It was a modest storefront by any measure. A window lined in green velvet held a display of several stringed instruments, with a trio of violins at its center. There was no hint of a neon sign here, only simple painted letters on the glass. According to the printed sign in the corner, they repaired all instruments, sold all accessories, and gave lessons on violin, cello, and viola.
A bell rang when she opened the door, and within seconds a stocky man with a bushy moustache popped up from behind the counter. She presumed him to be one of the Strawn brothers.
“Good afternoon, miss. How can we help you today?” His accent was thick, making him pronounce good like goot, and he pronounced we like vee. Dorothy Lynn wondered just how many dozens of accents one would hear by simply stopping in at all the shops in downtown St. Louis.
This particular shop may have had a humble exterior, but inside, the walls were stained a rich mahogany meant to showcase the instruments displayed on hooks at all levels.
“I need to restring my guitar,” she said, painfully aware of the lowly sack cinched just above its head.
“That there?” Strawn pointed a stubby finger, making her feel worse.
“Yes.” Dorothy Lynn untied the rope, letting the burlap fall to the floor, then lifted the instrument by the neck and placed it on the counter. “It’s havin’ trouble holding its tune. Needs new strings.”
Strawn took a pair of spectacles from his vest pocket and turned the instrument over and over.
“Martin. 1912. Fine specimen.”
“It was my brother’s.”
“You play?”
Dorothy Lynn nodded before realizing the man was too absorbed in the guitar to see. “A little.”
He strummed a few notes, wincing. “And you love this?”
“I do. At first it made me feel close to my brother, but now . . . well, it’s become like a part of me. I suppose that sounds silly.”
“Not silly at all. You want silly?” His tufted eyebrows inclined toward the burlap-sack puddle on the floor. “That is silly. It is miracle this has not become worthless kindling, carted around in such a way. You need a case.”
Dorothy Lynn hung her head, wondering what he would say if he could see her running through the forest without even the burlap sack. “I guess I never thought about that.”
“Well, you should.” His voice was stern, and she felt a sudden pang for her father. Then, just as Pa would, he softened and said he would look in his storeroom to see if he had an extra one.
“Thank you,” she said, clutching her handbag tighter. She’d come to St. Louis with three dollars and still had most of that, but a guitar case wouldn’t be worth sacrificing her bus fare home.
Strawn seemed to understand. He made a psh, psh sound through his moustache.
“I would be happy to clear out the space for such an instrument. You go. Come back in one hour.”
He turned on his heel without another word and walked through the door at the back of the shop. One hour? What was she to do for one hour? She’d imagined that she might be allowed to restring the instrument herself—something Donny would never have allowed. Still, she could tell the guitar was in fine hands, and the idea of an hour to herself with the entire city at her disposal was an unexpected treat. The bell above the door rang again as she exited, and the sounds of the street exploded in contrast to the quietness of the shop. She looked up one side of the street and down the other. Drugstores, shoe shops, bookstores, and stationers. There were signs for bakeries and watch repairs and one boutique that seemed to sell nothing but women’s stockings.
Briefly, she considered what Brent would have to say about such a place. For the life of her, she couldn’t picture him here, surrounded by what he would call the excess of humanity. True, he had come from a big city himself—Chicago—but he never talked about his hometown with any hint of either fondness or disdain. Only that he was meant to live a quiet country life, even if he hadn’t been born to such.
“Sometimes,” he’d said, “you need a good dose of what you don’t want before you can know what you truly do.”
She breathed deep, finding it oddly thrilling to sense no hint of nature in the air. The acrid smell of automobile fumes might not be pleasant, but as she took her first few steps toward the corner, better odors found their way to her. And then one, foreign and exotic, overpowered the others, enticing two senses at once. She found herself looking through a window with bold red letters slashing through her reflection.
Golden Bowl Chinese Restaurant.
This must be the place Darlene had wanted to visit last night after the movie. Savory, unfamiliar scents enveloped her like a cloud, their warmth enticing and welcome even in the heat of the afternoon.
Here, then, her taste of adventure.
She grasped the door and walked inside only to stand, blinking, as her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. Slowly, the room revealed itself. Red, everywhere. The walls, the table coverings, the tassels hanging from the delicate chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. Even with a whole life lived near a kitchen, nothing sparked a memory. Her stomach gurgled both in anticipation and nerves. She’d only been in a restaurant of any kind a handful of times, and never alone.
As the room came into full focus, though, she realized she was not alone. At all. In fact, as her eyes scanned the tables, there didn’t seem to be a single empty seat.
An ageless Chinese man appeared at her elbow.
“You have seat here.” He gestured toward the window with a menu featuring a somber-faced younger image of himself set within an ornate red frame.
Dorothy Lynn could just barely understand the words through his accent. How odd it was to hear so many different accents in one day.
“I’d like to eat,” she said, holding one hand in the shape of a bowl at her chin while scooping invisible food with the other.
“Yes, yes, miss.” He gestured again, pointing toward a row of chairs lined up against the window. “Sit by window, please. Few minutes.”
She looked over her shoulder, confused. Did he intend to serve her there? People all around were eating long, steaming noodles. Was she to be forced to eat without a table?
“Perhaps you’d care to join me?”
The voice was familiar, distinctive, and she felt it touch the back of her neck long after he’d stopped speaking. She turned around, and there he was—the man who’d tried to stop them from leaving the church service last night. No suit coat today, just a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and suspenders, but his hair was meticulously combed and slick.
“Oh, hello.” Dorothy Lynn knew the blush to her cheeks must be bringing her face to roughly the same shade as the table coverings, as she was wearing the exact same outfit as the night before. Perhaps that’s how he’d recognized her.
“Please.”
Before she could think, he’d taken her arm, steered her through the narrow passageway between the tables and pulled out a chair at a small table in a dark corner. In one fluid motion, he was sitting across from her.
“You’ll have to forgive my bad manners,” he said, after asking the ever-attentive waiter to bring a second glass of water. “A gentleman should always introduce himself before rescuing the damsel.” He reached his hand across the table. “My name is Roland Lundi.”
She took his hand in the spirit it was offered—shaking it like a man would, in good humor with a firm grip. “Dorothy Lynn Dunbar.”
“Nice to meet you, Dorothy Lynn Dunbar. I trust you and your sister made it home safely last night?”
He remembered. “We did.”
The waiter arrived with a glass of water, which he placed in front of her, giving a slight bow before leaving. She took a sip, not to calm her nerves, but because she had nothing else to say. Truth was, she didn’t feel nervous at all.
Roland Lundi leaned back in his seat, his demeanor as cool as the water in the glass. “I sincerely hope I did not make the two of you feel uncomfortable as you were
leaving. In our ministry we see so many people touched by the Holy Spirit, but they are affected in different ways. Some run to Sister Aimee; others run away.”
“Well, I wasn’t runnin’ away, and I don’t know who Sister Aimee is. I was just goin’ home.” Even in the midst of her reply, she knew she sounded rude, and she would have apologized if he had not laughed.
“You don’t know what a relief it is to hear something spoken with such honest clarity.”
Dorothy Lynn smiled along, assuming the remark to be a compliment. Anything Roland Lundi said would probably sound like a compliment. His words were not so much accented as smooth, the consonants buried in the stream, but she noticed again a certain hoarseness to his voice, a soft quality that begged the listener to lean forward and listen closer. So she did.
“In a ministry such as ours, it seems everybody either wants to run us out of town or try to win some sort of spiritual favor.”
“I don’t think I understand exactly what you mean.”
“They believe, sometimes, that our prayers are stronger than their own. Or they assume they are entitled to some cut of the provisions God has made for us. They look for intercession and healing, without regard to the fact that such things must be Spirit-led.”
“Well, Mr. Lundi, I don’t want anything.” Which wasn’t exactly true, and her conscience nipped. “Although, I’ll say, I did find Sister Aimee to be a fascinatin’ sight to behold. Like an angel, almost. But then, to think, she’s just a woman same as me—”
Something changed in his countenance, and she wondered if referencing herself as a woman might be seen as a vulgarity.
“Well, maybe not like me. Guess I’m more of a girl.”
He laughed. “These days, it seems your sex is working hard to blur the line between the two.”
“I don’t care about blurring any line. I just want to be what God made me.”
“Which is exactly why I need to spend this afternoon with you. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to a holiday in a very long time.”
She reached for her water again. This afternoon, he’d said. Where she’d only planned on the hour. And for the first time since she’d walked into the restaurant, she wondered if even that was a good idea. What would her sister think if she were to change her mind, come by, and see her through the window? For that matter, what would Brent say? Suddenly it all smacked of illicitness. Her eyes darted to the door, yet she didn’t move.
Roland picked up the menu. “So, what would you recommend?”
Now it was her time to laugh—soft and self-conscious. “I’m new to this.”
“Really?” He set the menu down and leaned forward. “To this restaurant? Or to Chinese cuisine in general?”
“To both, I guess.”
“If it weren’t for restaurants, I’d starve.”
Such a sad sentence from such a handsome man.
“Your wife doesn’t cook?”
His eyes held her every bit as much as did his hand when they first sat down. “I’m working to bring the message of Jesus Christ to the entire country. That doesn’t leave me any time for a wife.”
She wanted to say she understood, but she didn’t. “My father was a minister. We never felt neglected.”
“Let me guess.” His speech changed to an exaggerated drawl. Not mocking, but bordering on affection. “A tiny white clapboard building with a steeple and a big ol’ bell somewheres out in the woods?”
Dorothy Lynn giggled—something she rarely did. In the back of her mind, Darlene accused her of flirting, but before the guilt could fully take hold, the waiter had returned.
“We’ll both have the beef chow mein,” Roland said. Then, to her, “If that sounds good to you.”
She nodded. The interruption afforded a moment for her to come to her senses, and the minute the waiter said, “Very good,” and bowed away, she cleared her throat and sat up with a straighter resolve. “I’m going to be a preacher’s wife. The man who took over the pulpit when Pa died, he and I are engaged. We’re gettin’ married in October. That’s why I’m here, in St. Louis. My sister’s makin’ the dress.” It all poured out of her like a confession. “I’m not one of those girls.”
His brow rose quizzically.
“I mean, a girl who would just go out to lunch with a strange man. Or any man. Or even . . . lunch.”
His amusement grew with her frustration, and for the first time it seemed he was actually laughing at her.
“I’m sorry,” she faltered, finally. “I don’t mean to insult you.”
“I’ve been called worse than a ‘strange man,’” he said, “and I didn’t intend for my invitation to imply anything about your character. I simply saw you, remembered you, and thought it might be nice not to eat another meal alone. But if I’m making you uncomfortable . . .”
He began to scoot his chair away from the table, and a new guilt washed over her.
“Don’t leave.” Her words stopped him midstand. “You were very kind to ask me to join you. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
The warm smile returned as he settled back into his chair, and the food arrived soon after. Dorothy Lynn looked down at the bowl brimming with strips of meat and vegetables—some she didn’t even recognize—in a lake of noodles. Steam rose from the dish, and she inhaled her first taste, leaving her mouth watering for more. She looked over to see that Roland had bowed his head to pray, and she followed suit, asking not only for a blessing on the food before her and the hands that prepared it, but also forgiveness for her unintentional sin.
When she opened her eyes, Roland had taken up the pair of narrow sticks that had been laid beside his bowl and used them to bring up a heaping mouthful. Not finding a fork, she picked up her own sticks and attempted to do the same, only to find he’d made the procedure look deceptively easy. Less than a full bite of food made it into her mouth, but that taste was enough to whet her appetite.
“Here,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Watch me. You need to balance them, see? First this stick on your third finger, and then the second . . .”
Dorothy Lynn tried to match his grip, and she felt successful until it was time to actually grasp the food. She fell into laughter even as the pile of noodles and peppers fell back into the bowl. “I’m hopeless.”
“Nothing’s ever hopeless. Try again.”
This time, when he reached for her hand, he purposefully took her fingers, positioning them to hold the chopsticks properly. Like never before, she was aware of the roughened texture of her skin and nails, and she curled her fingers in an attempt to hide them away.
“It’s all right,” he said, so softly that she barely heard him. “This is one skill worth learning. When it all comes together, you’ll be so happy.”
Somehow it happened, and though it meant a messy trail of sauce on her chin, she managed to fill her mouth with beef, peppers, and noodles all at once.
Roland applauded her achievement, and people from the surrounding tables joined in. Dorothy Lynn managed not to laugh until she’d swallowed the entire bite, but then she brought a napkin to her face and twisted in her chair to offer an appreciative wave to her audience.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s the best thing I ever ate,” she said, eagerly working her chopsticks for the next bite.
“It’s good, but nothing like what you’d get in California. San Francisco, especially.”
The image of her brother’s postcard flitted through her mind, threatening to steal the pure joy of this moment. “Don’t think I’ll be goin’ to California any time soon.”
“Fiancé not an adventurer?”
“Not sure I am, but I’d like to hear about it.”
And so, as they ate, Roland talked. His travels with Sister Aimee had taken him all over the country, but he spoke most fondly of California. The excitement and uncharted opportunities. As she listened, she could imagine why Donny would want to stay there, if it was half as wonderful as it all
sounded. Midway through the meal, she’d become quite proficient with her chopsticks, eventually able to snag a single thin slice of onion between the tips. Though he was in the middle of a rambunctious tale, he paused midsentence to acknowledge the accomplishment.
“You’re a quick study.”
She beamed under his praise and looked down into her empty bowl.
“Still hungry?”
“Oh no,” she protested, but he raised a finger and moments later the stealthy waiter reappeared with two plates, each bearing a slice of dense, sticky cake. She followed Roland’s example and picked it up, taking nibbling bites and licking her fingers. By the time it was gone she felt ready to burst.
Their waiter made another discreet appearance, at which time Roland reached into his pocket and produced a folded bill, which he pressed into the Chinese man’s hand. Dorothy Lynn’s heart raced. A dollar! She’d no idea her meal would be anywhere near that expensive, and with some trepidation she opened her pocketbook. As she did, though, the waiter thanked Roland, saying it had been a great honor, and disappeared.
“Thank you, but you didn’t need to pay for mine,” she said through a queer mixture of resentment and relief.
He chuckled as he stood. “I suspect a lot of men would appreciate such an attitude.”
She thanked him again as he held the door open to the sidewalk, where she had to stand for just a moment to orient herself.
“You came from that direction.” Roland pointed up the street behind her. “I saw you through the window.”
“Yes.” The revelation that he’d seen her before she walked into the restaurant left her a bit too unsettled to thank him yet again. Maybe that step across the threshold was like a step into a snare. She swallowed, still tasting the salt of foreign food. Somehow she’d allowed herself to be trapped into this spot—unfamiliar inside and out. A voice deep within her said, Go home, but home was miles away. She’d need a streetcar to get to Darlene’s house, a bus to get to Heron’s Nest. She had only her feet, and they were in danger of melting in this spot. But then she remembered—home was just half a block away, waiting for her in the music store.
All for a Song Page 8
