I quickly turned to face the wall, my cheeks growing warm. I’d never seen a man in any state of undress until I saw the pirates without shirts on today.
And I’d never been alone in a room with a half-dressed man.
“You won’t disrobe?” he asked me.
“Nay,” I said quickly, my voice higher than I intended. I cleared my throat and said more calmly, “I prefer to sleep in my clothes.”
There was a gentle chuckle, and then the light went out.
I could hear him climb into his bed and settle under his covers. There was a sigh and then silence.
I closed my eyes and went to sleep, thankful I would have one day in 1927 before I had to come back to the pirate ship and look into the fiery eyes of Marcus Zale again.
A thought that both terrified and intrigued me.
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 ofmy own concerns, making me forget, for a moment, my troubles in both 1727 and 1927. I’d been on theOcean Cursefor 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 theOcean Curseand 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 theOcean 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 waswatching, 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,
