All for a Song (42 page)

“Wait here,” he said, before disappearing into the bedroom. Seconds later he appeared, carrying a guitar case made of rich, chestnut-colored leather. Of course, he didn’t know about the one she’d acquired at Strawn Brothers, but this was far more beautiful and luxurious.

“Oh, Brent—it’s just what I needed.”

He grinned, obviously pleased. “Your mother told me you’d seen Donny. And I thought you might have returned his, but even before I knew, I wanted you to have something of your own. So . . . have a seat.”

His words were confusing at first; then, as understanding came, she backed to the worn sofa and sat down, allowing Brent to place the leather case in her lap. With trembling fingers, she opened the latches to reveal a beautiful new instrument—wood like silk, the color of honey, and the initials
DLL
burned within the curve. Dorothy Lynn Logan. Her new name.

“Oh, darling,” she said, her heart too full to say anything else. She lifted the instrument from its case and strummed a chord, wincing at the discordant sound. They laughed at the noise.

“That’s not what I imagined,” Brent said, sitting beside her.

“I can tune it. Not this minute, because my pipe—” she stopped herself, redirecting her comment away from what would forever be Donny’s guitar—“is with my luggage. But later? You’ll see.” She kissed his cheek. “It’ll be perfect.”

The night had turned cold when they stepped outside, and she gravitated instantly to his warmth. With his arm wrapped around her, they walked the twisting aisles of Heron’s Nest and the dark, familiar path through the forest to her mother’s home.

At first, she did not burden him with anything for which she’d sought redemption. But the rest—all the sweet, untarnished
memories, all the soul-searching moments of self-reflection—all these she told with unbridled enthusiasm. Tales that—here, so close to the ground—seemed more like the stuff of fantasy. She tried to capture the sound of thousands of voices raised in worship; she sang a few phrases of her song; she imitated the snooty concierge at the Hotel Alexandria and racked her brain trying to recall all the costumes at Silverlight Studios. She wept for the brother who would not come home.

They’d come to that point in the road that had afforded them their first opportunity to share their secrets, and Brent pulled her close just as he had when their love was new.

“There’s more,” she said, wondering how she could ever fit her confession between them.

“I know.” His words puffed in steam between them, so much sweeter than the smoke of a cigarette. “This man—”

“He saved me, my darling. From a life of wondering. He showed me everything I could have, if only I would walk away from you. From everything that’s real. From everything I’ve ever really wanted.”

She wished her presence could speak for her, that she could crawl inside his skin somehow and let him feel her love and be assured to a depth no words could ever reach. There remained a bridge to be crossed between the last man who had held her and the one who shared her breath this night.

“I did some stupid, stupid things, Brent. Things that I regret so deeply. . . .”

“Is coming home one of them?”

She looked up and rested her palm against his face, which felt warm despite the chill of the evening.

“Never. But you should know—”

“I will. Someday. But for tonight, what was lost has been
found.” Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her as deep as the trees grew high.

She would have willingly stayed there all night—for the rest of her life, really, were there some way to construct a dwelling around their embrace. In time, though, Brent pulled away, then stepped away, until only the touch of their hands kept them connected.

“You need to get home,” he said, his breath ragged in a way she recognized from times before, a way that dragged her heartbeat with it.

“I am home.”

He brought her hands to his lips. “I mean, to your mother’s. Before the whole town shows up.”

Still holding her hand, he guided her back onto the path, and they walked together as they had so many nights in the life they’d shared so far. Then, as always, they came into the clearing and Dorothy Lynn saw the familiar silhouette in the lamplight.

“Ma!”

Her feet leapt to new life, and she started to run up the path, but stopped short at the tug of Brent’s hand.

“Run with me,” she said, glancing back.

“Go on. You two have a wedding to plan. I’ll catch up.”

He kissed her again and held her so tightly she feared she’d break. Then, delighted and whole, she walked halfway up the path to her home before turning on her heel and running back to jump into his waiting arms.

“Do you see, darling?” she whispered, loving the feel of being lifted off the ground. “I will always, and forever, choose you.”

One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.

ECCLESIASTES 1:4

BREATH OF ANGELS

11:22 P.M.

The room is never completely dark, so she can still see the image on the photograph. Charlotte Hill, she supposes, is long gone. The night staff is never comfortable with visitors, not even those waiting out a death vigil. Because really, given the circumstances of those who have “moved on,” what night isn’t?

The last thing she remembers before giving in to sleep is Charlotte’s question.

“And who’s this?”

She left the photograph on the bedside table along with a pen as some sort of hint, she supposes, for Lynnie to identify the young man and woman in the picture.

With hair newly bobbed, she is wearing her peach-colored chiffon blouse and brocade skirt, Brent a brown suit. Lynnie knows this not only because she clearly remembers the day the picture was taken, but also because they’d had the photographer tint the prints.

Little wonder that nobody ever realizes it is a wedding picture upon first glance. There are no flowers, no veil. There had been a dress painstakingly sewn by her sister, but as she discovered the night before the wedding, it proved too ill-fitting to be worn with any serious intention. She’d been
tempted to run to the parsonage in the wee morning hours, pound on the door, and tell Brent the dress was unsuitable and she was leaving for St. Louis to retrieve her mother’s, but his trust—even as they joined their hands in matrimony—was still too fragile.

When she went to the market, she’d tell him, “I’ll be back.”

When she went to visit her newborn niece, she promised to return.

When she drove a car for the first time, went to the movies, succumbed to the twilight sleep of childbirth, she promised always and forever to choose him over any other. When she wandered into the darkness of mourning as she handed each one over to Jesus—two little girls, one little boy, and a grown hero in the Second World War—he alone gave her a reason to live.

And even when she stood bathed in the light of Glory, ready to meet her Savior, she followed the tide back to where Brent’s gnarled hand clasped hers. She’d opened her eyes to find him watching, waiting for one more chance to say, “Lynnie. You’re home.”

Months later, when it was he who slipped away, she’d kissed his wrinkled cheek and made her final promise.

All of this she wants to write on the back of the picture, but the space is so small and the story so big. Still, she turns it over, and in the pale-blue night-light writes,
My life.

And no more.

Her head fills with the words of a long-forgotten song. Not the one newly sprung to life, but one forever lost—tucked away in the pocket of a pretty pink dress—its words half-rubbed away for the shame of longing. It’s never had a tune, until now, when a million voices rise up in melody.

My world is full of pleasant places,

Surrounded by familiar faces,

Yet sometimes I yearn for life beyond these lines.

Finally she feels the Lord’s blessing to have such a yearning, and the boundary line is broken.

She opens her mouth and sings,
Jesus is coming . . .
But it’s Charlotte’s
voice she hears, which is just fine for Charlotte. Jesus will come for her, but is he coming for Lynnie? Or has she had it wrong all this time?

Late. Late. Late.

She feels both moss and mud caught up between her toes as she flies across the soft carpet of the forest floor, and somewhere far off the promise of a City beckons.

He’s waiting.

He’s
been
waiting.

And Lynnie runs.

1. At the beginning of the story, we meet Dorothy Lynn on the night before her 107th birthday. What are your thoughts—or fears—about living for an entire century?
   
2. Dorothy Lynn worships God through her music—both in her secluded spot in the woods and on a stage in front of thousands of people. Is the worship at both venues equally valid? What are the pitfalls of each?
   
3. Do you think Dorothy Lynn’s decision to join Roland on the jaunt to Los Angeles calls her love for Brent into question? Why do you think she wanted to go? Did you approve of her choice? Why or why not?
   
4. In Dorothy Lynn’s sister, Darlene, we see a woman who has embraced many elements of modern womanhood while still exemplifying a very traditional role. In today’s world, is it possible for women to be both forward-thinking and traditional? What are the challenges—then and now—to living that way?
   
5. The real-life Aimee Semple McPherson was one of the most powerful women of her day—a true pioneer in evangelism and one of the first women to hold a radio broadcasting license. She also owned a movie production studio and published several magazines. How important is it for women to have key roles in the work of evangelism? What contributions can women make in spreading the gospel that are different from what men are able to do?
   
6. The story brings Dorothy Lynn together with Charlotte Hill—a young, heretofore unknown great-great-niece. What opportunities will Charlotte have in her life that Dorothy Lynn never had? What challenges?
   
7. Dorothy Lynn’s brother, Donny, could not face returning to his prewar life after his return from war. Have you ever known anyone who had a similar reaction to returning from military service? Do you think Donny made the right choice? What do you think of Dorothy Lynn’s decision to let him pursue a new path?
   
8. What were your reactions to Dorothy Lynn’s assembled family—Roy and Darlene’s descendants? How do their intergenerational dynamics compare to those in your own family? What are some ways extended families can stay close despite the passing of time and the challenges of keeping in touch—or is that even possible?
   
9. Do you think Dorothy Lynn is truly attracted to Roland Lundi, or is she more enthralled with everything he represents? What evidence do you have for your answer? How would her life have been different if she had chosen to stay in California with him?
   
10. Have you ever come to a fork in the road like the one Dorothy Lynn faces? How did—or would—you go about choosing which path to take? And what kinds of “little” choices do we make every day that contribute toward the larger path our lives end up taking?
    
11. Ecclesiastes 2:11 (
    NLT
    ) says, “But as I looked at everything I had worked so hard to accomplish, it was all so meaningless—like chasing the wind. There was nothing really worthwhile anywhere.” Is that an accurate assessment of Dorothy Lynn’s life? Why or why not? How did the passages from Ecclesiastes used throughout this story influence the way you read it?
    
12. Why is worship an important part of the Christian life? What is your favorite worship song? Why?