All for a Song (28 page)

The woman in the mirror was more familiar than not. She’d fought valiantly in at least three languages to keep her hair free from the snapping scissors. The resulting style—a product of countless hot irons and pins—looked miraculously like a bob, especially tucked underneath the jeweled headband. Her eyes were heavily kohled and shadowed, her lips and cheeks rouged. When they’d finished, the gaggle of women assigned to her transformation insisted on walking her back to the hotel, declaring that it would be a disaster if Roland were to see her before she was complete.

Meaning,
la rouge
.

Now, at quarter to eight, she stood in her room at the Alexandria, waiting, while a few blocks away at Les Femmes en Vogue, Celine could rest in triumph: Dorothy Lynn was wearing the dress. It was red—what there was of it—made of alternating panels of silk and chiffon, sleeveless, and cut with a deep V in the front and the back. She’d known the minute it dropped over her shoulders that it was perfect. Her fears of being exposed disappeared behind the flashes of her own flesh. If anything, she was hidden. Disguised. Alone in this room, Dorothy Lynn Dunbar had disappeared, not to be found again until she heard the familiar knock on the door.

“Baby,” Roland said, as punctuation to a long, wolfish whistle. “I’m not always right about everything, but when I am . . .”

“Enough,” Dorothy Lynn said, suddenly feeling as bare and red as the dress. “I can’t go out like this.”

“
Au contraire,
sweetheart.” He walked right past her, carrying
a box with
Les Femmes en Vogue
etched in gold on the lid, which he dropped unceremoniously on the bed. “I think it would be a crime for you
not
to go out like this. Fair warning, though. You stick right with me.”

“You’re not helping your case, Mr. Lundi.” But already, after just a few minutes under his gaze, she felt her heart settle into a normal rhythm and her skin thicken around her.

“Stop with the ‘Mr. Lundi’ nonsense. Makes me feel old, and makes you sound like a little girl, which you’re not.”

“Not in this dress. It’s scandalous. What would my mother say?”

“Your mother isn’t here.”

“Brent wouldn’t approve.”

“He would if he could see you.”

She went back to the mirror, trying to see herself through Brent’s eyes. More so, to imagine him standing behind her. Instead, Roland appeared. He wore an impeccably cut black tuxedo, set off by crisp white collar and cuffs. His hair was parted far to one side and slicked back, accentuating the angles of his dark, handsome face; his eyes sparkled like the topaz stones in his cuff links. She leaned back because he smelled good too—clean and spicy, nothing like his everyday scent of travel and tobacco.

“That color?” His breath warmed her neck. “That red against your skin looks like a rose in the snow.”

“Roses don’t belong in snow. They’d die.”

“They die anyway, don’t they? I suppose you’d think it a better fate to be pressed away in some book, dried and flat forever. Wouldn’t it be better to have one moment of stunning beauty?”

Her heart pounded as every nerve in her body reached to
tickle the underside of her skin. “Just what are you suggestin’, Mr. Lundi?” Far too dangerous to call him anything else.

“Relax,
ma petite
rose. It’s going to be a big movie crowd there tonight. Lots of opportunities to shake hands and rub shoulders and ask if any of them have a guy working on their set named Donny Dunbar. It’s a catchy-enough name, but if I have his beautiful, sad sister in tow, it might jog a few more memories.”

Still not completely convinced of his motives, she nonetheless allowed herself the space of a long, deep breath as she weighed the danger of going out against the missed opportunity if she were to stay here alone.

“Do you really think we might find him?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but we’ll sure have a blast trying.”

“And you’re not worried about what Sister Aimee will say when she finds out?”

They’d been speaking to each other through their reflections. He stepped away from her, out of the frame. “As of this minute,” he said, patting his pockets in the familiar routine of searching for a cigarette, “I am my own man. Cut loose and free.”

“Please don’t smoke in here,” Dorothy Lynn said. The odorous film left by previous tenants was horrible enough.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “perhaps not totally free. Shall we?”

This, then, was her time to decide, and she did. “Lead on.”

“Wait a minute.” He stopped to open the box and produced a black fringed shawl embellished with roses embroidered in a silk that perfectly matched the shade of her dress. “Something to throw over your shoulders to keep the chill—and the dogs—at bay.”

“Thank you,” she said, though she felt much less gratitude than her tone might suggest. “Where do you come up with these things?”

“I’m a resourceful man,” he said, and she knew he’d elaborate no further. “By the way, how do I look?”

“Handsome as always.” Here, she underplayed her enthusiasm to avoid gushing, for he looked almost nothing like always.

He offered her his arm, and before she could register any other protest, she took it, holding herself close to him as they walked down the hall.

“Will the car be waiting out front?” she asked once they were in the elevator, not because she needed to know, but because the space felt too heavy with silence.

“I’ll call for it from the lobby. I didn’t know how much of a fight you were going to put up.”

This comment brought a snicker from the boy working the elevator and prompted Dorothy Lynn to pinch the inside of Roland’s arm, though she didn’t let go of her grip.

Like never before, the lush lobby of the Alexandria Hotel welcomed her as she stepped across the lift’s threshold. Eyes turned, as she knew they would; a few whispered comments identified her as the woman who had been singing at the piano the previous morning. She buried her face in Roland’s shoulder, taking care not to smudge her makeup.

“Don’t bother hiding,” he whispered. “They know a star when they see one.”

“I’m not a star,” she said with a smile tugging at every word.

“Not yet. But I tell you, sweetheart, give me a month, and you’d be on magazines.”

For reasons far different from those of her first day in the place, Dorothy Lynn dreaded being left alone for even a single minute among the potted palms and marbled columns. Already, the few scraps of silk she wore felt like they were melting away.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said, not sure if he was
listening, as his eyes roamed the room behind her, occasionally lighting up in greeting.

“To take the car?”

“To go.”

He made a sound of impatience, took her arm, and steered her away from the desk. “Well, then, we need to come to a decision.”

“I just . . . I’m not myself. This isn’t me.”

“All the more reason, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know of a single person who would approve, including myself.”

“I don’t believe you. About the others, of course. But you? If there wasn’t some tiny, important part of you that didn’t think this was a gas, then you wouldn’t be here. Not in this lobby, not in this state. Look, I’m no kidnapper. I’m not going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out the door. In ten minutes my car will be outside, and I’ll be behind the wheel. If you want to join me, fine. If not, go upstairs, order up some supper, and go to bed. Your company is not so delightful that I’ll grovel for it.”

And he left.

A slap would have stung less. In the wake of his exit, she couldn’t be sure if he was hurt by her lack of trust or frustrated by her indecision. Either way, she remained rooted to the floor, desiring with half her heart to follow him, if only the other half would give its permission. But then, the other half of her heart wasn’t here. It was back home enjoying a peaceful, quiet Saturday night.

She had ten minutes. Long enough to obtain a blessing.

With quick, measured steps, she headed toward the row of phone booths across the lobby, but soon realized she’d forgotten to grab her purse when she left the room. Quicker steps brought
her back to the concierge’s desk, where the thick man with a thin moustache seemed quite eager to help.

“I’m afraid I’m locked out of my room,” she said, having a clear memory of Roland locking her door behind them. He must have his own key.

“And I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the concierge said with one side of his moustache twitched up in a smirk. “The room is in Mr. Lundi’s name, after all.”

Some deep, primal instinct guided her movements, and with one coquettish shrug, the black silk shawl dropped off her bare shoulders, and his moustache twitched the other way.

“You see,” she continued, leaning forward, “I need to make a phone call, and I left my purse in the room.”

“You have a telephone in your purse?” He was so obviously pleased with the joke, she pretended to be too.

“No, but I have a bunch of nickels.”

He used one chubby finger to trace his moustache, perhaps trying to settle it back into place, and with the other hand pushed a gilded candlestick telephone to the front of the desk.

“You’re welcome to use mine.” He trilled the final word.

“It’s long distance.”

“My darling girl, look around you. Do you think we are concerned about the cost of a phone call?”

Dorothy Lynn was more concerned about the fact that this man would be listening in on her conversation, but time was of the essence. She thanked him with a broad smile and edged as far away as the cord would allow. At the sound of the operator’s voice, she almost asked for long distance, St. Louis, to speak with her sister, but Darlene was not the one to provide absolution. For that, only one voice would do, and within a minute, she heard a very familiar greeting on the line.

“Hello, Jessup? It’s Dorothy Lynn Dunbar.”

She waited to hear the click on the line indicating that Mrs. Tully, the operator, had hung up, but heard nothing until Jessup himself said, “Get off the line, Mary Lou.”

At least it would take some time before the town gossips heard about the conversation.

“Well, girl,” Jessup said, “you’re just the voice for empty ears.”

The smile she continued to flash at the nosy concierge turned into something genuine at the familiar greeting. “You, too. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a lot of time. Is there anyone there who can fetch Brent—Pastor Logan—to the phone?”

“Well, not exactly . . .” He stretched his words long enough to reach through the lines, and she felt herself entangled in their grip. Jessup’s place was never empty.

“I really can’t leave a message. I need to talk to him, and I haven’t much time.”

“Is everything all right, Miss Dorothy?”

“It’s fine.” Only the thinly veiled curiosity of the concierge kept her tears at bay. Bad enough he could hear every word; she wouldn’t let him see her cry, too. “I—I just haven’t spoken with him in a while. You know, empty ears and all. . . .”

Jessup cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he made an obvious attempt to keep his voice low.

“You have to tell me right now, Miss Dorothy. Are you hurt? Are you in danger?”

“Well, of course not,” she said, masking her trepidation in cheer. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I don’t know why you young people can’t leave an old man out of your business.”

She couldn’t be sure, but something about the way he said the last sentence made her feel like he wasn’t talking to her at all.

“Jessup?”

Then, muffled, “Seems to me you could tell her that yourself.”

“Jessup?” She spoke loudly enough that even those coolly trying to ignore her stared openly. “Jessup, is Brent there? Can you put him on?”

But there was no conversation coming from the other end, just barely audible masculine murmuring followed by silence.

“Hello?” She toggled the receiver. “Operator? Hello?” The concierge was looking at her with nothing less than pity as he eased the phone out of her grip. “We seem to have been disconnected,” Dorothy Lynn said, fighting for her composure.

“Indeed,” he said, obviously unconvinced. “Would you like to try again?”

He’d been there. Brent had been sitting
right there
, and he wouldn’t talk to her. True, she’d promised not to speak to him until she returned home, and he was only trying to help her stay true to her word. To keep her from being even the least bit dishonest, because how could she lie to a man who wouldn’t speak to her? But while his silence bought him honesty, it denied her pardon.

Perhaps her own heart was enough after all.

“No,” she told the concierge, “I don’t need to try again tonight.”

She clutched the shawl around her shoulders and, feeling confident even in the unfamiliar shoes, ran across the lobby and through the front door, just in time to call out Roland’s name before he drove away.

They drove through hills so far away from the lights of the city that Dorothy Lynn began to wonder if the whole idea of a party wasn’t really just a ruse to get her away from the hotel.

“You’re sure you know where we’re going?”