All for a Song by Allison Pittman Read Free Book Online Page B

stomach, banded by a silk ribbon just at her hip. Her hair was the same dark-caramel color as Dorothy Lynn’s, though it shone in a bobbed cap of rippling waves just below her pierced, bejeweled ears.
    Suddenly, the weight of Dorothy Lynn’s dull, brown braids felt oppressive on the back of her neck, and the plain, sack-likefit of her dress had more to do with the natural fall of the fabric than the fashion of the day.
    “Things aren’t as fancy in Heron’s Nest,” Dorothy Lynn said, though even she admitted there was no excusing her scuffed brown shoes.
    “Well, thank the Lord you saw fit to come here for your wedding dress, I say.” Darlene cupped her red-tipped fingers around her mouth and, in a voice more suited for her mountainous home than her city dwelling, hollered for her boys to come fetch Auntie Dot’s bags.
    A clattering of steps followed as Darlene’s sons, RJ and Darren, ran down the stairs, screaming, “Auntie Dot! Auntie Dot!” They tumbled over each other when it came to the final steps, then erupted into fisticuffs in a competition to see who would have the privilege of carrying the bags. They were six and four years old but tussled with each other as if they’d been fighting since the womb.
    “Careful with this,” Dorothy Lynn said, taking the guitar from her shoulder. “Hold it up. Don’t let it bump along the ground.”
    RJ, the older of the two, took on the responsibility with a solemn nod.
    “Why on earth did you bring that thing?” Darlene asked.
    “It needs new strings. And rather than orderin’ from the Sears and Roebuck, I thought I’d find a music store here in town, let them string it for me.” Part of that was a lie, though. She simply couldn’t bear the thought of being away from it for the weeklong visit their mother intended.
    Darlene linked her arm through Dorothy Lynn’s and began leading her down the hall. “I doubt very much you’ll have time for that. The wedding’s what—seven weeks away? I just got the Butterick in the mail yesterday, and . . .”
    She kept on and on about the dress pattern, but Dorothy Lynn heard none of it. Her eyes went to the ceiling, where the telltale sounds of her strings indicated that the boy, indeed, was dragging her guitar on the ground. In fact, he’d bumped it all the way up the stairs.
    “Are you listening to a word I say?”
    “Sorry,” Dorothy Lynn said, feeling like too much of a child herself to be here for a wedding gown.
    Darlene sighed. “I know, I know; those boys . . . But mind that you aren’t too critical, because God has a way of paying you back. Now, I said I have a snack and some lemonade waiting in the kitchen, but you’ll probably want to wash up first.”
    Her voice hinted at a grand surprise, which turned out to be a brand-new water closet at the end of the hall.
    “We just got it put in last week. Such a blessing not to have to run up and down the stairs. But look who I’m telling. Poor thing, you still have to run clear across the yard, don’t you?”
    “So did you all your life. Don’t see that it hurt anything.”
    “Ah, but it is so nice to have all that behind me.”
    “Especially since you have that behind,” Dorothy Lynn said, pointing at Darlene’s ample seat. The comment may have been cruel, but somehow she didn’t feel a spot of guilt, especially when her sister giggled right along.
    Darlene went in with Dorothy Lynn just long enough to pull the chain that turned on the light and point out which hand towels should and shouldn’t be used. Left alone, Dorothy Lynn ran her hands under the cool water pouring from the spigot, cupped them, and splashed her face. To think, her sister did this every day—twisted a handle and watched water flow. Hot and cold, according to the two handles. Patting her face dry, Dorothy Lynn gave a sidelong glance at the glistening commode and sighed.
    In the kitchen, Darlene had prepared a tall glass pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cheese