All for a Song (27 page)

“But Sister Aimee said—”

“Sister Aimee hasn’t been cultivating a friendship with the manager for the past five years. She’s never sent his kids a birthday present or given a five-dollar New Year’s bonus to every single bellman, maid, and porter in the place. We’ll leave when I say we leave.”

The finality in his voice ruled out further argument, making her feel at once reckless and wild, yet protected and safe. Just a month ago, if anyone had asked her what it meant to feel excited, she would have blushed, recalling the moments spent alone with Brent—in his car, on the front porch swing, off the side of the path that led from his church to her home. Sweet, powerful embraces, the two of them wrapped together. Always, with Brent, there’d been a sense of inevitable security. Nothing at risk, no doubt of reward. There’d been no question she could ask that wouldn’t have an answer waiting.

But here, with her bare feet perched on the edge of the world, her future stretched beyond the horizon. Cocooned by the sound of the crashing waves, she could easily imagine herself completely alone—alone with Roland, anyway. This was different from the solitude of the forest. From here, God’s plans seemed much, much bigger, crafted from people and places she never knew existed. Strange how, a world away from anything familiar, she could still feel utterly and completely safe—like curling up in her father’s lap, or resting in Brent’s embrace. Simply being in Roland’s presence brought back memories of both.

“It is magnificent,” she said after a time. “Makes you think you might be able to go on livin’ forever. Like lookin’ at eternity.”

“But it’s not.” He stopped and turned to look out to where the ocean touched the sky. “Even it has its limits. Its beginning and end.” He held up a hand. “‘Who shut up the sea with doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb? When I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick darkness a swaddlingband for it, and brake up for it my decreed place, and set bars and doors, and said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed?’”

She watched him, mesmerized. Never mind that the world encompassed the two of them. At that moment only Roland stood between her and the horizon. He recited the words from the book of Job—no, he
spoke
the words of God, making her feel as if they had been recorded in ancient time for the sole purpose of resurrection in this moment. No pulpit had ever made Brent sound so powerful; never had the sound of Scripture ever stolen her breath.

When Roland finally broke free of his soliloquy, he turned to her and winked. “See? She’s not the only one who knows her Scriptures.”

“You could be an actor.”

He cocked a brow. “Not a minister?”

“You’re too handsome.” The words were out before she could stop them, and she couldn’t hide her embarrassment.

“Isn’t your minister handsome?”

“He is.” Dorothy Lynn wasn’t quite ready, yet, to bring Brent into the conversation. She took the initiative and set them strolling again. “In a more quiet, understated way.”

“And you’re crazy about him.”

“I am.”

“Crazy enough to forget about all of this?”

A burst of laughter came from a distance as a group of people—all young and vibrant in the sun—tumbled across each other, running toward the water. The men looked so healthy, lean, and strong. The women, too, the hems of their dark suits cut to reveal the entire length of their legs. Some without stockings. All bare-armed and bare-shouldered. Dorothy Lynn wore more fabric
under
her clothes.

For just a moment, they stole her answer. Imagine life here—one carefree day after another, just like this. Sea and sand and salt. Waking up and deciding where to go, what to do, how to fill a day. The sound of the waves took on the cadence of a cheering crowd that both tempted and taunted, and she forced a reply. “Yes.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You don’t need to be.”

They moved away from the shoreline up onto the beach, where Roland spread the blanket out in a flourish and gestured for her to sit. It seemed such an intimate invitation, and her discomfort must have shown, because he took pains to stretch the blanket even wider before perching on the outmost corner.
“Trust me when I tell you, sweetheart, you’re not my type. I prefer my ladies legal.”

“I’m goin’ to be nineteen in two weeks.”

“You’re going to be another man’s wife in two weeks too. Or had you forgotten?”

She sat at the top corner of the blanket and stretched her legs out in front of her, trying not to feel shock when Roland laid himself flat on his back, his head a mere arm’s length from her hip, his hat resting atop his face.

“Just twenty minutes or so,” he said, his voice muffled. “You use this time to contemplate all of God and nature. Then we’ll go home.”

Home.
For as long as they were welcome, anyway. For the moment, home was Roland, wherever he might be.

She watched the couples frolicking down the way. Certainly they must be nearly her age, but she felt so much older. Would Brent ever engage in such activity? She tried to picture him in one of those suits, his broad shoulders intersected by the straps of the top, his legs . . . She’d never seen his legs. In fact, she’d never seen as much of any man before today.

To keep her thoughts pure, she turned her gaze to the ocean, though her attention and eyes often glanced down at the man who snoozed beside her. She would miss him once she got home. He’d shared with her moments of passionate worship and quiet contemplation.

And she could never tell a soul. Not Darlene, not Ma, and certainly not Brent. How could she explain friendship with such a dashing, worldly gentleman? And those new stirrings, suggesting that it could be something more? Blame the warmth of the sun, the surging of the waves, the scenery of half-naked bodies engaged in such provocative—yet innocent—physicality.

Small snoring sounds were coming from under his hat. That, combined with the lapping waves and drowsy light, began to tug on Dorothy Lynn’s strength. She scooted halfway down the blanket and, maintaining the distance between them, mimicked Roland’s position. She brought the scarf lofting down over her face and closed her eyes. Hands folded over her chest, she envisioned herself as a narrow plank.

“Dorothy?” His voice seemed a continent away, even though he was close enough to touch.

“Mm-hmm?”

“Later, when we’re driving back? Remind me that I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”

She made a soft sound of promise before succumbing to the darkness of salt and sand and silk.

As it turned out, Roland kept his idea to himself on the ride back to the Alexandria, where they shared an early supper in the dining room before parting company for the night. At his instruction, Dorothy Lynn arrived at the same table the next morning to find a plate of scrambled eggs and a pot of coffee awaiting.

“Today, my girl, I’m taking you shopping for a dress.”

“I have a dress, Mr. Lundi. A dozen of them. You’ve already done so much—”

“I guarantee you don’t have a dress for where we’re going tonight.” He looked mischievous, completely reinvigorated, and recovered from yesterday’s blow.

“Is this your big idea, then?”

He took a swig of orange juice. “I’m taking you to a premiere tonight. New Buster Keaton film. Aimee loves that guy. I had toshake a lot of hands to get these tickets, and they were waitingforme at the front desk when we got back yesterday afternoon.”

“Are you sure? After yesterday, I don’t know how comfortable I’d feel seein’ her again.”

He winked. “She doesn’t know. These were left for me, and I just got fired.”

“Why take me?”

“Because the movie world is smaller than the smallest town, and if we talk to enough people, somebody will know somebody who knows somebody who knows your brother.”

Instantly, she brightened. “Do you really think so?”

“It’s worth a shot. I’ve made arrangements at a boutique where Aimee has an account. They’re expecting us later this afternoon. And after that, your hair. How do you feel about cutting it?”

She touched a tuft self-consciously. “Oh, Mr. Lundi. I couldn’t—”

“Just remember, time was you thought you couldn’t sing in front of a crowd, either.”

The shop was called Les Femmes en Vogue—something Dorothy Lynn flatly refused to say aloud after Roland ridiculed her first attempts during their fifteen-minute walk from the Alexandria.

“I’ve called ahead,” Roland said by way of assuaging her feelings, “with all your details. Celine’s the best.”

She couldn’t imagine what details he could be talking about. Her size? Maybe, and the event, which she understood to be nothing less than a fancy party filled with movie stars. The thought of going to such a thing tumbled her breakfast, and she willed herself not to think on it anymore, especially when she walked into the pink-and-white foyer of Les Femmes en Vogue.

“Roland!” The woman’s voice was deep and throaty, befitting its accent that made
Roland
sound like some foreign delicacy.

“Celine.”

The two exchanged brief kisses to each other’s cheeks, for which the slender woman had to bend. Then, to Dorothy Lynn’s surprise, Celine offered her the same greeting.

“This is she?”

“This is.”

“And she is lovely?”

Dorothy Lynn wasn’t sure if the phrase sounded like a question because of the woman’s accent or her surprise at Roland’s judgment.

“She’s in your hands,” he said, heading toward the door. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Celine’s veneer of charm cracked only slightly once she was alone with Dorothy Lynn. “You sit,” she said, using her long cigarette holder to point to a damask-covered chair in the corner. She went to a curtained doorway and hissed something in French. Soon after, a young woman dressed head to toe in shimmering green silk appeared.

“This one?” Celine said.

It took a moment for Dorothy Lynn to realize the woman was talking to her. “It’s beautiful,” she said at last.

Celine looked at the model, then Dorothy Lynn, then the model again; she took a drag on her cigarette and said,
“Non.”

With absolutely no change of expression, the model left, and at Celine’s command, another—identical, as far as Dorothy Lynn could tell—stood in her place. She wore a gown of diagonal black and silver stripes and a jeweled cap.

“This one?”

“Looks like a zebra,” Dorothy Lynn said.

Celine’s wrinkled look of disdain was clearly meant for Dorothy Lynn’s commentary, not the dress.
“Non.”

This time, the model gave Dorothy Lynn a withering glare clear up to the moment she disappeared behind the curtain.

“I’m sorry,” Dorothy Lynn said. “I didn’t mean—”

It took only one raised eyebrow to stanch her apology, at which point, never taking her eyes off Dorothy Lynn, Celine bared her teeth and said,
“La rouge.”

This time, when the girl came out, Dorothy Lynn sat up straighter in the chair and shook her head. “No.”

“Oui.”

She attempted the accent.
“Non.”

Celine strode across the room—a frightening vision—and placed a single thin, lacquer-tipped nail in the center of Dorothy Lynn’s forehead. “Monsieur Lundi? He say I decide. I choose
la rouge
.”

“But I couldn’t—”

“Up.”

Dorothy Lynn stood, feeling very much like prize livestock at a county fair.

“Tournez.”

She turned, slowly.

Again, Celine looked at the model, then Dorothy Lynn, then the model again. This time, when she bared her teeth, it was in a triumphant grin. “
La rouge. C’est parfait.
We will deliver by six o’clock.”

Dorothy Lynn knew she would win no argument with Celine, so she simply said, “Thank you,” and planned to wage war with Roland later in the day. She had no reason to go to a movie premiere and no business going
anywhere
in that dress.

Well aware that protest would be futile, she allowed herself to be handed over to a woman in a pale-blue smock who appeared at Celine’s calling.

“Les cheveux,”
she said, bringing Dorothy Lynn to full understanding as she tugged at her hair.
“Terrible.”

That she understood too.