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Hope was everywhere. Like dreams. You just had to snatch it up and hold it inside. Without it, there was no point in living. Hope was all she’d had for years; it’s what kept her going after she’d lost everything, everyone. It was what had brought her all the way to California. He was wrong. Hope was here, all right, because it was inside her. If a person didn’t have hope, they didn’t have anything. He needed to learn that.
“There ain’t nothing wrong with the way I talk, either,” she muttered under her breath.
Goose bumps rose up on her arms as she remembered Miss Larsen, the schoolteacher she’d had for only a short time. Pretty and young, Miss Larsen had been from out east somewhere, and had talked so funny the kids had teased her. Teased her so much she’d left.
Miss Larsen had said that ain’t was not a word. They’d all thought she’d been wrong. The silliest teacher ever.
“Excuse me.”
Shirley turned, but the person who’d spoken stepped past her into the street. So did others. She looked left and right, twice, and then followed. Others followed her, and they all made it across without anyone getting hit. The cars stopped, letting the last few folks make it all the way to the sidewalk before the cars started moving again.
She looked up and down the blocks. The only place people were walking across the streets were at the corners.
Dang.
Huffing out a breath, she shook her head. Just because he was right about that—jaywalking—didn’t mean he was right about everything. Him in his fancy black-and-white suit. Even his shoes had been black-and-white. Shoes like that weren’t made for working. That’s for sure. Neither was that fancy suit, even though it sure made him look nice. So did his hair, the way it was trimmed and combed over to one side. She’d only seen men who looked that spiffy, that handsome, in magazines. There hadn’t been a hint of a whisker on his chin. Matter of fact, his face had been so pleasant to look at she’d kept trying not to look at him because for some silly reason it made her heart pitter-patter.
She wasn’t here for pitter-patter. She was here to sing.
Turning about, she walked toward the newspaper stand. It sure seemed like a waste of time to walk all the way to the corner, then across the street, and all the way back down this side of the street, but if that was way folks around here did things, she’d just have to get used to it.
That wouldn’t be so hard.
A few minutes later, she decided crossing the street at the corners was downright easy compared to deciding what newspaper to buy. She’d never seen so many. In the end, she picked the one with a picture of a big building on the front page and a headline about a new theater that would open soon. The man selling the newspapers said that building was only a few blocks away, so that paper seemed like a logical choice.
She paid the man, tucked the newspaper under her arm and walked down the block to where a sign said the soup of the day was tomato.
The inside of the café was red and white everything, right down to the floor. She found a seat at a white table and sat down on a red chair, smiling at how bright and cheery everything appeared. Far cheerier than that man driving the red car. He had been nice looking, though. Far nicer than any of Olin’s sons. It could have been his suit. She wasn’t used to seeing men in suits.
“What can I get for you?”
Shirley glanced up at the woman with a red scarf tied around her dark brown hair. It was tied with a big red bow smack-dab in the middle of the top of her head. It looked spiffy. Shirley figured she might have to tie a scarf that way on her head. She’d have to buy one first. Which meant she needed to get a job.
“I would like a bowl of soup, please, and a cup of coffee,” she said, and then held her breath, waiting for the woman to comment on the way she talked.
The woman smiled and nodded. “Coming right up.”
Shirley smiled, too, mainly to herself. That man didn’t know what he was talking about. Determined to forget all about him, she laid the newspaper on the table, but then, just out of curiosity, scanned the entire front page for the word ain’t.
By the time a bowl of soup and cup of coffee were set on the table, she’d skimmed the entire newspaper and hadn’t found the word. Not once.
That was fine, she didn’t need that word, anyway. Pert-near never said it.
She scanned the newspaper again while eating her soup.
“Well, gal-darn it,” she whispered.
The soup was gone, except for a small amount on the bottom. She grasped the bowl with both hands, but then looked around the room. Others had bowls of soup, but none had picked up the bowl to drink the last bits, so she slid her hands off the bowl and folded them in her lap.
She watched and listened to other people, especially a woman dressed in a dark blue dress and wearing white shoes.
“More coffee?”
Shirley nodded and slid her cup to the edge of the table.
“New to town?” the waitress asked as she poured the coffee.
“Yes, I am,” Shirley answered, conscious of how she sounded. She didn’t sound like that other woman, that was for sure. “I truly am,” she added, focusing on sounding less like, well, a country bumpkin.
“If you’re looking for a job, Mel—he owns this place—is looking for a dishwasher.”
If felt as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach. Washing dishes. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but she’d washed dishes her entire life, and had sworn she wouldn’t do that again. Not for someone other than herself.
Once again, trying to make herself sound different, sophisticated, Shirley nodded. “Thank you, I will keep that in mind.” She’d heard the woman in the blue dress say that just a few moments ago. Then a hint of excitement fluttered across her stomach. If the waitress knew about a dishwashing job, she might know about other ones. “Do you know of any singing jobs?”
The waitress shook her head. “No.” She nodded toward a man sitting at a table. The same man who’d been talking to the woman in the blue dress. She’d left, but he hadn’t. “Roy would be the man to talk to about that.” The waitress slid the coffee cup back to the center of the table. “Coffee and soup’s fifty cents.”
Fifty cents? Shirley picked her purse up off the floor. At these prices she’d be broke in less time than it took to sneeze. She counted out the change and handed it to the waitress. “Thank you.”
“Good luck to you.”
As soon as the waitress walked away, the man rose from his chair and walked over.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you say that you’re a singer.” He pulled out the chair on the other side of her table. “Mind if I sit down?”
Shirley’s insides leaped so fast she almost flew off her chair. “Yes, I am a singer.” He was wearing a suit, like that fella that had almost run her down with his big red car. She peeked around the edge of the table. He wasn’t wearing boots, either. She wouldn’t hold that against him. Nodding at the chair so he’d go ahead and sit down, she added, “Been singing my entire life.”
The guy with the red car, his hair had been the color of sand; this fella’s was as dark as garden dirt. So were his eyes, and he had a pointed jaw. Made her wonder if it was on account he rubbed it so much. That’s what he was doing now. Rubbing his chin.
“Tell me about your experience,” he said, still rubbing his jaw.
“My experience?”
He smiled. “Yes. Singing. Where have you sung before?”
“Oh.” She waved a hand. Should have known that’s what he meant. “Everywhere. While cooking, cleaning, gardening, working in the barn, feeding the hogs. I just sing all the time. Have for as long as I can remember.”
“I see.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at her so hard she wanted to make sure her collar wasn’t flipped up or something. She was about to check when he gave a slight nod.
“Have you ever sung in front of people?” he asked.
“Oh, sure. Every Sunday I could make it to church.” Wanting him to know how good she was, she continued. “Folks there said I had the voice of an angel. Churches up over in Lincoln had me come sing at funerals whenever I could make it.”
“Lincoln?”
She nodded. “Lincoln.” The way he frowned said he might not know where that was, so she added, “Nebraska.”
“Oh, yes, Nebraska. I’ve heard of that.” He folded his arms across his chest. “How long have you been in California?”
“Since the train I just got off crossed the state line.” Her heart shot into her throat as he glanced at the door. Afraid he might leave, she asked, “Wanna hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Me sing.” Before he could say no, she drew in a deep breath and let the words flow. “Amazing grace, how sweet...”
She continued through the third verse, then, repeating the final line, she held on to the notes while letting her voice slowly fade away. Others back home liked how she’d always done that.
Folks here must, too, because everyone in the café was looking at her and clapping. Excitement fluttered inside her stomach. She smiled and nodded at them, and then turned her full attention to the man sitting at her table.
“That was very good,” he said when the clapping stopped.
“I know.” Folks had been telling her that for years. “That’s why I’m here.”
Smiling, he nodded. “What is your name?”
“Shirley. Shirley Burnette.”
“Well, Miss Burnette, I’m Roy Harrison.” He stretched a hand across the table. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance.”
She gave his hand a solid shake. “You, too, Mr. Harrison.”
He leaned back in his chair again. “Miss Burnette, I’d like to offer you the opportunity to audition for some people I know. I’m confident once they hear you, they will offer you a job.”
Her heart nearly stopped right then and there. At the exact same time happiness burst inside her. She’d never been so happy in her entire life. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she’d be jumping up and down like a baby bird learning to fly.
“Do you have accommodations?” Mr. Harrison asked.
Still trying to stay seated, for the excitement inside her was getting harder and harder to control, she held her breath for a moment. “Accommodations? You mean a place to stay?”
“Yes.”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“Well, Miss Burnette, I can help with that, too.”
Oh! Glory be! California is the place to be! Ain’t even—No, haven’t even been here a day and already have a job and a place to live. That guy in the red car might have been right about the boots and the jaywalking, but he sure was wrong about everything else.
* * *
Walter couldn’t get the sassy, country-bumpkin blonde woman out of his head. It had been over two weeks but she was still there. On his mind. He was worried about her. About where she ended up. He’d like to think she’d taken his advice and gone back home, but he highly doubted that. She was too determined to do anything that reasonable.
He’d known another woman like that, and she was dead. It had been four years now; the days had gotten easier, but other things, namely the guilt, had gotten worse. In hindsight, he would have done things differently. Given her the divorce she’d wanted. Maybe then Lucy would still be alive.
He’d been so determined, so set on having everything he’d wanted that he’d not taken the time to realize she hadn’t wanted the same thing. That their marriage had been destined to fail from the start.
That had been exactly what he hadn’t wanted to face.
Failure.
He’d failed once before with Theodore, and like it or not, ultimately, he’d failed with Lucy, too.
“Mr. Russell, do you not care for the beef?”
Walter glanced up, forced a smile to form for Mrs. McCaffrey. “No. I mean, the beef is fine. Excellent. I just find I’m not hungry this evening.”
The twinkle faded from her green eyes as her frown added more wrinkles to her usually jolly face. “I do hope you aren’t coming down with something.”
She was one in a million. Finding Mrs. McCaffrey was one of the things he had done right. She was the best housekeeper in the state, and he was lucky that she’d stuck with him through thick and thin. Her husband had died many years ago, and having no children, she’d dedicated herself to taking care of others. He’d hired her six years ago, before he and Lucy had gotten married, which had proven insightful on his end because Lucy had wanted nothing to do with housekeeping.
Of course she hadn’t. She’d been a star.
He muffled a sigh. “I’m fine. I just had a late lunch. I should have telephoned you, but the afternoon got away from me. I do apologize.”
Mrs. McCaffrey waved a hand and then lifted the serving dish holding several slices of roast beef off the table. “That’s nothing to apologize about. You’re a busy man. The most sought-after lawyer in all of Los Angeles. And this beef will keep just fine for tomorrow night.”
Walter nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be hungry tomorrow night.” He hadn’t had a late lunch; he just wasn’t hungry because his mind was on that girl from Nebraska. He hadn’t been back to that state since he’d left over ten years ago. Not that she was making him homesick. He hoped she was homesick, though, and that she had already gotten on an eastbound train.
It was all rather foolish and out of the ordinary for him to be so worried about a stranger. He’d met hundreds of young women over the years, and never thought twice about the decisions they made. Because those had been their decisions, just like the ones she made were hers—that woman from Nebraska with her short blond hair and big blue eyes.
She didn’t look like anyone he knew, nor did she remind him of someone, of anyone, so there really was no reason for his fixation.
Then again, he’d never almost run someone over before, either.
“Would you care for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee?” Mrs. McCaffrey asked, returning to the dining room.
“No, thank you.” He stood. “I have some work to finish.”
She pulled the serving spoon out of the potatoes and waved it at him. “You shouldn’t work so much. It’s not good for the soul.”
“Someday I won’t,” he said, just to placate her. In all honesty, there was nothing else for him to do. It was a good thing that his clients kept him busy. In more ways than one. Being a lawyer for the rich and famous was a time-consuming job, but also one that had created a bank account that was far beyond what he’d ever have imagined.
Money hadn’t been the reason he’d gone into this profession, but he certainly couldn’t complain over how profitable it had become.
He strolled out of the dining room and down the hall to his home office. The house was big, five bedrooms upstairs, and one downstairs—a suite of rooms—off the kitchen, which was where Mrs. McCaffrey lived. There were other rooms on the main floor, but other than the dining room and his office, he rarely entered them.
There had been a time when he’d imagined this house full of children. A family. A real family. That’s what he’d wanted. Why he’d bought this house. A family like the one he’d had before he’d become an orphan at the age of ten.
That had been eighteen years ago now. He could barely remember what his parents had looked like, but he remembered that they’d loved him. And his little brother, Owen. He remembered the storm, too, and the flash flood. Parts of it. Especially being so cold that he didn’t think he would ever warm up.
It had been that way at the orphanage, too. Cold. Bitterly cold. A few months before he’d turned sixteen, he and Theodore Grahams had decided they’d had enough of being cold, and enough of being farmed out as day laborers to people who expected orphans to work harder than anyone else, so they’d escaped. Hopped on a train, and rode it to the end of the rails.
That happened to be California, and that suited them both just fine.
They’d found work on the docks, and thought their futures were as bright as the sunshine. It had been, for a few months. Until Theodore, big for his age, got in a fight with another dockworker. A serious fight that changed both of their lives. The other dockworker died, drowned, and Theodore was charged with his death.
Walter argued it was self-defense when Theodore was arrested, only to be told to shut up or he’d be arrested, too. He hadn’t been about to shut up, and went to the police station, still arguing, trying to prove Theodore’s innocence. He was kicked out several times, and finally went to a lawyer, hoping for help.
