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New York, NY
Vanessa Eisenzimmer rushed up the Manhattan subway steps as fast as she dared in a skirt suit and heels—an outfit she only wore on special occasions—and tried not to sound like a dying camel, but it didn’t work.
She made a wry face as she dodged other Thursday morning commuters. Was she out of breath because of nerves or because she hadn’t been to the gym lately?
She checked her watch and winced. One minute after ten o’clock.
Kali, her boss at the Women of the American Revolution Museum, wouldn’t be pleased.
And if Kali happened to mention it to the museum board, that wouldn’t look good, either. Only last month, Vanessa had finally gotten their approval for her fundraising gala and silent auction idea.
She’d started to work on the event right after she’d gotten the go-ahead. But she knew that if this event in two weeks didn’t help the museum reach its monetary goals for this fiscal year, it would have to close. She’d lose her job, too.
She swallowed and did her best to suppress the flutter of nerves in her stomach. That’s why this promotional video had to be perfect. She muttered the opening lines to herself as she rushed along.
Kali and the board expected her to be the spokesperson in the short video and then post it on social media. Except they hadn’t checked with her to see if she was comfortable in front of a camera. They’d simply assumed she’d do it. She’d been too distracted by arranging gala details to explain otherwise.
She hated being in the spotlight.
But if it meant saving the museum, well, she’d just have to get herself on track. Even if the thought of the whole world seeing her on camera made her nauseous.
She darted a quick look left and right before she jaywalked across William Street, toward the little museum tucked away on Cedar Street in what had once been an 18th century merchant’s house. The small two-story red brick home had blue shutters and wide windowsills.
She smiled. Some days it was easy to imagine this part of Lower Manhattan as it must’ve looked in the 1700s. Other times, like today, with the Dunkin’ Donuts nearby and the honk of yellow cabs, it was a bit harder.
Her fascination with the past was something her ex-boyfriend had never understood about her. He spent his time doing auditions on Broadway, hoping to be discovered. They’d never shared the same appreciation for this historic city.
A horn blared in her ear, and startled her attention back onto the sidewalk in front of her. She caught herself just before she tripped—darn heels—and then took a second to pause on the steps of the small house.
She could see her boss through the six-by-six window. She inhaled, exhaled and then pushed open the door.
“Vanessa.” Kali looked at the clock on the wall above the stone fireplace. “Glad you could make it.”
Vanessa opened her mouth before she closed it again. Pretty useless to argue with a native New Yorker like Kali. Especially when she was dealing with her husband’s difficult health issues. So Vanessa just nodded and smoothed her hair away from her face.
Kali gave Vanessa an appraising look. “I see you listened to my suggestion, anyway. I think that powder blue will work well on-camera. Sets off your dark brown hair. Jill, you agree?”
Kali beckoned to someone else standing on the other side of the room. “This is Jill Wood, the same gal the Met used for that video series on Impressionist painters last month that caused such a sensation. She’ll be doing the filming.”
“Yep, I think what you’re wearing’ll work great.” Jill extended a hand to Vanessa. “Nice to meet you.”
Vanessa shook it. “You too.”
Kali clapped her hands. “Well, if you don’t need anything else, then,” she checked her watch and tried to hide a worried look. “I have an important conference call to make. Vanessa, don’t leave anything out, ok? We need the Friends of the Museum, and the general public too, to have a compelling reason to buy a gala ticket. Half the funds we need are coming from ticket sales, remember.”
Vanessa pressed her lips together. “Right. And the other half from the silent auction at the gala.” She gave a quiet sigh of relief as Kali went down the hall and into her office. She liked her boss, but the other woman could get intense at times.
“So,” Jill said, “we’re all set up over here.”
Vanessa’s palms grew clammy and she had to remind herself it was only a five-minute video. Piece of cake. She muttered the opening lines to herself one last time.
She followed Jill to the space she’d set up by the stone fireplace to film, and felt herself relax. This didn’t look very intimidating.
She took a seat on the Louis XIV chair and squinted as Jill flicked on a bright rolling light before she headed over to a small camera set up across from the chair. “Ready?”
Vanessa nodded and settled into the chair. Jill cued her just before the red light blinked on.
“The American Revolutionary War era is filled with stories of heroics and bravery, bloodshed and bitterness. But what some people might not realize is the extent that women across races and tiers of Colonial society played in helping win the War of Independence.”
Vanessa paused, wet her lips and gathered her thoughts before she continued with the rest of her speech about the gala and the exhibit. At least she wasn’t forgetting her lines and blanking out like she’d been afraid she might. She lifted her chin and spoke the final lines.
“That’s why the Women of the American Revolution Museum needs your help. This display we are creating is about female spies of that era. They might not be as well-known as their male counterparts but are, nonetheless, people who played just as important of a role in the fight for independence. With your help, their voices will be heard, and their acts of bravery not forgotten. Please donate, or purchase a gala ticket today.”
The red light blinked off. Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief and stood.
“That was great, Vanessa. We won’t need to do any retakes.”
“That’s a relief.” Vanessa chuckled. “Thank goodness I won’t have to look into another camera lens for a very long time.”
*
LOS ANGELES, CA
Jake Ford adjusted his aviator sunglasses and grinned as the wind ruffled his wavy brown hair and the open collar of his maroon safari shirt. It was good to be back in California. Lots of sunshine, and not so many monsoons. With both hands on the steering wheel of his Jeep, he did his best to blink away jet lag from the thirty-hour trip he’d just completed. He’d been over in Myanmar, on the hunt for an ancient jeweled scepter rumored to have been a love token for an empress.
Not that he’d actually found said relic. He sighed. Seemed he never did. Yet somehow, he got his hopes up every time.
He rubbed the back of his neck and winced. Must’ve slept on it wrong during the flight back.
He stifled a yawn, glad he’d taken the doors off the Jeep and rolled back the canvas top. He certainly couldn’t complain, though. After years spent piecing together his acting career doing hundreds of commercials and bit parts, he’d gotten a break landing that TV host position with the Travel Channel. Which had led to this—his dream job hosting Passport to Romance & Relics.
He grinned. Who else was lucky enough to get paid to travel around the world and investigate the romance and history behind some of the most legendary relics in the world?
Passport to Romance & Relics was the #1 rated show on the Globetrotter Network right now. Pretty phenomenal for its first season, which had just wrapped. The pilot had done better than even his executive producer, Sara, had hoped.
A combination of determination and sheer good luck? Then again, he’d never been one to trust much to luck, really.
He fiddled for a moment with the woven bracelet he always wore on his left wrist. The silver hematite beads woven into the jute braid always made him feel grounded. Centered.
Ever since he’d gotten it from that Buddhist monk at Angkor Wat during his very first backpacking trip abroad after college graduation from Stanford, he’d never taken it off. He smiled faintly. Maybe he was a bit of a believer in luck, deep down somewhere.
With some of the close calls in adventure travel he’d had over the years, maybe he’d be remiss not to be the tiniest bit superstitious.
Even with the risk and danger, there was nothing better than adventure. The thrill of the chase. The hope that somehow, some way, somewhere, maybe even just around the next corner, was the real relic discovery that would put his career on the map at last. Would—
His cell phone rang. He pressed the enable call button on the steering wheel.
“Jake Ford speaking. How can I help?”
“Jake, this is Sara.”
“Oh, hey, Sara. How was your trip with Todd to Bora-Bora?”
“That snorkel experience you recommended was absolutely amazing. Best moment of our honeymoon, ever.”
Jake chuckled. “Glad that it lived up to expectations. The tropical fish in those waters are something else, aren’t they?”
“You’ve got that right. I’d never seen anything like that electric blue before. Of course, Lake Mendota in Madison isn’t exactly prime scuba water. But all joking aside, Jake, I called because I wanted to discuss a bit of business.”
“Sure. Just picked up my Jeep from long-term parking and am on my way back from the airport now, so I have a bit of time to chat. What’s up?”
“Listen, Jake...”
Jake’s stomach dipped at his boss’s tone.
“The ratings have come back in for the season finale.”
“And?” Jake couldn’t keep the eagerness from his voice. If those finale ratings matched anything near the rest of the season’s episodes, the show’d be #1 for a lot longer.
“I’ll be honest—it’s totally bombed.”
Jake’s gut clenched and he swore under his breath.
“I know. None of us could’ve predicted this.”
Jake sighed and his mouth turned down. “You’re right about that.”
“Listen, can you swing by the studio? There’s...something interesting you might want to see.”
Jake stifled another yawn as he forced cheer into his tone. “Sounds good. I’ll head over there right now.”
He checked his rearview mirror and both side mirrors before he crossed six lanes of traffic. He hit the accelerator to narrowly avoid a Massarati that blared its horn at him.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes—Los Angeles. Seemed people cared more about their external status than their internal character. Sometimes this city really wore on him. He thought, fleetingly, of the tiny fishing town he’d grown up in outside of Bangor. At least there, people stated things how they were. No one took it personally.
Here, it seemed to him, everything was personal. But that was Hollywood, he supposed. Big egos and big dreams didn’t exactly make for a combination that created happiness in the long term. A view his ex-girlfriend, Laura, didn’t seem to share. But that was part of why they’d broken up.
He shook his head. Maybe he’d been here too long, been single too long.
Forty-five minutes later, he’d made it across town and pulled into the parking lot of the TV studio.
He parked and got out. He stretched for a second before he grabbed his cell phone and the car keys then headed inside the building.
The blast of cold from the air conditioner washed over his skin. But the usually welcome sensation made his grip tighten around his car keys. Had Sara talked to the network execs? What would happen now that the finale had bombed?
He took a big breath and nudged those thoughts aside. Whatever happened, he could handle it. Besides, things couldn’t be all bad news—Sara hadn’t fired him.
His heart a little lighter, he started down the hall toward Sara’s office. She poked her head around the doorframe as Jake approached. “That was quick.”
“Traffic was pretty light today, a miracle in itself.” Jake said. “So what’s this big mysterious thing you wanted to show me?”
“You’d better see it to believe it. Come on in.”
*
AT FIVE O’CLOCK, VANESSA’S phone buzzed. She grinned as she read the notification on the screen. A social media post from her favorite TV show.
Didn’t catch that last episode? Passport to Romance & Relics re-airs its season one finale tomorrow night at 9/8 central on the Globetrotter Network. Exclusive cast interview to follow show!
She was still grinning as she locked up the museum and stepped out onto the sidewalk at rush hour. But even the blaring car horns, the shouting and swearing of a bike messenger who’d gotten cut off by a jaywalking father with a stroller, and the press of so many strangers, couldn’t dampen her mood.
She’d done it—the video was completed, approved and posted. She lifted her chin as she descended into the subway station, and caught the 5:10 train back to her tiny studio. It’d taken seven years in this city, but she’d landed her dream museum job. She just hoped this video, and by extension, the gala, would help make the difference, and she could keep it.
On the street outside her apartment, she fished out her key from her purse. After she’d wrestled with the slightly battered security door, having to pull the knob upward as she turned the key hard to the right, the old oak door finally decided to pop open.
She stepped into the worn Art Deco space, with its scuffed brass mailboxes and its chipped penny round black-and-white tiles on the floor.
She didn’t care that this building charged an astronomical amount for the rent. She loved her minuscule space here—it was all hers—and worth every scraped-together dime.
What was better than living in a piece of real New York history? Nothing, that’s what.
Her mind drifted back to her exhibit idea—female spies had really gotten the attention of her boss.
Vanessa’s heart flipped—so many brave, courageous women who people knew hardly anything about. With this exhibit, she aimed to change all that, share with the public as much as she could to give a voice to these lesser-known historical women. She also wanted a way to make it interactive. Give people something they could really feel, experience, live.
She didn’t want people to dismiss history as part of the dusty past. She wanted to make it come alive. The question was, how? Because if people didn’t know their history, how could they appreciate their future?
The glint of light off the bank of mailboxes caught Vanessa’s attention, and she eyed them with a heavy heart. The last time she’d opened hers, Eric had sent her an actual letter, months after their breakup, finally apologizing for his behavior.
She took a breath. Thank goodness things with him were over and done with.
She selected the tiny mail key from her key ring and walked over to the box with the ornate Apartment 14B written in neat black ink in the center of the small brass door.
A few muttered curse words accompanied by the jingle of keys and rattle of the doorknob told her someone else was trying to get into the building.
The gust of warm July air that blew across the nape of her neck told her the other person had succeeded. She glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh hey, Melissa,” she said to the other woman who’d walked in. “Thought you were the downstairs neighbors who’d lost their key again. Had to let them in twice last week.”
“Nope, my key just jammed more than usual. My God. The traffic out there today is horrendous. Wait. Why am I complaining? It’s nearly always like that.” She laughed and then blew out a sigh as she jutted her chin in the direction of the bank of mailboxes. “Don’t tell me that jerk of an actor ex of yours tried to sway you with an actual pen-on-paper love letter again?”
“I hope not.” Vanessa laughed. “But I am going to check my mail, yep.”
“A momentous occasion,” Melissa said as she hoisted her second-hand orange Hermes bag over her shoulder and leaned against the doorframe. “So. How’d the video go?”
Vanessa flashed a thumbs up. Melissa nodded solemnly then gave her a playful salute. “I understand. Well, I’m starved, so I’d better head up to my hot plate to make something a little more healthy than instant noodles. Text me later? Show starts at eight o’clock tomorrow; we’re still on, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss my armchair travel opportunity.” Vanessa grinned. “With the stress at work lately, I definitely need to squeeze in some fun. See ya.”
Her friend turned and left, the faintest hint of Chanel in her wake. Vanessa sighed and turned her attention back to the mailbox. She took a deep breath then turned the key and opened the small brass door.
There was something inside. She winced. If Eric had—
She frowned as she looked into the dimly lit cavity and pulled out what looked liked a brand new manila envelope.
She checked the mailbox’s interior. Nothing else, not even one of those bright orange flyers for that new pizza place a few blocks down that kept the neighborhood mailboxes —and sidewalks—carpeted with advertisements.
She shut the mailbox door, pocketed the key and then hefted the envelope in her hand.
It was light. Almost as if nothing was in there. But she read the address; definitely her name on the front, typed in neat font on one of those white mailing labels.
No return address, though.
She flipped the envelope over, put a fingernail under the flap, and tugged upward. With a small tearing sound, the manila paper gave way.
She peered inside.
*
JAKE STEPPED INTO THE large office. Palms swayed outside the floor-to-ceiling window. If he squinted, he could just catch the sparkle of sunlight off oceanfront.
He had to admit his boss had a great office. Not that he had designs on her job. He was perfectly happy being the TV host and the co-producer of Passport to Romance & Relics; executive producers didn’t spend as much time in front of the camera as he’d like. His ex had never been supportive of that. She’d always been pushing him to go for the biggest titles, the most prestige...
Truth was, with his double major in acting and ancient cultural studies, well, he had to admit being in front of the camera was more fun than being behind a desk. Still, with his hand in the administrative side, he had a part in deciding the creative direction of the show, which he liked.
“What’s up?” Jake said as he tucked his aviator sunglasses into his shirt pocket.
“Listen, Jake, like I said, the network execs aren’t happy about the season one finale. Apparently the jeweled scepter wasn’t a big draw.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s so hard to predict what will or won’t capture viewers. We’re re-airing the finale along with that special cast interview to try and jump-start things. But we need to do something more.”
Jake sat on the arm of the leather chair in front of Sara’s desk. “So what are you thinking?”
“This.” Sara flipped her laptop around on the smooth polished glass surface of her desk. “It just came into the show’s email inbox.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. “A needle and thimble?”
“That’s what I thought at first...” Sara continued as she sat down behind her desk. The bright pink cuff bracelets on her wrist jangled as she pointed to the photo. “...until I read the email.”
“Okay,” Jake said.
“This needle and thimble,” Sara said, “were used to sew one of the first American flags.”
“So Betsy Ross had them?”
“No,” Sara said. “I have reason to believe they’re connected to Agent 355.”
“What?”
“The woman who emailed the show said these Revolutionary War artifacts might’ve been owned by Agent 355, the still-unidentified woman in George Washington’s spy ring.”
Jake rubbed his jaw. “How do we know this is legit? I mean, remember the time we got an anonymous tip about the whereabouts of a lost silver mine in New Mexico and it turned out to be a ploy to get a restaurant some advertising footage? They’d faked the documents and everything.”
Sara nodded. “Don’t think I hadn’t thought of that. But I discussed it with a few experts and they all think it could be the real deal.”
She continued. “Because in this case, the person who sent the photo said she is a descendant of Robert Townsend, another of Washington’s spies. Provided the family tree link and everything.” Sara’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement as she looked from Jake back to the photo.
“Hmmm.” Jake leaned forward to examine the digital image more closely. “Well,” he said, “I can see how viewers might like the idea. Very American heritage.” It was a close-up shot. The thin silver needle was woven through a piece of red material. Beside it sat a white porcelain thimble.
He reached out a finger, as if to trace the objects, before he remembered that of course, he couldn’t. It was only a photo.
Jake gave himself a mental shake. He was always doing that. Getting more than a bit over-enthusiastic and then ending up disappointed.
Just like in his love life. His heart ached for a moment as he recalled the rejection in Laura’s eyes. He’d really thought Laura was the one for him. Smart, funny, intelligent. Got his sense of humor and didn’t mind being an accomplice to the occasional practical joke he played on his friends.
She’d broken off their engagement a year ago. She’d claimed he was gone too much—and that he loved freedom and travel more than her. The relationship imploded right after the Travel Channel show was cancelled, and he’d gotten this position. But would their relationship have ever really worked in the long run?
He gave a mental sigh. She wasn’t a big traveller and well, with that Travel Channel hosting job, he’d been gone pretty often. But with this position, he was gone even more—over 200 days every year. Guilt nudged him. Their relationship would’ve become even more long-distance than it already had been, and—
“—the flag, then?”
“Oh, uh—” he fiddled with the jute bracelet on his left wrist and flushed “—sorry. What did you say?”
“You know that idea you pitched awhile back for doing an episode about a search for the first American flag?”
Jake nodded. “The higher-ups at the network didn’t think it had enough oomph.”
“But now,” Sara said as she tapped a finger on the screen, “with this whole 355 angle, it just might. Besides, no one’s ever found this flag, either. And the network’s agreeable.”
“Wait.” Jake paused. “You’re saying that if we do something more U..S.-focused for the second season opener, it might give the show the boost it needs?”
Jake ran his hand across his stubble as excitement built inside him. “The Lost American Flag or something like that would be a good working title...”
“Unfortunately,” Sara leaned back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, “it’s not just about boosting the ratings.”
Jake’s stomach plummeted.
Sara met Jake’s gaze, her tone resolute. “What I’m saying is you have thirty days to get a top-notch episode about this filmed and in to me, or the network axes the whole show.”
*
VANESSA REACHED INTO the manila envelope and pulled out a folded sheet of thin and brittle paper.
It looked old. Really old. She’d been trained to handle antique documents, so, if she had to guess...from the 18th century.
Her heart thudded, and she knew one thing: she had to examine this document properly.
She took the stairs two at a time to her fourth-floor walkup. After she kicked off her heels and dropped her purse by the door, she took off her suit jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch.
She’d need to look at this more closely. Hmm. Even if preservation gloves decreased tactile feedback a bit, she’d use them. She always kept a spare set in her kitchen, if anyone could call the minute space a kitchen. Still. It had a window above the sink that overlooked a tiny patch of grass at the back of the building, which made all the difference.
She pulled on the white gloves then rummaged around under her kitchen sink until she found the last remaining new garbage bag and pulled it from its box.
She spread it on the kitchen table that doubled as her home office. Then she placed the manila envelope, along with the folded antique paper, on it. Next, she darted over to her couch and picked up the table lamp on the side table. She plugged it in near the kitchen table and put it next to the workspace she’d created.
She turned the piece of paper over. A faded red wax seal was pressed into the page. She winced a little as she very slowly and carefully removed the seal and then unfolded the page.
New York 2 September 1780
My love,
I find this prison of my mind akin to those iron bars that now detain you, dearest. I had hoped my signal would have prevented such circumstances as these. Nonetheless, I have spoken with 721, who has promised to speak to 711 about a re-trial...
I can only pray that the extent of your involvement will not become known, though I fear ’tis too late for that, and the fault is entirely mine.
Please know that you are the intended of my heart, no matter what Father has in store for my wedding plans. Every stolen kiss has been worth every second of danger, for I have not yet begun to love you as I intend.
I shall fight for freedom—and you—as long as I still draw breath.
355
Vanessa’s heart pounded as she skimmed the lines again. 721? 711? 355?
Did this letter....have to do with the Culper Spy Ring? She knew about the nation’s first spy network, of course. How could she not, what with working on an exhibit about female spies during the Revolution.
She studied the page again. If she remembered correctly, these numbers stood for names. Her mind whirled. This had to be a letter to do with the Culper Spy Ring.
It was George Washington’s secret circle of six people: five men and one woman, who worked undercover when the British occupied New York City during the Revolutionary War. Apparently, the spy network had been named after Culpeper, Virginia, where Washington worked as a young man.
In fact, the origins and identities of the Culper agents had been so well-hidden that the final male Culper ring member wasn’t identified until 1929: Robert Townsend.
Vanessa tapped her finger against her chin. Agent 355, though, was still unidentified... What if she added this letter to the female spy exhibit?
After all, it fit right in. Some who said 355 had been a relative of one of the five men in the circle, also speculated that she’d been Robert Townsend’s sister Sally, who had helped her brother with spy efforts.
Others thought 355 could be Loyalist Meg Moncrieffe, who decided to become a spy after Aaron Burr rejected her.
Still others theorized that a widow named Elizabeth Burgin had been 355 because she helped patriots escape the British prison ships in New York Harbor.
None had been able to prove it, though. In fact, no known correspondence from 355 had ever been found.
Until now?