Chapter 6

6

JUNE 28, 1927 MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

Everything looked lush and green as we walked up to our home on Dupont Avenue in the Lowry Hill neighborhood of Minneapolis. Our three-story Victorian home was nestled among other beautiful houses on the tree-lined street. It sat on a little rise from the sidewalk and was painted a cheerful yellow with white trim.

A welcome respite after months of travel.

"It feels good to be home," Mother said as Father slipped the key into the front door, and they shared a smile.

We'd been gone for almost three months and had made a quick stop in Des Moines to return Irene to her mother before continuing to Minneapolis.

Some of the neighborhood children had left their afternoon play to see what all the fuss was about as the taxicab driver hauled our luggage into the house. I waved at several of my piano students, and they giggled as they ran away. I couldn't wait to welcome them back into the house and hear their sweet attempts at making music. Before singing in the Dingo Bar, it was the one pleasure that music brought into my life.

The sounds of the neighborhood drowned out the echoes of my own concerns, making me forget, for a moment, my troubles in both 1727 and 1927. I'd been on the Ocean Curse for over two weeks already, and we had yet to stop at a single port of call. For sixteen days, I had served Marcus Zale and his father, scrubbed every square inch of their cabins, and washed all their bedding and clothing. I'd always assumed pirates were unclean, but Captain Zale had a penchant for finery and etiquette that surprised me. He ran his ship with precision, and he expected perfection from his crew. He appeared to have the money for good food and drinks and was happy to share it with his men—including me. To my surprise, when everyone lined up for their weekly pay, I had been given a share, which I had quickly stored away under the mattress of my cot.

But it was my close proximity to Marcus, both day and night, that consumed my thoughts when I was on the Ocean Curse and when I was away. The men respected and admired him because he was calm and levelheaded, in stark contrast to his father. When Marcus spoke, the men listened—and I listened. He was well-educated and intelligent, and I often saw him with a book in hand when he had spare time. He was currently reading a book by Aristotle, and it made me wonder about his past. At what age had he joined his father on the Ocean Curse ? I had so many questions, and the more time I spent with him, the more I wondered.

But now was not the time to ponder Marcus Zale. Today I needed to focus on the tasks ahead of me in 1927, and all I wanted to do was speak to Ruth. To find out if Alice Pierce had disappeared, or if she was still a threat to my family.

The air inside our house was stale, but it was still good to be back. Dark woodwork graced the wainscoting, doors, windows, stairway, and fireplaces. Wood pillars flanked the entrance into the parlor to the left and the grand stairway ahead of us. To the back of the house, the kitchen was the only truly modern room, though the two bathrooms had been updated recently.

This was the house I had grown up in, and it was like an anchor for my weary soul. In this home, my life felt normal. No one was watching, judging, or expecting perfection. My home on Dupont Avenue represented what I wanted most—to live a quiet, meaningful life with those I loved. No arranged marriages, microphones, or critical audiences.

"I will be in my study if you need me," Father said as he left us in the foyer and walked into his study adjacent to the main hall.

Mother sighed as she took off her hat and set it on the hall table with her purse. "There is much to be done before we can rest." She lifted a stack of mail that had been collected by a neighbor boy and sifted through it. "This is for you." She handed me an envelope that was on the top. "It's postmarked from France."

I frowned. Who could be writing to me from France?

"I'll phone Ruth and tell her we're back," I said to Mother as I turned the envelope over to inspect it.

"Thank you, dear. Tell her that she should bring the grandchildren by tomorrow."

"I will."

The house was warm as I walked through the parlor and into the dining room where the telephone hung on the wall. With a frown, I opened the envelope, surprised at the bold, slanted script I found within. But it was the brief message, dated May 22, 1927, that shocked me to my core.

Dear Miss Reed ... or should I say, Miss Baldwin? I like finding new talent. It's a gift that should be shared with the world. A war buddy of mine owns the Coliseum Ballroom in Saint Paul, and he's always looking for good singers. I'm sending him a letter of introduction on your behalf. When you get this letter, take my advice and see him. The sooner the better. Prove to him I'm not a liar and I met the most talented young woman he'll ever hear. I've included his name and address at the bottom of this page.

Your ardent admirer, Ernest Hemingway

My lips parted as I stared at Mr. Hemingway's letter. He'd known who I was after all, and he'd taken the time to write to me!

"Be sure to let Ruth know that she and Andrew are invited to Father's first live broadcast on Sunday night," Mother said as she entered the dining room with the stack of mail.

I quickly lowered Mr. Hemingway's letter to my side, hoping she couldn't see his writing.

Mother paused and glanced at the letter. "I hope it's not bad news," she said. "You're white as a sheet."

My heart was pounding so hard, I was afraid she'd hear it. "No—not bad news."

Mother stared at me for a second and then continued through the dining room toward the kitchen. She was never one to pry into her children's personal affairs. Sometimes, I wondered if she didn't pry because she was afraid of what she might find.

"As soon as you're through with your call to Ruth," she said from the kitchen, "I'll need you to run to the grocer's. We have nothing in the house for supper."

I refolded Mr. Hemingway's letter and slipped it back into the envelope. I should destroy it, but I didn't want to. I was trying to think of where I'd keep it when the front doorbell rang.

Mother poked her head out of the kitchen. "Will you get that, please? I'm making the shopping list for the grocer."

Nodding, I slipped Mr. Hemingway's letter into my pocket. His suggestion to sing at the Coliseum Ballroom was ridiculous. It was a notorious speakeasy, so notorious that even I knew about it. I wouldn't sing for his friend, but I'd keep his letter as a reminder of meeting him.

The foyer door opened into a little vestibule, which was handy in the winter months to trap the cold air. Since the front door had a long glass window in it, I was able to see a young woman standing on the porch. She was attractive and stylish, with a burgundy dress and a black cloche cap over her blonde bob. But it was the small suitcase she held that made me the most curious.

Her emotions were hard to read as I offered her a smile and opened the door. "May I help you?"

She looked beyond me into the foyer and then met my gaze. "Is this the residence of Reverend Daniel Baldwin?"

My instincts immediately came to life as I gripped the doorknob. Very few young women came looking for my father. "Yes. May I help you?" I asked again.

She blinked several times, and a single tear slid down her cheek. "I need to speak to Reverend Baldwin. It's urgent."

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I realized who this might be. "And who may I ask is calling?"

"I'd prefer to meet with the reverend, if I may." She wiped the single tear aside with her white-gloved hand. Her behavior would have been believable enough to convince me if I hadn't been prepared for her.

I didn't want to alienate this woman if she wasn't Alice Pierce—but I needed to hold my ground if she was. "I don't let anyone speak to my father unless I have a name."

"Caroline?" Mother asked as she entered the foyer with a gentle smile.

The young lady took an eager step forward when she saw Mother. "Mrs. Baldwin?"

"Yes," Mother said. "How may I help you, dear?"

More tears fell down the young lady's cheeks as she bit her trembling bottom lip. "I'm in the worst sort of trouble, and I've heard that you and Reverend Baldwin are the kindest souls on earth. You're my last hope. May I speak with you?"

Panic robbed me of speech for a second as I took a step between my mother and the woman. "I'm sorry," I said, anxious for her to leave. "I don't believe we can help you."

The young woman's expression changed from desperation to determination in the blink of an eye—yet it was almost indiscernible. There for a moment and then gone the next.

"Caroline," Mother said as she put her hand on my arm to move me to the side. "The Lord says in the book of Matthew, ‘Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.' It is our Christian duty to help those in need. I'm surprised at you." Mother tenderly pushed me to the side and held her hand out to the young lady. "Come inside, dear. We'll get a nice cup of tea and see what we can do to help you."

"May I speak to the reverend?" she asked. "I would like spiritual guidance as well as practical advice."

Mother patted her hand. "Of course, my dear."

Desperation squeezed the air from my lungs. I hadn't even been home for thirty minutes, and I had already failed Ruth. Had this woman been watching our house? Waiting for us to return?

Soon, Mother and Father would know the truth about Andrew, and it would destroy them. What would Father do? He prided himself on always being honest, but how could he be honest with his congregants about his children when one of them was an adulterer, among other things?

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't kick this woman out of the house without raising suspicions. I couldn't confront her with the truth in front of my parents.

Mother stopped at Father's office door, poked her head inside to ask him to join them, and then took the woman to the parlor and offered her a seat.

I followed, and my father entered a few moments later.

"Reverend Baldwin," the woman said, swallowing as she rose to greet him. "It's an honor to meet you."

"Please." He motioned to the sofa where she'd been sitting with Mother. "Have a seat."

"Caroline," Mother asked, "will you start the tea?"

I didn't want to leave them, but Mother would think I was rude not to help.

With a quick nod, I left the parlor and walked toward the kitchen, keeping an ear on the conversation.

"Now," Father said, "tell us your name and why you've come."

"My name is Alice Pierce," she said.

It was Alice! I stayed near the door to listen, not caring about the tea.

"And why have you come, Miss Pierce?" Mother asked.

"Please, call me Alice. I—" She paused and then started over. "I'm in a desperate situation."

"You mentioned that," Mother said. "What kind of situation?"

"I'm with child." Alice began to sob—I could hear it all the way in the kitchen.

As Mother tried to calm the young woman, I quickly filled a teakettle with water, lit the gas stove, set it to boil, and then returned to the parlor to find Mother's arm around Alice.

Father had a very stern look upon his face—the kind of look he had when he was processing something weighty.

"And why did you come to us?" Father asked. "Why not your own parents?"

Alice lifted her face and dabbed at the tears on her cheeks with a handkerchief. "My parents are both dead. I live on my own and work for a living."

"And what of the father?"

I held my breath. Would she blame Andrew?

Alice glanced at me, standing in the doorway, then looked at my father. "He's married, but I didn't know he was married when I met him. He led me to believe he loved me and was going to marry me." She buried her face in her hands. "I'm so ashamed."

"There, there," Mother said, patting her back. "That's how they all do it, dear. It's like leading a lamb to slaughter."

Father continued to frown in contemplation.

"I didn't mean to lose my virtue," Alice added. "But he was so charming. When I told him I was pregnant, he admitted he was married and said he had his own children to look after."

Mother studied Father with deep concern. "How awful, Daniel. Can you even imagine a person like that?"

"Do you have a home?" Father asked her.

"No." She shook her head as she indicated her suitcase. "I was renting an apartment in Saint Paul and working at—at a diner. But when my boss heard that I was going to have a child, I was fired, and I didn't have enough money to make my rent. I was forced out of my home today, and that's why I came here, out of desperation."

"Well, don't worry," Mother said, squeezing Alice's shoulder. "We'll let you stay here for the time being until we can get you back on your feet. Isn't that right, Daniel? It's the least we can do."

I stepped forward, ready to stop this nonsense, but Father was nodding—and whenever he made a decision, he stuck to it. "I think that's the best course of action for now. Miss Pierce may use the guest room until we can find employment for her and a place to live."

"Oh, thank you," Alice cried in appreciation. She hugged Mother and looked like she might stand to give Father a hug, but he crossed his arms and made it plain that he wouldn't allow her to touch him.

"You're very welcome, dear," Mother said. "Now, let's see about that tea, and then we'll show you to your room."

Alice wiped her cheeks as Mother rose from the sofa and helped her to her feet. She kept her arm around Alice's shoulders as they walked past me.

"Father," I said, taking a step forward.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged," Father said as he, too, rose from his seat. "We'll find the man responsible for this situation and force him to make it right."

As he walked out of the parlor to return to his study, one question kept replaying in my head.

Why hadn't Alice told my parents that Andrew was responsible for her pregnancy?

That evening, I sat in the parlor with my parents listening to the nightly news on the radio. Alice had gone to bed right after supper, claiming to have a headache. Until then, I had been watching her closely, expecting her to tell my parents the truth, but she kept the information to herself. I wanted to tell her that I knew her secret, but she hadn't given me the opportunity. She stuck close to Mother all day.

The soft glow from the floor lamps above Father's and Mother's heads made the room feel safe, cocooned. Closed off from the outside world, except for the radio against the wall. I had been longing for this moment for months—but with Alice upstairs, I couldn't relax or enjoy being home.

Father had his Bible open on his lap but was staring at the floor as he listened to the news. Mother had her knitting needles in hand, and they were clacking a steady rhythm as she, too, listened.

I had been trying to read Gulliver's Travels , but I was too restless, wondering when it would be appropriate for me to go upstairs and confront Alice. Even my favorite book couldn't distract me from her presence.

"In other news," the broadcaster said on the radio, "today the Guggenheim Fund for the Promotion of Aeronautics announced that Charles A. Lindbergh will undertake a Goodwill Tour of the United States. The tour will commence on July 20th in New York where Lindbergh left on his historic trans-Atlantic flight in May."

Father sat upright, his Bible nearly falling out of his lap. He'd been trying to contact Lindbergh since we'd met him in Washington, DC, but hadn't heard back from the aviator.

"Over the course of ninety-five days," the broadcaster continued, "Lindbergh will visit eighty-two cities and twenty-three state capitals. At each stop, he will give a brief speech and participate in a parade. One of his stops will hold special significance when he visits his hometown in Little Falls, Minnesota. It's said that the town of just five thousand people will host the greatest celebration in its history, with their hometown hero as the guest of honor."

The broadcaster continued with the next news story, but Father turned down the radio and looked at Mother. "If Lindbergh is going to Little Falls, he could easily stop here first."

"They'll probably want him to go to Saint Paul," Mother said with a scathing look—something she only reserved for Minneapolis's twin city and greatest rival.

"But that's why we must attract him to Minneapolis." I could see the wheels of Father's mind working already. "I will call the mayor tomorrow, and we will host an emergency meeting of the community leaders. We'll make an offer to the Guggenheim Fund that they can't refuse."

Mother set down her knitting needles. "Do you think it will work?"

His smile was wide as he said, "It's almost too good to be true, Marian. The people will come to see the flier, and then we'll encourage them to stay and attend the largest tent revival meeting this country has ever seen."

"But Lindbergh said he wouldn't speak at your revival," Mother reminded him.

Father waved away her concern. "I don't need him to speak. I just need him to come to Minneapolis."

The front doorbell rang, making me jump. "I'll get it," I said, hoping it wasn't another one of Andrew's conquests.

But when I opened the door, I was surprised to find an old family friend. "Lewis."

He was dressed in a fine suit and holding his fedora in his hands. I hadn't seen him since Christmas. Somehow, he looked more dapper and confident than ever before.

"Hello, Curly Carrie."

And apparently still fond of the nickname I had despised as a teen, received once he found out my synthetic curls were the result of magic wave curlers.

"You know I hate that name."

He grinned and winked at me. "That's why I use it."

With a sigh I said, "Won't you come in?" I moved aside and opened the door wider, knowing I couldn't shut it in his face. "My parents will be happy to see you."

He paused for a moment, his face growing serious, as if he was going to speak, but then he nodded and stepped into the foyer.

I had known Lewis most of my life. He was my brother Thomas's best friend and had grown up down the block. They had both wanted to be policemen since they were young and were now employed with the Saint Paul Police Department.

But that begged the question, had Lewis become as corrupt as my brother Thomas? I had heard rumors about Thomas's work with the Saint Paul Police from Ruth, though I didn't know if any of them were true. I hoped and prayed they weren't.

"Lewis!" Mother said as soon as we walked into the parlor. "What a wonderful surprise."

"Hello, Mrs. Baldwin. Reverend Baldwin."

"Come in," Father said to Lewis, just as eager as Mother. We didn't see him as often as we had when he and Thomas were younger, but he still came by on occasion.

"I can't stay long," he said as he glanced at me. He was tall and muscular, nothing like the skinny kid he had been in high school. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd see if you folks made it home safe from your trip."

"Just this afternoon," Mother said as she patted the sofa. "Have a seat."

He moved across the room and sat next to Mother, offering her a smile. She took his hand in her own and squeezed it as she looked at him.

For years, he had been a fixture around our house, almost like another brother. Teasing me incessantly and bothering me to no end. At the age of twenty-four, I hoped his teasing days were behind him, but I wasn't holding my breath.

"How did you like Europe?" Lewis asked, though he looked in my direction again.

"It was grand," Mother said, letting go of his hand. "And did you hear that Reverend Baldwin will be giving a weekly international broadcast?"

"I did," Lewis said. "I hope to listen in each Sunday night, sir."

Father nodded his approval. "It would honor me if you attended the broadcast, Lewis."

Lewis's face lit up, and he nodded. "I will indeed."

They spoke for some time about our trip, and Lewis told us what he had been doing since we saw him last winter.

"Do you have a special girl yet?" Mother asked, her eyes shining.

Lewis, who had never been shy one day in his life, suddenly looked a little uncomfortable as he played with his fedora. He glanced up and met my gaze and then said, "Not yet."

"Well, she'll be one fortunate young lady when you find her," Mother said.

After a few more minutes, Lewis stood and said he needed to head home.

"I'll walk you out," I told him as I also stood to leave the room.

His smile was so sweet, it surprised me. Where was my childhood bully?

We walked into the foyer, and Lewis held the door open for me to step out onto the front porch.

The sun had set, and the stars were sparkling above the trees. Lights were on in the homes on our street, and the yards were quiet as all the children had been tucked in for the night.

"Thank you for stopping in," I told Lewis. "This has been a surprisingly pleasant evening."

He laughed, but there was a little hurt in his gaze. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means. I used to dread when you came over. You teased me incessantly."

"I didn't tease you incessantly."

"You did!"

He shook his head, his infectious smile making his face light up. "If I teased you, it was only to get your attention."

"My attention?" I frowned. "By making my life miserable?"

He turned his fedora uncomfortably in his hands. "Did I really make your life miserable?"

"Yes," I said, but I laughed. "It's okay, Lewis. I've forgiven you and moved on. I'm sure I was a pesky younger sister and you and Thomas were just trying to get rid of me."

"No." He shook his head, and then he took a deep breath, his hat becoming still. "I teased you because I liked you, Carrie."

I stared at him for a moment, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I had a crush on you," he said, his voice growing gentle.

"A crush?" I pressed my lips together, trying not to giggle, knowing he was still teasing me. "If you did, that was a funny way of showing it. I despised you, Lewis."

Something painful crossed his face, but he quickly covered it with a chuckle of his own as he put his hat on his head. He started to walk away. "I guess I don't blame you. I'd probably feel the same way if someone treated me so poorly."

I felt bad for giggling, even if he was teasing, so I reached out and put my hand on his arm. "Please don't be upset at me."

He stopped and looked down at my hand before laying his over mine. "I could never be upset at you, Curly Carrie." He winked. "Goodnight."

I pulled my hand away, feeling horrible, though I wasn't sure why. "Goodnight, Lewis."

As I stood on the porch, I watched him walk down the steps and toward his waiting car. He started it and then waved at me before he pulled away into the night.