in.
Mr. Strawn emerged from the back room before the front door had closed behind them, carrying her guitar stiffly like it was a treasure to be presented.
“I would say good as new,” he said proudly, “but good guitar is like good wine: better and better with age.”
Dorothy Lynn took the instrument, gingerly by the neck at first, then instinctively brought it against her body, her fingers hovering over the strings.
“You play?” Roland asked, sounding truly impressed.
“A little,” Dorothy Lynn said.
“You should play now,” Strawn said. “See how it feels.” He gestured toward a chair, and Dorothy Lynn sat down and curled herself around the guitar. She began strumming a fewchords—nothing like a song—and cocked her head at the new sound.
“Is in tune,” Strawn said. “Play.”
Her mind drifted back, stopping and sifting through every song she knew, but none would make the journey to the strings. Only the tune born in this city, the one she’d been humming since the night before, seemed ready for this moment, playing itself through her as she hummed along.
“Is nice, right?” Strawn said.
Dorothy Lynn glanced up both to acknowledge and agree, flashing a quick smile at Roland, who seemed equally impressed.
“I don’t recognize the song,” Roland said.
“It’s mine.”
“You wrote it?”
“Not yet. It’s still just in my head.”
“The lyrics?”
“They’re waitin’ too.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
No stranger had ever requested to hear one of her songs. While Brent had expressed interest in them, she could never separate his appreciation from his affection. For the most part, her songs came to life in isolation, never offered to anybody until the words were safely in her journal and the notes perfectly settled in the strings. To sing this one felt like pushing a baby bird from its nest before the mama had a chance to teach it to fly. Before the feathers, even. “It’s not ready.”
“Please,” Roland insisted. “I’ve never heard a half-written song.”
She looked back down, concentrating her gaze on where the hem of her borrowed dress spilled out beneath the curve of the wood, and started again. The song remained wordless throughwhat would become the first verse, but when the chorus found its way, her voice filled the shop.
Jesus is coming!
Are you ready
to meet your Savior in the sky?
He, on his white horse,
will come a-riding
to gather the faithful to his side.
When Dorothy Lynn looked up, Roland was smiling again—a smile unlike any she’d ever seen before on anyone. Not affection, but admiration, and she wished she had a dozen songs to sing.
“Is nice, right?” Strawn said again, though he was clearly more impressed with the sound of the guitar than anything.
“Very nice,” Roland said, never taking his eyes off Dorothy Lynn.
“Is seventy-five cents for the strings. And I have case for you too.”
Roland was once again reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clip of folded bills.
Dorothy Lynn jumped up from her chair to stop him, saying, “You can’t.”
“You’ve never heard of the expression ‘Sing for your supper’?”
“You already bought me lunch.”
Mr. Strawn unceremoniously held his hand out to Roland. “Let a gentleman be a gentleman. You modern girls will spoil everything.” He took the dollar bill and headed to the back room.
“Perhaps,” Roland said once they were alone, “I could take you to supper sometime.”
“I told you,” Dorothy Lynn said, grateful for the guitar that anchored her in place, “I have a fiancé back home.”
“In Pigeonville, I know. I just meant—the song. I’d like to hear it when it’s done. More than that, I’d like Aimee to hear it.”
Immediately the palms of her hands went slick with sweat. “Sister Aimee? Why?”
“Come back tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“We’ll be here all week. Just promise me you’ll come back.”
Her fingers tightened around the neck and she
Mr. Strawn emerged from the back room before the front door had closed behind them, carrying her guitar stiffly like it was a treasure to be presented.
“I would say good as new,” he said proudly, “but good guitar is like good wine: better and better with age.”
Dorothy Lynn took the instrument, gingerly by the neck at first, then instinctively brought it against her body, her fingers hovering over the strings.
“You play?” Roland asked, sounding truly impressed.
“A little,” Dorothy Lynn said.
“You should play now,” Strawn said. “See how it feels.” He gestured toward a chair, and Dorothy Lynn sat down and curled herself around the guitar. She began strumming a fewchords—nothing like a song—and cocked her head at the new sound.
“Is in tune,” Strawn said. “Play.”
Her mind drifted back, stopping and sifting through every song she knew, but none would make the journey to the strings. Only the tune born in this city, the one she’d been humming since the night before, seemed ready for this moment, playing itself through her as she hummed along.
“Is nice, right?” Strawn said.
Dorothy Lynn glanced up both to acknowledge and agree, flashing a quick smile at Roland, who seemed equally impressed.
“I don’t recognize the song,” Roland said.
“It’s mine.”
“You wrote it?”
“Not yet. It’s still just in my head.”
“The lyrics?”
“They’re waitin’ too.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
No stranger had ever requested to hear one of her songs. While Brent had expressed interest in them, she could never separate his appreciation from his affection. For the most part, her songs came to life in isolation, never offered to anybody until the words were safely in her journal and the notes perfectly settled in the strings. To sing this one felt like pushing a baby bird from its nest before the mama had a chance to teach it to fly. Before the feathers, even. “It’s not ready.”
“Please,” Roland insisted. “I’ve never heard a half-written song.”
She looked back down, concentrating her gaze on where the hem of her borrowed dress spilled out beneath the curve of the wood, and started again. The song remained wordless throughwhat would become the first verse, but when the chorus found its way, her voice filled the shop.
Jesus is coming!
Are you ready
to meet your Savior in the sky?
He, on his white horse,
will come a-riding
to gather the faithful to his side.
When Dorothy Lynn looked up, Roland was smiling again—a smile unlike any she’d ever seen before on anyone. Not affection, but admiration, and she wished she had a dozen songs to sing.
“Is nice, right?” Strawn said again, though he was clearly more impressed with the sound of the guitar than anything.
“Very nice,” Roland said, never taking his eyes off Dorothy Lynn.
“Is seventy-five cents for the strings. And I have case for you too.”
Roland was once again reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clip of folded bills.
Dorothy Lynn jumped up from her chair to stop him, saying, “You can’t.”
“You’ve never heard of the expression ‘Sing for your supper’?”
“You already bought me lunch.”
Mr. Strawn unceremoniously held his hand out to Roland. “Let a gentleman be a gentleman. You modern girls will spoil everything.” He took the dollar bill and headed to the back room.
“Perhaps,” Roland said once they were alone, “I could take you to supper sometime.”
“I told you,” Dorothy Lynn said, grateful for the guitar that anchored her in place, “I have a fiancé back home.”
“In Pigeonville, I know. I just meant—the song. I’d like to hear it when it’s done. More than that, I’d like Aimee to hear it.”
Immediately the palms of her hands went slick with sweat. “Sister Aimee? Why?”
“Come back tonight.”
“I can’t.”
“We’ll be here all week. Just promise me you’ll come back.”
Her fingers tightened around the neck and she
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