The white canopied bed was bright with the rays of sunshine pouring in through the window. I turned on my side and looked at the vibrant green leaves outside, gently swaying in the late summer wind.
Would God listen if I prayed for a miracle? If I believed that He created me and loved me, then I also had to believe that He was for me, and I could go to Him in prayer. It didn’t mean He would give me the miracle, but it did mean that He would listen to my plea and do what was best.
I wanted to be with Marcus, to find a way to live as man and wife without the past hovering over us for the rest of our lives. Marcus had led a life of crime—I had not even thought to ask him for a list of his transgressions—but he longed to make it right. And wasn’t that what redemption was for? The reason God had sent His Son to offer forgiveness to those who repented?
It was the message my father preached time and time again, from Romans chapter ten. “For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” And in 1 John it said if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us. It didn’t mean Marcus wouldn’t have to pay the consequences for his actions, but there would be peace knowing he was right with God.
Even if that meant we couldn’t be together.
My heart ached thinking about a future without him, so I did the only thing I could. I laid my future in God’s hands, where it had always belonged, and prayed for a miracle.
“Caroline,” Mother called from the hallway as she opened my door and peeked her head inside. “There’s no time to dawdle in bed. We have a very busy day ahead of us.”
Lindbergh’s homecoming and then Father’s tent revival tonight. He had asked me to sing, and I had agreed. But this time, I knew who I was singing for, and I wasn’t nearly as nervous.
I quickly got out of bed and dressed in a white summer dress with a pleated skirt, a lace top with long sleeves, and a thick black belt around my waist. It was different from many of the other dresses I wore and had recently been purchased for this occasion at Dayton’s department store in downtown Minneapolis. I would wear my white cloche cap and a pair of black buckled heels.
After touching up my hair and putting a little rouge on my lips and cheeks, I left my room. With prayers for Marcus close to my heart, I was ready for the day ahead.
As I walked down the front steps, the house was strangely quiet. I had expected Father and Mother to be chatting excitedly about the day’s upcoming activities, or to hear Irene’s giggles about seeing Lindbergh again. But there was no noise except the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
A strange anxiety stole over me as I crossed into the parlor and rounded the corner into the dining room.
Father stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, while Mother was at the table, her handkerchief to her face as she silently cried. Irene was pale—a sickly color that portendedshocking news. Her gaze lifted to mine, and her blue eyes were round and filled with tears.
My heart sank as I saw the scene before me. “What happened?”
Mother’s eyes lifted to mine, but she let out a cry and buried her face in her handkerchief, shaking her head.
My heart galloped as I looked to my father, who slowly turned from the window. I had never seen his face so grave—so filled with disappointment and defeat. He silently walked to the table, his regal bearing bent forward, as if the weight of the very world was upon his shoulders. Slowly, he lifted theMinneapolis Tribuneoff the table.
It felt like he was in slow motion as he handed the paper to me. I expected to see Lindbergh’s name on the headline. Perhaps the pilot had been killed in a plane crash.
Instead, there was a picture, front and center, of my father in the middle of a sermon, holding a Bible and passionately preaching the Word of God. Around the picture of my father were smaller images with captions underneath. Lewis and me at the Castle Royal, speaking to Annie Barker. Me singing at the Coliseum. A picture of Thomas and Alice dancing together that night—Alice’s pregnancy evident. An older one of Andrew with his arm around Alice, sitting at a table, with bottles of alcohol in hand as they grinned at whoever was taking the photo. And another of Andrew and Ruth with their three beautiful children.
Above this collage was the bold headline:The Hypocrisy of Reverend Baldwin’s Family.
I stared at the images in shock. My stomach turned as panic gripped my heart. Someone must have been following our family, spying on each of us until they had what they needed. And they’d waited until today—the day of my father’s biggest tent revival—to share the story.
My worst fears had been realized.
I quickly skimmed the article, hoping that there was some redemption in this story, but it was worse than I could imagine. Whoever had written it knew about Thomas’s weekly visits toNina Clifford’s brothel and Andrew’s work as a bootlegger, bringing alcohol into Minnesota from Canada. They outlined Andrew’s affair with Alice and then her move into our home before taking up with Thomas. It was an exposé on the transgressions of the Baldwin children as their father, the biggest hypocrite of them all, was about to lead the largest tent revival meeting in the country.
I lowered the paper and found that my father had gone back to the window and my mother’s face was still buried in her handkerchief.
Tears came to my eyes as I felt their pain. We’d hurt them—I’d hurt them—and they didn’t deserve it. My parents were good and kind. They lived the things they preached. They weren’t hypocrites or liars.
We were.
“I’m sorry.” My apology was so feeble, so insignificant in light of their suffering. I sank into my chair, feeling weak and unsteady.
Irene stared at her clasped hands. No doubt she wished she was anywhere but here.
Father and Mother said nothing, which was almost worse than if they had yelled. I deserved their anger and resentment. Mother’s silent weeping was the hardest to bear. Her heart was breaking, and it was my fault. I had tried for years to live a life that would make them proud. But in just a few days’ time, I had thrown caution to the wind to find Annie, and it was now splashed upon the pages of the largest newspaper in Minneapolis. Whoever had taken the picture of Annie and me knew who she was, and the caption under that photo had read: “Caroline Baldwin at the Castle Royal with Annie Barker, the Most Wanted Woman in America.”
How had I not noticed there was someone taking a picture of us? It must have been a hidden camera, and the paper must have hired people to spy on our family. There had to be multiple people working together to unmask the Baldwin family, waiting for the perfect moment.
And they had found it.
