“There is no such thing as
nothing
. You tell me —all of this nothingness. Surely I am not the first to ask?”
Far from the first. There’d been a journalist in Chicago, and even two on the train, pestering her with questions. How did it feel to be free after all this time? What did she want to do? Where
did she want to go? What was the connection between her and the lovely Celeste DuFrane? Their queries pelted her like stones, chipping away at the wall she’d built around her —far higher and stronger than those of Bridewell.
But this felt different. Ostermann’s office was close and plain and gray, lit only by a small, open window high up on the opposite wall. Under his scrutiny, she felt the space closing in, and the odd comfort of the confinement frightened her.
“Will you leave the door open? So I can leave if I want?”
“Of course.” His expression lacked any hint of triumph as he stood, walked out from behind his desk, and spoke curtly through the opened door. Within seconds, the capable, sturdy woman who had greeted Dana in the outer office came in carrying a small notebook and a sharpened pencil.
“This is Miss Lynch. She will be taking notes as you speak. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course,” Dana said, purposefully repeating his words, trying to match his tone. She turned to acknowledge Miss Lynch, who sat in a chair to the left and slightly behind her. In the meantime, Werner Ostermann settled himself back behind his messy piles and lit a fresh cigarette.
“Do you mind?” Dana said, emboldened. “I’m not used to the smell, and the smoke burns my eyes.”
He said nothing but stubbed out the offensive thing.
“Thank you.”
“Proceed.” He opened his hands toward her, inviting.
Again the clock ticked silence, the only other sound being the soft clearing of Miss Lynch’s throat.
“Where should I begin?” Dana’s voice was little more than a whisper, so soft she could feel Miss Lynch craning closer.
“I believe it was Oliver Twist who began with his birth, but I
don’t think we need to go back that far. Perhaps the night you were arrested?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember much about that.” It was a truth that had not served her well.
“Perhaps, then, a memory from before?”
Before she went to prison, he meant, but those memories were equally shrouded. Still, she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, seeing a small, pale hand pushing aside a curtain.
“My mother and I lived in a small apartment on the third floor above a grocer. . . .”
I HAVE BEEN OVERWHELMED by the reception of the first book in this series,
All for a Song
. I have an amazing support system of friends and family —and readers. When I am writing, I always look for that moment in the middle of a story, when something will happen or a character will say something, and I’ll think,
Ooooh. They’re going to love this!
I write with all of you in my heart, and I deliver my stories with all my prayers, and I’m so, so thankful that God has allowed us to take this journey together.
We call the years in which these stories are set the Roaring Twenties, and they were indeed a time of roaring change. Men returned from fighting the Great War on foreign soil with a new taste for sophistication and adventure. Women, having won the right to vote, stormed the walls of feminine convention, shedding their long hair and long skirts in a new zest for freedom. Thrust into a world where wild parties replaced church socials and cars with rumble seats stole the road from Sunday buggy rides, young girls saw the fair-skinned, long-legged flapper heralded as the new feminine ideal.
And then there was Monica.
People often ask me where I get my stories, and sometimes it’s
a long, difficult answer. But this one was easy. From the start I was eager to delve into some of the more fun (some would say
sinful
) aspects of the 1920s and also to bring back a couple of characters from
All for a Song
—Sister Aimee and Roland —for cameos. But the story itself came from a paragraph in one of the books I was reading as research for the series —
Flapper,
by Joshua Zeitz. (Go read it!) There really was a New York journalist/columnist who went by the pseudonym Lipstick, and she was the real-life Carrie Bradshaw of the Jazz Age. You could even say she was a pre-Internet blogger! Then, in an odd little book I picked up in a treasure trove of a basement/used bookstore, I saw a tiny picture of Alice Reighly, who headed up something called an “Anti-Flirt Club.” I knew I had to bring these very real women into my story. I kept Alice, reimagined Lipstick, and put Max together from scratch. So that in itself was fascinating, but then as I coupled it with exploring the ideas of hiding, invisibility, and secrecy, piece by piece the novel fell into place.
I had a lot of fun with Max and Monica —they may be one of my favorite couples. I’d love to hear your thoughts too. Contact me through my website (
www.allisonpittman.com
), connect with me on the Allison Pittman Author Page on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter @allisonkpittman.
Award-winning author ALLISON PITTMAN left a seventeen-year teaching career in 2005 to follow the Lord’s calling into the world of Christian fiction, and God continues to bless her step of faith. Her novels
For Time and Eternity
and
Forsaking All Others
were both finalists for the Christy Award for excellence in Christian fiction, and her novel
Stealing Home
won the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Carol Award. She heads up a successful, thriving writers group in San Antonio, Texas, where she lives with her husband, Mike, their three sons, and the canine star of the family —Stella.