who looked remarkably like Dorothy Lynn, her head wrapped in a scarf remarkably like this one, creating a cap that tied in a knot under one ear, left long over the disappearing shoulder.

He knew.

Using the picture as a guide, she created the same look on her real, live self.

Now, what to do for the intervening hour before she was to meet Roland downstairs? She glanced over to the upholstered wingback chair by the window, where her guitar sat upright, as if waiting. It had been days since she touched it—quite possibly the longest time she’d ever gone without at least strumming a few notes. She crossed over to it, but instead of opening the case, she pulled open the curtains, filling the room with sun. Then, not quite satisfied, she opened the window and leaned out, breathing in the air tinged with the unmistakable scent of the nearby ocean. Below her was a bustling street—automobiles and people vying to see who could create the most noise. It had been just that way last night, and she imagined it was possible that Los Angeles never did experience the natural cycle of sleep and restoration.

She closed her eyes and listened for a song, drumming her fingers on the sill in search of a rhythm, but none came. She leaned farther out, imagining the crowd below to be nothing more than an audience unleashed, hoping something worthy would come from her voice. Instead, she was met with a sharp whistle down below and opened her eyes to see a middle-aged man looking straight up at her.

“Hey, doll!” His voice easily carried up the four stories. “G’head and jump. I’ll catch ya!”

He held his arms wide open in anticipation of an embrace, and she pulled herself quickly back inside, slamming the window shut.

Dorothy Lynn moved as far away from the window as she could and sat on the unrumpled side of the bed next to the ticking clock. Still nearly an hour before she was supposed to meet Roland. Having spent so many nights in hotels while traveling with Sister Aimee, she knew what she would find upon opening the bedside table, and there it was. The Holy Bible, with the familiar Gideons’ light.

She took the Bible from the drawer and opened the front pages, seeking the list of Scripture references intended to guide the reader to passages that would provide comfort and instruction in times of need.

The Way of Salvation.

Comfort in Time of Loneliness.

Courage in Time of Fear.

Strength in Time of Temptation.

And more . . .

At this moment, so many applied, but given the encounter
at the window and the uncertain days ahead, she ran her finger down the page, registering the verses meant to give “Courage in Time of Fear.” Though the chapter and verse were instantly familiar, she turned to the passage, the sixth chapter of Ephesians.

Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

Dorothy Lynn closed the book and went once again to study her reflection. Respectable, modest, and—even in her limited estimation—fashionable. How proud Darlene would be at the transformation, not only in her outer appearance, but her inner appreciation. The dresses she’d brought from Heron’s Nest lay forgotten at the bottom of her trunk, and the thought of wearing them seemed as foreign as wearing something like this had once been. In this outfit, she could belong with any other stylish woman on the streets, in the lobby, even in the magazines.

And what had that gotten her when she ventured a peek out the window?

“‘Wherefore,’” she said, quoting from memory, “‘take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.’”

Still early, and feeling fully armed against wickedness, she walked out of the room, locking the door behind her, and dropped the room key into her purse. There was one panic-ridden second when she couldn’t remember which way to turn
to find the elevator, but a ding from around the nearest corner guided her steps.