All for a Song
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All for a Song
Copyright © 2013 by Allison Pittman. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of lithograph copyright © Linda Steward/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of vintage pattern copyright © Duncan Walker/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman copyright © Renee Keith/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.
Cover scroll illustration copyright © ANGELGILD/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2010 by Lisa Pittman. All rights reserved.
Designed by Ron Kaufmann
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the
Holy Bible
, King James Version.
Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the
Holy Bible
, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
All for a Song
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pittman, Allison.
All for a song / Allison Pittman.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4143-6680-7 (sc)
I. Title.
PS3616.I885A79 2013
813'.6—dc23 2012028214
Build: 2013-04-08 12:48:17
For my family—
extended in number,
abundant in faith,
gifted with grace
Contents
Acknowledgments
First Interlude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Second Interlude
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Third Interlude
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Fourth Interlude
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Fifth Interlude
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Sixth Interlude
Chapter Twenty
Seventh Interlude
Discussion Questions
A Note from the Author
About the Author
So I decided there is nothing better than to enjoy food and drink and to find satisfaction in work. Then I realized that these pleasures are from the hand of God. For who can eat or enjoy anything apart from him?
ECCLESIASTES 2:24-25 (NLT)
What a world of stories opened when my agent, Bill Jensen, asked, “Have you ever heard of Aimee Semple McPherson?” Thank you for introducing me to this passionate woman of God, and thank you for always being an ear and a shoulder and a champion.
I feel so blessed to be a part of the Tyndale family—thank you for your support and your patience and for trusting me with your family name.
And as for my little family at home . . . you all have had to make a lot of sacrifices so that I could step through the door God opened for me. I am thankful every day for the life we share together. We see God’s mercy played out minute by minute, and I marvel at his perfection in meeting all of our needs.
That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.
ECCLESIASTES 1:15
BREATH OF ANGELS NURSING HOME
OCTOBER 13, 2010—11:56 P.M.
Ma always called it cheating to stay up past midnight.
“Tomorrow don’t come with the dawn,” she’d said. “When that big hand sweeps across the top, it’s past midnight. End of one day, start of the next. It’s like stealing two for the price of the one God gave you.”
In the dark, of course, she can’t see the sweeping hands. But she hears them. Steady, rhythmic ticks coming from the same round-faced clock that once graced the big stone mantel in her parents’ home. One of the only possessions she has from that place. In just a few minutes, she’ll close her eyes and transport herself back there, but for now, she directs stubborn, sleepy attention to the harsh, glaring red numbers on the table next to her pillow.
11:57.
Three more minutes until this day passes into the next.
It’s part of her rhythm, dozing through the evening only to wake up in time to witness the changing of the day. Or at least the first few minutes of it. Cheating not God, but death, living a little longer than anybody imagined possible. As a child, it had been a challenge, sneaking out of bed to gaze at the clock face by the waning light of the fire. These days, it’s less of a game, given how few days must be left.
11:58.
A tune enters her head, filling in the spaces between the ticking of the
clock. The fingers of her right hand, thin and curled in upon themselves, move in listless strumming of silent strings as her left hand contorts to create chords on the neck of an invisible guitar.
I know not why God’s wondrous grace to me he hath made known . . .
She hears a million voices joining in, her own, clear and strong, above them. Somewhere at the edge of hearing, a less familiar sound pierces the darkness. Tuneless, wordless. The only kind she’s made since that blinding light took her voice away.
A soft knock on the door—a mere formality, really. She turns her head.
“Miss Lynnie? Everything okay in here?”
She hates that her singing could somehow be mistaken for a cry for help. So she stops and nods, bringing her fingers to stillness at her sides. She looks back at the clock.
11:59.
She hasn’t missed it.
“You ought to be asleep by now.”
Now soft shoes bring the even softer body of Patricia Betten, RN, to the bedside. She hears every swish of the woman’s barrel-like thighs.
“Let me tuck you in, make you a little more comfortable.”
She surrenders to Nurse Betten’s ministrations, keeping her arms still as those pudgy, purposeful hands smooth the thin sheet and blanket. Yet another blanket is dropped over her feet, anchoring her to the bed with its warmth.
“There, there,” the nurse prattles on, obviously quite pleased with her efforts. “Rest up. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
12:01.
Nurse Betten’s wrong.
The big day’s today.
Late.
Late. Late.
She could feel both moss and mud caught up between her toes as she ran across the soft carpet of the forest floor. With one hand she clutched her cardboard-covered journal to her heart. The other gripped the neck of the guitar slung across her back. Every few steps, the strings would brush against her swiftly moving hip and elicit an odd, disjointed chord.
It was too dark for shadows, meaning Ma would have supper on the table. Maybe even eaten and taken off again. Bad enough Dorothy Lynn hadn’t been home in time to help with the fixing, but to be late to the eating—well, there was no excuse.