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Winner of Weekly Contest #371 🏆
The first time we spoke, I was halfway through a crossword severed from The Seattle Times. The year was 1931, an early afternoon in early April that found me curled against the mohair velvet arm of my favorite chaise. Before me, the Warren's empty ballroom caverned. Dust filmed the parquet dance floor, the Axminster-carpeted perimeter. Chandeliers cooled under corniced ceilings. French windows paneled plastered walls, beyond which spanned Puget Sound's pewtered waters to the east, Kitsap's cedared hills to the west. Every year, Puget Sound W...
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