Once inside, she pulled the door shut, sat on the narrow bench, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light provided only by the two-foot space between the top of the door and the ceiling. Lifting the earpiece, she tapped the receiver and said, “Long distance, please. St. Louis,” to the familiar voice of Mrs. Tully, one of Heron’s Nest’s three switchboard operators.
“Long distance. St. Louis,” Mrs. Tully repeated. “How are you doin’, Miss Dorothy Lynn?”
“Just fine.” But before she could say more, the line clicked, then hummed, and another woman’s voice came on.
“Number, please?”
“St. Louis, four-two-one-five.”
“Four-two-one-five, connecting.”
Another click, another hum, then a ring, and a young woman’s voice with the inevitable sound of screaming children in the background.
“Darlene!”
What followed was a muffled sound as Roy, Darlene’s slight, eager husband, received his orders to round up the boys and take them to the kitchen before Darlene’s attention fully returned.
“It’s early,” Darlene said against a new background of only slightly fuzzy silence.
“It’s past one.”
“We usually talk at two. We haven’t sat down to dinner here yet.”
Dorothy Lynn held the candy bar to her mouth, gripped the wrapper in her teeth, and tore it open. “I couldn’t wait to tell you.” She spat out the scrap of wrapper. “We announced the engagement this morning.”
“To the handsome young minister? He proposed three weeks ago.” Darlene, as always, seemed up for a scandal.
Dorothy Lynn rolled her eyes as she took the first bite of the crispy, chocolate-covered candy. Were this any day other than a busy Sunday, Mrs. Tully would no doubt be lingering on the line.
“We wanted—I wanted—to be sure, before we made it official. First to each other, then to our families, then the church.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” Darlene’s mimicry sounded accusatory. “Why didn’t you spend the afternoon with your beau and let Ma call?” She could tell Darlene was battling between suspicion and concern.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Why? It can’t be a problem with the man himself. He’s handsome as anything and tall and well-mannered. Just like Pa in every way.”
Dorothy Lynn had only the blank, dark wall of the telephone booth to stare at, but she could clearly picture her older sister, plump in her third pregnancy, sitting at the ornate telephone table nestled in the nook under her stairs. Right then, she knew, both sisters were leaning in, drawing closer to the flared tube that carried their voices, as if doing so could bring them closer to each other. She took another bite of the Clark Bar and spoke through her chewing.
“Getting married to him means I’m never going to leave this town.”
“Where were you planning to go?”
“I don’t know. Nowhere, I guess. I just thought . . . You got to move up to St. Louis, and who knows where Donny is. He’s probably been all over the world by now. And me? I get to move into that old, run-down parsonage behind the church.”
“Donny’s seeing the world because his britches are too big to come home. And I’m in St. Louis because my husband is here. That’s my place. I had no idea you were struck with such wanderlust.”
“I’m not.” For reassurance, Dorothy Lynn sat up straight and gave her head a vigorous shake. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than my first case of pre-wedding jitters.”
Just then the comfortable, low buzz on the line played host to a faint click, and Dorothy Lynn knew the line had been opened to a third ear.
“Enough about all this,” she effused. “Ma told me to ask if you’re drinking enough milk.”
“Tell her I’m becoming a cow myself.”
“And the boys? They still growin’?”
“RJ can climb up to the cookie jar all by himself, and Darren has peeled the wallpaper off one half of the playroom.”
“And to think, there’s one more on the way. And Roy? How’s business?”
“Couldn’t be better. He’s thinkin’ he’ll be hiring another salesman. Hey, maybe if that other situation doesn’t come through, you can move up here and sell cars.”
They said their good-byes, and Dorothy Lynn returned the earpiece to its cradle. The last bit of the Clark Bar was more than an average bite, but she stuffed it all in and crumpled the wrapper in her hand. A local farmer in his Sunday overalls shuffled past her, eyes down, and closed the louvered door. Jessup maintained his place at the counter and tipped an invisible hat as she left, her cheeks full of candy.
The minute she stepped away from what was known as “town,” Dorothy Lynn slipped her shoes off in favor of the cool earth beneath her feet. She hooked the two straps over one finger, where they dangled as listless as her steps. The other hand held the unfinished verse of the poem she’d written during the church service. Boundaries and lines, fences and lots. Portions. Enough.
Tall trees encroached on the path toward home, swallowing up the town behind her. She knew the path by heart, of course, and memories called to her mind what her eyes couldn’t see. The large stone around the next bend. The tree that was split in half when lightning struck it last spring. When the birth of his second child had forced Pa to move from the single-bedroom parsonage, the parishioners had tried to get him to build a house in town, but he clung to what privacy his family could have.
My lot is a tiny clearing, nestled in the pine.
For Ma, it was enough, though she’d once lived in North Carolina, where she’d actually seen a horizon where water touched the sky.
If my portion were an ocean, would I be satisfied?
Her brother certainly hadn’t been. He’d crossed oceans on ships and had even drunk wine on the streets of Paris, France. Heron’s Nest would never be enough for him. The way he sounded in his infrequent letters, no place yet was worthy to be his lot. For him, the world was an endless portion of adventure. His last postcard—Christmas, before Pa died—was from Seattle. How could it be that the Lord could be so generous with Donny, dole out his life with an open hand, and squeeze her and her inheritance in one tight fist?
She was humming to herself, mind locked on the question, when Brent stepped into her path—something she realized only when she bumped into him.
“You looked like you were a million miles away,” he said once she’d steadied herself.
“Nope. Just here.” She tapped the side of her head. “Thinkin’ about the sermon.”
“It was a good one, if I dare say so myself.”
“You dare.”
He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. She noted the large basket in his hand.
“Your mother packed us a picnic. I thought, if it’s all right with you, we could have some time together. Alone.”
“Didn’t we have time alone last night? Ma might get suspicious.”
“It . . . um . . . was your mother’s idea.”
Her feet seemed rooted to the ground at that moment, though she felt the urge to fly. As a compromise, she took the free arm Brent offered and charged him to lead on.
“Actually,” he said, “I was hoping you would lead me.”
“To?”
“To the place you told me about. Your fairy ring.”
He said it with such intimacy, such ownership—not of the place, but of her, and the arm linked through hers both held her and compelled her to lead him.
“And I thought,” he said, as if picking up a thread of conversation, “you could bring your guitar.”
“My guitar?”
Speaking the same word right after him, Dorothy Lynn noticed the difference in their speech—almost a reversal of syllables. He must have noticed it too, because he smiled, leaned into her, and said, “Yes, your git-tar,” in such a way as to join them together in the word.
“It’s at the house,” she said, giggling.<
br />
“No.” He handed the basket to her and, with a mischievous air, ran ahead and stepped off the path, where he reached behind an impressive pine and produced her guitar, holding it triumphantly by the neck.
Dorothy Lynn’s toes curled into the moist earth. “You set it on the ground?”
He looked stricken. “Just for a few minutes. I wanted to surprise you.”
She reached and took it from him, trading the basket. “It’ll warp.” She ran her hand along the familiar curve of the wood. “That can ruin the sound.”
“It wasn’t long, I promise. I held it the whole time I waited for you. I didn’t set it down until I heard you coming.”
As far as she knew, the only other person who had ever even touched her guitar was Donny, and she felt a surge of protection not only for it, but for her music. Her path. Her portion. “I told you I never shared my songs with anybody.”
He resumed walking, and she fell into step beside him.
“I noticed you were writing during the sermon.”
“Not the sermon; the psalm. There’s a difference.”
He granted her that. “And I heard you humming as you came up the path. Is it a song?”
“Not yet. I have to think on it.”
By the time they reached what Dorothy Lynn had come to know as her clearing, their conversation was equal parts laughter and words, with moments of breathlessness in between.
“If Pa had known you were such a jokester, Brent Logan, he’d never have let you set one foot behind his pulpit.”
“I wish I could have heard him in his prime.”
“He was so good. So powerful, like his very words were keepin’ us held to our seats. I used to love it when he’d let me come up and recite a verse of Scripture, seein’ all those faces. Kind of turned my stomach. . . .” Her voice trailed off, remembering.
“It’s not an easy thing to do. But your father had a gift, and I like to think I have a calling. I can only hope God will equip me to be worthy of that legacy.”
Dorothy Lynn leapt to restore his confidence. “Oh, Pa might have only heard you preach a few times—and he was mighty sick at that—but I heard him tell Ma more than once that he thought you were a fine preacher.”
“I take that as the highest compliment.”
“You ought to, since I think he concerned himself more with handin’ over his flock than handin’ over his daughter.” Then she swung her arms wide. “We’re here.”
They’d stepped into a nearly perfect circle of soft, green grass under an expanse of cloudless blue sky. Large, rounded stones sat in groups of three or four, as if arranged for a formal parlor rather than a simple clearing in the Ozark Mountains.
“It does seem magical,” he said, twisting his head to take it all in.
“This is my lot,” Dorothy Lynn whispered. “Take your shoes off.”
“Are you saying it’s holy?”
“No, just inviting. God made the grass the softest carpet here. Seems a shame not to take every advantage of it.”
He did. After taking the folded blanket from the top of the basket and sending it wafting to the ground, he sat right down and removed his shoes, socks, and garters and rolled the cuffs of his pants up for good measure.
Dorothy Lynn sat next to him. “Nice feet, but I don’t think they’d hold up for the walk home.”
“I don’t mind telling you that my own mother would have been mortified at the thought that I was about to eat lunch barefoot.”
“Why, Reverend Logan,” she said, feigning shock, “do you intend to eat with your feet?”
“Well, I’m hungry enough.”
With that, they dug in, each with a cup of Ma’s ham and beans—no less flavorful for having cooled—and biscuits. There was a jar of cold tea, which they passed back and forth between them in an intimate gesture.
She grew drowsy and comfortable and warm with her belly full of Ma’s familiar cooking and her ears full of Brent’s deep voice. After a time, his words slowed, then stopped altogether. She propped herself up on one elbow and watched him—from a respectable foot away—lying flat on his back, arms beneath his head. His chest, so broad it seemed set to bust his buttons, rose and fell with sleep, and his face was a mask of contentment as the first faint snore passed through parted lips.
This was not a man to covet anything—right at home and content wherever his lot. Her parlor, her kitchen, her church, her lot, her life.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and moved to where she’d set her guitar on one of the tall, smooth rocks. Just as she’d done a hundred times before, she settled the curved body against her thigh and bent low over the neck. Eyes closed, something like a prayer came through, but nothing in words she’d ever recall. Her fingers found the strings and danced across them, aimlessly at first, until they found the tune that had been whispering and waiting all morning. It ran from beginning to end, finding life and breath where she strummed and pressed, and when Dorothy Lynn reached the point where she knew it had defined itself, she added her own voice. Then she opened her eyes, and though she looked out at the solid screen of blue-green needles, she saw the folded bit of paper on which she’d managed to scratch a few words. And she sang.
There is a clearing in the forest
Fine as any palace parlor.
Walls papered with the pine trees,
Lush green grass carpets the floor.
Here is my portion, here’s my cup.
Here the good Lord fills me up
To overflowin’. . . .
She strummed some more, both to see if those words had found a home and to wait for the next phrasing to form itself.
“Beautiful.” Brent’s voice cut through the music, but she did not stop. She did, however, look up to see him still reclining, hands behind his head and a huge smile on his face.
“It’s not finished. Sometimes words won’t come.”
“Did you mean what you said?”
Still she played. “About what?”
“About here being where the Lord fills you up.”
She stopped and held the strings silent against the wood. “This place. It’s like I can’t think anywhere but here. And the Lord speaks to me so clearly, makes me want to speak right back to him.”
“Like King David.”
She smiled and softly strummed again. “Is this my lyre?”
“I reckon,” he said, mimicking her accent again.
“I don’t think nobody will be singing my songs a thousand years from now.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause so far only one other soul has ever even heard one. Or part of one. Pa always said it ain’t fittin’.”
He sat up, drew his knees to him, and locked his arms around them. “I could listen to you sing every day.”
“No, you can’t.” She played a flourishing chord, silenced it, and made a teasing face. “Because this here is my fairy ring, and you can only come here when I invite you.”
“I don’t mean here.” Something in his voice drew her close, though the guitar kept her anchored to her rock. “I mean in our—” He stopped himself. “I mean in the home I’ll build with you. And in our church, when you’re my wife and it’s truly for me to say.”
Never had she imagined such a promise, but it compelled her to ask for another.
“Anything,” he said, the sincerity in his eyes leaving no room for doubt.
“You have to let me get away sometimes. To myself, up here alone.”
“On one condition.”
She waited, silent.
“If you go off, you’ll always come back.”
“I might run late sometimes.”
He stood and walked toward her, took the guitar from her arms, and brought her to stand. With her bare feet on the smooth stone, she stood nose-to-nose with him, and all of God’s creation disappeared from view. Nothing but his eyes, clear and blue like bits of sky. She touched her hands to his broad shoulders, then held them to his face. His skin was smooth and wa
rm, not unlike the rock beneath her, and when she kissed him, his lips brushed hers soft as a breeze.
This, she knew, would be enough.
Later, in the quiet of the night, Dorothy Lynn sat next to Brent again, folded into the crook of his arm, her feet tucked up beneath her as he coaxed a gentle motion out of the ancient, creaking front porch swing.
“No turning back.” She felt his words rumbling through his chest. “The banns have been read, so to speak.”
“What do you mean, ‘banns’?”
“It’s an old marriage tradition. It’s never been practiced in this country, but in England, a couple has to announce their intention to get married at least a month before the wedding. That gives people enough time to declare an impediment. To raise an objection, if they have any.”
“We had a weddin’ here once, and when Pa asked if there was anyone gathered who knew why the two shouldn’t get married, a woman stood up in the back of the church and declared that the groom had been in her bed just the week before.”
He pulled away and looked down at her. “You’re making that up.”
Dorothy Lynn crossed her heart. “And I’m thinkin’ that you might be the only person in town who doesn’t know the story, or who I’m talkin’ about.”
“Tell me.”
“Never. You face them every week, knowin’ them as the fine Christian couple they are. It would be sinful for me to tarnish their reputation in your eyes. Don’t you tempt me into gossip.”
“You’re already knee-deep in gossip.”
“It ain’t gossip without a name. It’s just a parable.”
“And just what is the spiritual truth to be gleaned from this ‘parable’?”
“What would you say it is?”
He’d stopped the motion of the swing but started it up again. “That depends on which woman is now part of that fine Christian couple. If he married the bride at the altar, the truth of the story is that the person we are willing to commit our lives to takes precedence over any lustful temptation.”
All for a Song Page 3
