I nodded and then took my place in the center of the stage where the microphone had been placed.
“Please join me in singing ‘Rock of Ages,’” I said into the microphone.
As I began to sing, the amphitheater filled with my voice, and the audience joined me. Mother’s eyes lit up with pride and joy.
Ever since I was young, people had praised my voice, and Father insisted it was a gift from God. To me, it was another burden. If I could sing for pleasure alone, I would love it. But singing for an audience who judged each note robbed me of joy.
After both songs were finished, I took my seat next to Mother again, my cheeks warm and my heart pumping with relief.
“Before I hand the microphone over to Reverend Baldwin,” the organizer said in English, while a translator interpreted in French, “I want to make a special announcement. Reverend Baldwin has just agreed to host a weekly international radio broadcast program. It will be the first of its kind, and, we hope, will further our mission to eradicate alcohol use around the world.”
The audience cheered enthusiastically as Mother and I looked at each other in surprise. I didn’t know of any other pastor who had an international audience.
My heart started pounding for a whole new reason. It terrified me to think about my brothers’ secrets getting out. Father’s entire ministry would come crumbling down, and thousands of people would be disillusioned.
After all, what good was a pastor’s preaching when one of his sons was a gangster and the other was a crooked cop, taking bribes from criminals?
The lights of Paris sparkled as the sun set on our last day in France. I had left the window open to allow the fresh air to flood our room, filling it with the fragrance of spring and the sounds of people at sidewalk cafés or passing by on the street. I wasn’t ready to go to sleep in Paris—to face my escape in Charleston. I wanted to lie for a few minutes and enjoy this moment of tranquility. This breath between my two lives.
Ever since I was young, I could choose when I wanted to fall asleep. I would simply lie down, close my eyes, and fall into a deep slumber. If midnight came and went while I slept, I would wake up in my other life. But if I stayed awake past midnight, as was common while at a tent revival with Father, I would not cross over until I went to sleep. If I wanted to nap during the day, I would remain in whatever life I was in, as long as I woke up before midnight.
Somehow, I woke up refreshed in body—if not in soul or spirit.
The room was dark fifteen minutes later as I heard the rustle of Irene’s bedding. When I turned, I was shocked to find that she had been under her covers fully dressed—shoes and all—and she was sneaking out of our room.
“Irene,” I said in a loud whisper.
She opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Go back to sleep, Carrie. This doesn’t concern you.”
And, with that, she closed the door and was gone.
I tossed my covers aside and quickly began to dress. I put on the same clothing I’d worn earlier that evening to the farewell dinner. My gown was modest, but it was probably the most fashionable thing I owned. With layers of black silk and lace, it extended to my mid-calves and had a dropped waist. But it was the shawl, made of the same black lace, that had made Mother approve. She had not let me cut my brown hair short, like Irene’s, so I had found a way to roll it up to make it look like the shorter styles, with marcel waves framing my face.
As I made my way toward the door, I slipped my black heels onto my feet, but I left my hat and purse behind.
I needed to stop Irene before she left the hotel.
Thankfully, my parents’ connecting room had been silent since nine. I just prayed they wouldn’t wake up and discover neither of us in our beds.
I didn’t see Irene in the hallway or on the stairs. She wasn’t in the lobby or just outside the hotel, either.
Traffic moved past the Hôtel Westminster as people walked toward the Place Vendome, a large public square nearby. I moved in that same direction, my eyes scanning the street as I neared the large obelisk in the center of the plaza. Nightclubs, cabaret shows, and jazz clubs beckoned on this cool night. If Irene hadn’t told me she was returning to the Dingo Bar, I would have thought of looking in one of them.
I caught a glimpse of my cousin as she took a left to head toward the Jardin des Tuileries, a beautiful garden along the river Seine.
“Irene!” I called out to her, heedless of the French men and women who turned toward me as I began to jog in her direction.
“Irene,” I yelled again.
Finally, she stopped. When I caught up to her, she asked, “What are you doing, Carrie?”
She was wearing a dress I hadn’t yet seen. It was ruby red and shimmered under the glow of the lamps. The hem was at her knees, and the décolletage dipped dangerously low. She wore no brassiere or undergarments and was covered in long, black necklaces, earrings, and a black headdress with more dangling jewels. Her outfit was so shocking, my mouth slipped open.
“What amIdoing?” I stared at her. “What areyoudoing?”
“I told you.” She continued to walk with determination toward the Jardin des Tuileries. “I’m going to meet F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
I raced to keep up with her, wishing I had the same courage as Irene—or was it foolishness? To the left was the famous Louvre Museum, and to the right, at quite a distance, was the Champs-Élysées.I could glimpse the top of the Eiffel Tower, though it was shadowed in the night sky.
