All for a Song (10 page)

Darlene patted her pregnant belly. “I’ll take Roy over Rudy any day.”

Dorothy Lynn held her tongue, hoping her sister wouldn’t return the question. Not that her answer would be any different—it just seemed indecent to admit to such feelings without the benefit of marriage.

When they once again passed by the New Grand Central Theater, shouts coming from the crowd inside piqued her curiosity.

“Dar—let’s go inside.”

“Are you kidding?” She let out a long, jaw-stretching yawn. “It’s late.”

“It wasn’t too late for chow mein. C’mon, just for a minute?”

Darlene looked up and down the street, almost furtively, as if any of the hundreds of people milling about would give their actions a passing thought. “All right. For a minute.”

Though the lobby of the New Grand Central was humble in contrast to the luxurious Missouri, it had its own elegant charm. The minute they stepped inside, a dark-suited gentleman with a sweaty brow strode directly toward them, extending his hand. “Good evening, sisters. There’s still plenty of time to hear a blessing from the Lord.”

Darlene clutched her purse closer, but Dorothy Lynn allowed her hand to be taken by his moist grip. “Shall we go on in?”

He swept his arms in a wide, welcoming gesture. “Absolutely. And may God bless you.”

Walking into the auditorium, it was immediately clear that this theater did not boast the Pike’s Peak air-conditioning of its cousin down the street. The air was thick and hot, not only because of the late summer’s night, but due to the hundreds of people packed into the seats. Although not all of them were actually
in
their seats. Here and there, clumps of people were standing, arms raised and waving like a line of laundry in a gale. Where the crowd watching the movie had comported itself in cool, reserved silence save for the calm, rippling applause, the people in here were worked up into some sort of frenzy.

And at the front of it all, a vision Dorothy Lynn would never have imagined could exist.

She was tall. Or at least she
seemed
tall—from their vantage point at the back of the theater, it was hard to tell. But somehow the woman on the stage looked like she would tower over anyone who crossed her path. Her hair, cut in a stylish bob, was a cap of pale gold atop the pure white column of her dress. And though
Dorothy Lynn knew nothing of the fabric, she felt sure the dress was sateen. No other word could possibly describe its milk-like shine.

“That’s her,” Darlene said, as if pointing out the local disgrace.

“What’s her name again?”

“Aimee Semple McPherson. Sister Aimee, they call her.”

“They, who?”

“They, everybody. She’s in all the papers.”

Sister Aimee stood behind the microphone. Arms outstretched, she shouted, “Are you ready?”

A wave of noise erupted, following Sister Aimee as she strode from one side of the stage to the other. Dorothy Lynn felt a tug on her body with every step, coming to rest only when the woman was behind the microphone once more to repeat, “I’ll say it again. Are you ready?”

An even bigger response this time, which hardly seemed possible. This time half the audience jumped to their feet. Some fell into the arms of others, weeping; others shouted and whooped in what must have been spiritual approval. Men tossed their hats into the air. At least three women fainted.

Something in Dorothy Lynn’s core was dying to respond, even if she wasn’t sure exactly what she was ready for.

“We need to tell them!” Sister Aimee paced all around the microphone, stopping only to speak. “From the highest mountaintop to the deepest valley! And in the depths of our lost cities.”

She spoke with an unfamiliar accent and in a cadence Dorothy Lynn had never heard coming from a woman. Simultaneously thin and strong—like a wire.

“Jesus!”

One word, one name, and the wire pulled tight. The crowd echoed, “Jesus! Jesus!” Dorothy Lynn’s throat filled with the
sound,
Jesus!
But there at the back, standing at the elbow of her disapproving sister, she dared not even give in to a whisper.

“Are you ready for Jesus?”

A single shout splintered into a thousand voices, and Sister Aimee grew taller.

“Are you ready for Jesus?”

Oh, how they were ready.

“Are you ready to meet your Savior? Are you ready to be his bride?”

“Come on,” Darlene said, grabbing her arm. “Our father would kill us twice if he saw us in here.”

Had she not been compelled by her sister’s strong grip, nothing would have moved Dorothy Lynn from that spot—unless it was to join those people who had spilled into the aisle, making a slow, steady pilgrimage to the stage.

Walking back into the lobby did nothing to break the spell. Her mind echoed with the question.

Are you ready?

There was some measure of relief in escaping the heat of the crowd, and Darlene moved astonishingly fast for a woman in her condition, both of which made Dorothy Lynn breathless, her mind transfixed on the echoes coming from behind the door. She trusted her body to follow her sister’s steps and was startled when she found herself stopping short, her nose plowing into Darlene’s soft shoulder.

She looked up to see what had brought a halt to their hasty escape and immediately understood.

The man looked like he belonged in the other theater—not in the audience watching the movie, but on the screen. He was only half a head taller than the sisters, with a slim body that perfectly fit its wrinkle-free linen suit. His dark hair rippled in
a single slick wave, and his dark eyes sparkled like jet beads in firelight.

“Ladies.” His hands were clasped behind his back, making not one move to hinder them, yet neither sister attempted to take a step around him. “I trust all is well?” His voice had a certain hoarseness to it, as if he’d spent the first part of the day shouting into a windstorm.

“No, it’s not.” Darlene positioned herself between Dorothy Lynn and the man, a measure of protection the younger sister somewhat resented.

“I know it can be an overwhelming thing,” he said, opening his arms in a wide, comforting gesture, “when you think you are hearing the very voice of God—”

“We didn’t hear the voice of God,” Darlene said, dismissive and bossy.

He smiled. Dorothy Lynn had never seen teeth so even and white.

“You came in here for a reason. Seeking something, aren’t you?”

“No,” Darlene said. “Just a mild curiosity. Come on, Dot.” She reinforced her grip and trotted them past, and whether it was poor maneuvering on her part or deliberate on his, Dorothy Lynn’s bare arm brushed the sleeve of his suit, and she turned her head to find him staring right at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My sister’s condition. She’s real tired.”

He put his hands in his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Don’t be afraid to listen to your own heart, sister. We’ll be here tomorrow night.”

They stood in a valley surrounded by mountains of fabric under the direction of Mrs. Lorick, the proprietress of the store. For more than an hour, they had been pulling bolts from the shelves, setting free rippling brooks of material to run along the cutting counter. Darlene and Mrs. Lorick seemed to think that the fate of the marriage itself rested in the drape and length of the wedding gown.

Dorothy Lynn might have been ignorant about fabrics before, but she could by now identify a crepe de chine in her sleep, blindfolded, with both hands tethered by bric-a-brac. Never had she imagined that there were so many shades of white: ivory, eggshell, ecru. But all the conversation and planning washed over her, much as the waves of fabric wafted over her ever-slumping shoulder. She felt no connection to any of it. Every interwoven thread called to mind the image of Sister Aimee, a towering voice on the stage bringing an audience of a thousand to their feet for Jesus. His bride.

And try as she might to flick the thought away, she couldn’t forget the impeccable white linen suit, or the man who wore it.

“Oh, she’s thinkin’ about her future mister,” Mrs. Lorick said.
She was a soft, plump woman with eyes the size of quarters swimming behind thick eyeglasses. Besides the measuring tape draped across her shoulders, a pair of sewing shears the length of her forearm hung in a jewel-encrusted holster at her waist, and she wore a lavender-colored pincushion like a corsage on her wrist. “You just tell me all about him, love, and then we’ll know exactly how to proceed.”

Then, in an unexpected move, Mrs. Lorick came to stand right in front of her, putting one chubby hand over Dorothy Lynn’s heart and the other over her own, saying, “Speak of him.”

Having a clear line of vision over the woman’s head, Dorothy Lynn cast a desperate glance at her sister, but the look of serene acceptance promised no hope of rescue.

“She did the same thing when I needed a gown for the Chamber of Commerce New Year’s Eve ball,” Darlene whispered, “and it was fabulous.”

“The ball or the gown?”

“Both.”

“Speak of him,” Mrs. Lorick insisted again.

Not knowing the length to which the woman might use her shears to encourage obedience, Dorothy Lynn licked her lips and spoke. “He—his name is Brent, Brent Logan. He’s tall. . . .”

Mrs. Lorick encouraged more.

“He’s twenty-five years old and a pastor. At my father’s church. He went to college for it in Chicago. So he’s very smart. He wears glasses when he reads. And he has a deep voice. . . .”

Mrs. Lorick pressed the heel of her hand into Dorothy Lynn’s rib, backing her up into the cutting counter for support.

“Deeper,” she said, her voice almost trancelike.

In the back of her mind, Dorothy Lynn heard the quivering violins from the movie the night before, as they had played
during the young rajah’s psychic visions. The thought of it made her giggle.

“Ah,” Mrs. Lorick sighed. “He makes you laugh.”

Dorothy Lynn scoured her brain trying to single out a time Brent had made her laugh, and while she couldn’t recall any particular joke, she answered that yes, he did, sometimes. Often.

“And he makes you feel safe?”

She thought of his broad shoulders, his strong arms that could wrap around her twice over. “Yes.”

“And you love him.”

She could feel the warmth of his shirt beneath her cheek during those moments they stole away together. Perhaps there was something to Mrs. Lorick’s touch, because she suddenly felt very warm, a flush rising to her cheeks at the thought of Brent’s embrace. The pounding of her heart bounced off the woman’s palm as it doubled its pace.

“I do.”

“And when you are ready to go to him, to walk down the aisle to be joined to him, this man who makes you feel so safe and loved, this man whom you love, this man you are prepared to have at your side for the rest of your life, wouldn’t you love to be wearing a headpiece trimmed with artificial-pearl-beaded lace?”

The question did nothing to jar Dorothy Lynn from her trance. “Yes,” she said. Of course she would.

“I thought so.” Mrs. Lorick removed her hand and turned to Darlene. “That’s a dollar fifty a yard.”

That
got Dorothy Lynn’s attention. “Oh, that’s too much.”

“Veils are rather old-fashioned,” Darlene said in a rare moment of support.

“Perfect for an old-fashioned girl marrying a man of God,” Mrs. Lorick countered.

“No,” Dorothy Lynn insisted. “I’d marry Brent in this if I had to.”

Here Darlene and Mrs. Lorick joined forces, clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, even though she was wearing the same fashionable green dress she’d borrowed the night before.

An hour later, they left with a large canvas sack filled with the rolled lengths of fabric, lace, and trimmings that would be transformed into a wedding dress. It was nearly noon, and the heat radiating up from the sidewalk felt like an assault.

“Let’s get home,” Darlene said. “The boys will be ready for lunch, and I’m sure Mrs. Mevreck next door will be ready to send them home.”

“You said we could go to the music store,” Dorothy Lynn protested, knowing she sounded childish. But she’d hauled her guitar on their errand run because of her sister’s promise.

“Tomorrow.” Darlene spoke with the experience of a seasoned negotiator. “Aren’t you eager to get started on the dress?”

“Of course I am. But—” knowing her sister’s unintentional selfishness, she chose another tack—“wouldn’t you like to have some time to sit under the fan and prop your feet up? Ask Mrs. Mevreck to make lunch while I get this over with, and then when I get home I won’t be so distracted.”

She tried to use the same hypnotic pace and tone that had worked so well for Mrs. Lorick and was rewarded when Darlene’s face turned to something peaceful, like she could feel the breeze already.

“That sounds nice. Do you know where you’re going?”

“Just two blocks up. Roy wrote it all down for me this morning before he left.”

“And you know which car to take home?”

The idea of being alone in the city should have terrified her;
instead, she felt herself swell with pride and anticipation. “Yes.” She thought so, anyway.

Darlene fished in her jeweled purse and produced a few coins for carfare.