Alvin DuBose brought the bus to a sputtering halt in front of Jessup’s, which served as a bus station along with all its other responsibilities.
“Wish I coulda gotten you home before dark,” Alvin said, consulting his watch.
“What time is it?”
“Just after seven o’clock.”
“That’s fine,” Dorothy Lynn said. “It’s early.”
Alvin creaked open the door and stepped out, standing ready to hand Dorothy Lynn down.
“Got someone coming to meet you?”
“Not that I know of,” she said. At Roland’s insistence, she had sent a telegram home before boarding the train in Los Angeles, but her exact time of arrival had been impossible to determine.
“Where do you suppose Jessup is?”
“Church,” she said simply. “Sunday night service.”
“What about your bags? I have to make time to Houston tonight.”
“Someone will fetch them later. Tomorrow, I suppose. Jessup will let them keep here tonight. You go on.”
“All right—” he sounded dubious—“but I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone in the dark.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll meet up with my family at the church.”
By family, she meant Brent. Ma had taken to staying home on Sunday nights once Pa became too sick to go. After he passed, she stayed there, claiming her own fatigue, but Dorothy Lynn had known even then it was a ruse to give Brent a chance to walk her home with only darkness as chaperone. Always, Ma would be on the porch, waiting—even if the temperature had dropped near to freezing—ignorant of the final bend in the road that would allow them to kiss with abandon outside of her view. Then again, few things ever really escaped Ma’s perception, and Dorothy Lynn knew the hour was coming when she would face her mother as confessor—an hour fraught with equal eagerness and dread.
When he’d stacked her bags and guitar on Jessup’s well-seasoned porch, she met him at the front of the bus and handed over a generous stack of bills.
“Oh, no, miss,” he said, not looking the least bit tempted, “you paid your full fare in Springfield.”
“It’s a tip.” She held them closer.
“That’s too much.”
“No, please. It’s yours.”
Actually, it was Roland’s, the last of the money he’d given her to finance her trip home. She couldn’t imagine his money would be a good fit for any future expense.
“Well, then, I thank you. But I’m not movin’ an inch until I see you safely to the church.”
“Very well,” she said, and started off in the direction that would lead her home.
Music and light poured through the windows, signaling that the service was coming to an end. Sometimes, on Sunday nights, there’d be no sermon at all, unless the congregation seemed in need of some urgent teaching. They would sing and pray and give testimony of God’s work instead.
“Who has a word?” Pa would say before relinquishing his pulpit to the parishioner who had witnessed a miracle in the days past. Or to someone newly humbled by the Holy Spirit. Sometimes there’d be a sister or brother, repentant of a rash of recent sin, tearfully confessing all to God and family, and the church would weep in embrace, and Deacon Keyes would erupt in song.
Coming home, coming home,
Nevermore to roam.
Open wide thine arms of love.
Lord, I’m coming home.
Perhaps if she’d arrived an hour earlier, she could have been that repentant one, looking for all to take her back as the sweet girl, the late pastor’s daughter, who’d turned her back on pursuing a life of sin and wanted only the promises God held for her at home. But then she remembered Roland’s admonition to hold her head up high and not to grovel for grace. With that thought, she quickened her step.
As she drew closer to the church, she heard them singing “Jesus Is All the World to Me.” It was one of Brent’s least favorites, though Deacon Keyes loved to hold his hand extended, taking the congregation to the end of their breath with the final “He’s my friiiiiieeeeeeennnnnndddd.” Thus they sang, and Dorothy Lynn knew she would have ample time to slip in, with the thunderous note to camouflage the sound of the opening and closing door.
She waved a small, silent good-bye to Alvin DuBose and slipped into the coatroom. There, hanging where it had since the first of summer, was the pale-green parchment with decorated scrolls at each corner.
The Church Family Is Invited
to the Joining of Two Lives
Pastor Brent Logan
and
Miss Dorothy Lynn Dunbar
Saturday, October 14
10:00 a.m.
Reception to Follow
She took it off the wall and held it close. It can’t be too late.
Inside, the song had come to an end. Soon the door between the coatroom and the sanctuary would open. Like the thief that she was, Dorothy Lynn tucked herself into a corner, between the wall and the tall cabinet where the extra hymnals, communion plates, and lost-and-found Bibles were stored.
“Still not a word?” The voice belonged to Mrs. Philbin, mother of the worthless bootlegger in Virginia.
“Not a call since last Sunday.” Even away from her switchboard, Mrs. Tully’s voice was unmistakable.
“Thought I heard there was a telegram.”
“You women ought to be ashamed.” It was Jessup come to squelch the gossip. “Bad enough askin’ for prayer for some poor, wandering child, as if we all don’t know who that child is.”
“We are merely concerned,” Mrs. Tully said. Of the two, she was far more believable in making that claim. “There’s to be a wedding on Saturday, and still no bride.”
“Are you sure there’s going to be a wedding?” Mrs. Philbin sounded downright victorious at the prospect of having someone in town bring about a humiliation equal to her son’s.
From her hiding place, Dorothy Lynn clutched the framed invitation. They must have noticed the blank space on the wall amidst the other announcements of Sunday school pancake suppers and the blanket drive for the poor.
As more and more congregants poured into the cloakroom, the missing invitation became the sole topic of conversation.
When had it been taken down?
Who had taken it?
Surely it was here earlier, as several people made it their daily mission to check.
Did Pastor Logan know?
Did he take it down?
Or was it that Mrs. Dunbar, poor soul, who might have done better to show her face in Sunday evening service?
When the hush fell, she knew Brent had entered the room. And then, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she heard his voice. “What is all this?”
Dorothy Lynn wanted to leap from her hiding place right then, climb over the crowd and into his arms. But something in the way he spoke, a barely contained tension, gave her little reassurance that she would be any more welcome than she had been when she came out of nowhere to embrace her brother.
“Sorry about that, Brent,” Jessup said, asking absolution for the crowd. “Couldn’t herd them out fast enough.”
She ventured a peep around the cabinet to see the congregation part like a sea as Brent—nearly a head taller than most of them—walked the path they provided.
“So,” said Mrs. Philbin, ever eager to seek a scandal, “is the wedding off?”
A few kind souls hushed her, if for no other reason than to hear his reply.
“Who did this?” Brent asked, edging close to sounding angry. When nobody replied, he repeated the question, louder this time, exposing everyone in the room to the potential of his temper.
A kind of shudder went through the crowd, a blood-lusting thrill, and heads turned from one to another in anticipatory accusation. Soon the silence was broken and indictments began to fly. Names and motives accompanied by pointed fingers and denial. A boisterous crescendo of blame, untouched by the call for silence by Brent, Jessup, and even Rusty Keye
s, who simply couldn’t abide the discordance.
Finally, to protect the flock of the man she loved, Dorothy Lynn stepped out from her place of hiding and held the evidence in question high above her head. “I took it.”
Anybody walking past the church outside might have thought a ghost had appeared from behind the Christian flag, such was the collective gasp that went out. From his spot within the midst of his people, Brent turned to see what had garnered such shocked attention.
“Lynnie. You’re home.”
No joy, no anger, no adulation or disdain. Just the statement of a simple fact.
Those who had recently been so vocal were struck dumb, and no one could have thought that their presence would be welcome a minute longer. One by one they left, holding their silence at least as far as the steps, before they would disappear into the night. Or, more likely, to Ma’s house, under the guise of bringing good tidings.
Jessup, largely responsible for their swift exit, was the last to leave. In a gesture of unprecedented tenderness, he offered Dorothy Lynn a kiss to her cheek. “Your bags at my place?”
She nodded, not wanting to say another word until it would be for Brent’s ears alone.
“I’ll see that they get to your ma’s.”
Then they were alone. Rather, she was, because Brent wordlessly took himself back into the sanctuary.
Dorothy Lynn waited for a moment, not knowing what to do until the words of Roland’s favorite hymn came to her heart: Where he leads me I will follow.
She stood at the back of the church, inhaling the familiar scent of well-worn wood and soft-paged hymnals. At the front, the blackboard registered fifty-three in attendance last Sunday with an offering of $89.75. Below it, in the family pew, Brent sat with his back to her, his head bowed.
Her footsteps echoed as she walked up the aisle. There should be music playing and a bouquet in her hand. Instead, there was silence and a thin sheet of paper bearing an uncertain promise.
She stopped at the front, having nowhere to go but to the pulpit, or to him. If she sat in the opposite pew, with just the aisle between them, she would feel a thousand miles away. “May I sit with you?”
He said nothing.
Fear, greater than any she experienced on a stage, churned within, more sour than the taste of H. C. Bendemann’s liquor. “Brent—”
Without saying a word, without looking up, he held out his hand and she took it, touching him at last. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, going down to her knees where he’d be forced to look in her eyes. “I promised I would come back.”
He looked at her, sat up straight, and brought her to sit beside him. “I’ve been a fool, Lynnie.”
“No,” she said, finding the idea impossible. Then, knowing that he was never one to utter idle words, she ceased her protest.
“You wouldn’t believe the horrors I’ve allowed myself to imagine.”
She could, in fact, while offering realities to trump them. “You told me not to call,” she said.
“I know.”
“And when I did call, you wouldn’t talk to me.”
“I guess I didn’t expect it to last so long.”
“But you told me—”
“I know.”
She longed for him to say her name again. No one else ever called her Lynnie. “Is it—am I too late, Brent?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
There had been so many moments when his fears might have become reality. When she first took the stage, when she first stepped on the train. The enticing allure of California, the beach, Roland. She’d had one opportunity after another to replace a life spent with him.
“I’m here,” she said, having turned her back on all of it.
“And that’s supposed to be enough?”
“It’s all I have.”
His eyes swam with questions, and she felt the tug of confession in her throat. But every transgression she knew to be a sin had been laid at the feet of Jesus, and his grace enabled her to breathe within Brent’s scrutiny.
“Then you’ve nothing to tell me.”
“Oh, no. I have a world to tell you.”
“Starting with this?” He reached out and touched a finger to her lips, still colored with rouge.
“I think it’s pretty,” she said, prepared to defend its innocence as she witnessed the battle within him.
In lieu of a response, he cupped the back of her head and brought her to him, touching his lips to hers in a way that granted forgiveness and promise. For all she knew, their last kiss had been yesterday. For this moment, anyway, life in between was reduced to rubble. There would be time enough later—a lifetime of such kisses—to sweep it away and silence any accusing memories.
He drew back, looking at her with curiosity.
“You’ve changed.”
“I have.” Of that she was certain.
“And will you tell me now? Everything?”
She touched his face. Already he felt more real than any part of the story she was about to tell.
“I will, but not here. Will you walk me home? You know someone’s gone to Ma, and she’ll be frantic.”
“Of course. But first, I have something for you.”
She stayed no more than a step apart from him as he turned off the lights throughout the church and locked the doors. The little parsonage was just a few steps away, and she’d only been inside a handful of times since Brent began to court her—both of them keenly aware of the scrutiny of Heron’s Nest. Still, there were no surprises when he struck a match and lit an ancient lamp, illuminating the poor, shabby room that she longed to call home.
“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.”
All for a Song Page 30
