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?
