Chapter 19 Keller
NINETEEN
Keller
Krewe Charities and Philanthropy: Many modern krewes incorporate charitable initiatives into their annual activities, hosting fundraisers and supporting local causes alongside their parades and balls.
These philanthropic efforts allow organizations to extend their influence beyond Carnival season while reinforcing their role in the city’s civic life.
I wake before the light changes.
No alarm. No sound from outside. Just the internal clock that years of late nights and minimal sleep has trained into me. My eyes open, and I stay still, letting the room come into focus.
It takes a split second to realize where I am. It's that hazy moment between wake and sleep where my brain hasn't fully left the dream state yet.
Gray-blue light seeps through the curtains. The ceiling fan turns slowly above us, its hum so faint I barely register it. The world outside is quiet. There's no traffic yet or voices, yet. Just the soft rhythm of Quinn's breathing beside me.
Her leg is draped over my thigh. Her hand rests loosely over my chest, her fingers curled against my skin. The weight of her is warm and solid, anchoring me to the mattress in a way that should feel confining but does not.
I turn my head slowly, careful not to disturb her.
She looks different in sleep. The quiet vigilance she carries during the day is gone. The part of her that keeps a measured distance, that holds the line even when she smiles, has finally relaxed.
Her face is slack, her lips slightly parted. She turns her head slightly, but doesn't wake. A faint crease from the pillow marks her cheek. Her hair spills across my shoulder in loose waves, catching the dim light.
I watch her breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
The first time I woke up next to her, I studied her the same way. But that morning was different. That was curiosity. Chemistry. The satisfying end to an unexpected night.
Also, she woke before me, so I didn't get the opportunity to watch her without reservation.
I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers barely grazing her skin. She doesn't stir. I let my hand fall back to the mattress.
Things have shifted between then and now. I've known it for some time now that Quinn is different from other women. But it became absolute when I told her about my mother. Not the facts, but the feeling underneath. The jasmine. The laugh. The way the house changed after she was gone.
I don't talk about that. Not with anyone. Not even with my brothers, who lived through it with me.
But Quinn asked, and I answered without hesitation. It was like the memories and the thoughts I always have when I remember her came flowing out. There was no compulsion to stuff them down like usual.
She listened without asking more questions, and let the silence sit sometimes without trying to fill it. I appreciate that she didn't want to fix anything or offer comfort I didn't ask for.
That matters.
I am not naive about what this is becoming.
I've spent too many years reading people across poker tables to lie to myself about my own tells.
The way I think about her when she is not around.
The way I notice small things, like how she takes her orange juice or the exact shade of green she wore the night we met.
The way I wanted to stay last night instead of finding an excuse to leave.
This is not infatuation. It's more than that.
I reach over to the nightstand and find my glasses. The frames are cool against my fingers. I slide them on and the room sharpens. Then I check my watch.
5:47.
I set the watch back on the nightstand and let my arm rest across my stomach.
Quinn shifts beside me again. This time her leg slides higher against my thigh. Her breath catches for a second, then evens out again. Still asleep. Still soft and warm against my side.
I want to stay, but the name surfaces in my mind like a card flipping face-up on green felt. Charlton Grant. Preservation architect. The Asbury Hotel. Savannah.
Marcus found him. Now I need to look him in the eye.
Savannah is five hours by car. Ten hours round trip, not counting whatever time I spend with Grant himself. Too long. Too many variables. If I leave now and drive, there's a good chance I'll have to stay that night.
I don't have time for that.
The jet cuts the trip to under an hour each way.
I run through the schedule in my head. Ridge had the plane last week for the Houston meeting. Cain said he doesn't have plans to go back to New York until next month.
I'll need to confirm with the hangar. Early morning departure, wheels up by seven if I move fast. That puts me in Savannah by eight. I can head directly to Grant's office or his home. Marcus gave me both addresses.
Quinn's fingers flex against my ribs. A small movement, unconscious, but it pulls my attention back to her.
The split between what is waiting for me and where I am currently is sharp in my chest. One life here, warm and still and possible. Another life that is already gone but that I can't let go of, full of questions that have haunted me for as long as I can remember.
I cannot have both right now. Not this morning.
I lie there another minute. Quinn's warmth bleeds into my skin. Her hair smells faintly of lavender from her shampoo. I memorize the weight of her against me, the way her breath fans across my shoulder.
Then I make the choice.
Slowly, carefully, I lift her hand from my chest and set it gently on the mattress. I slide my leg out from under hers, inch by inch, holding my breath. The sheets rustle softly. She murmurs something I cannot catch and rolls toward the warm spot I am leaving behind.
I freeze. Wait and watch her settle. Thankfully, she doesn't wake.
I slip out of bed and gather my clothes from the floor. Shirt. Pants. Belt. My shoes wait by the front door where I left them when I came in. I dress in the hallway, moving quietly, the hardwood cool beneath my bare feet until I pull on my socks.
At the front door, after stepping into my boots and leaving the laces untied, I pause with my hand on the knob. The house is silent behind me.
I realize I can't leave without saying anything, so I walk back to the kitchen and spot a black Sharpie in a container by the fridge. I grab it and flatten the brown paper bag from out take out.
Had to catch an early flight. Didn't want to wake you. Last night was worth the wait. I'll make up for the early exit. —K
I open the door and step onto the porch.
The morning air hits my face, damp with the smell of wet leaves and coming rain. The sky is still dark, but the edges are starting to lighten along the roofline across the street. A dog barks somewhere down the block.
My Range Rover sits at the curb. I cross the small yard and unlock it, sliding into the driver's seat. The leather is cold through my shirt. I start the engine and let it idle while I adjust the mirrors.
I put the car in drive and pull away from the curb.
The streets are empty this early. I make every green light through the Garden District and turn onto St. Charles. The streetcar tracks gleam in my headlights. I pass dark storefronts and closed restaurants, the city still sleeping around me.
At a red light, I pull out my phone and scroll to the contact for the hangar.
The line rings twice.
"Stone Aviation, this is dispatch."
"This is Keller Stone. Is the G650 available for today?"
A pause. Keys clicking in the background.
"Yes, sir. The aircraft is available until eight p.m. this evening. Do you need to schedule a departure?"
"Not yet. I'll confirm with Clara in the next hour. Just wanted to make sure the window was open."
"It's open, Mr. Stone. We'll wait for your confirmation."
"Thank you."
I end the call and set the phone in the console.
The light turns green. I accelerate through the intersection and merge onto the highway.
Clara handles logistics for the family. She's Ridge's assistant, but since he uses the jet the most, she handles all of the scheduling for all of us.
I pull up her contact and type a message.
GM. Sorry for the early text. I need the jet for a day trip to Savannah. Meeting with a potential new player for the tables. Last minute. Requesting pilot for full turnaround, departure options as soon as possible.
I send it and set the phone down.
The highway stretches ahead, straight and empty. I drive faster than I should, the speedometer climbing past seventy. The engine hums. The city blurs past my windows.
About fifteen minutes later, as I'm walking through the parking garage to the elevator, my phone alerts.
Pilot available. Wheels up at 9:30 if that works. He'll wait on standby for your return. Hangar 7. Anything else you need?
That works. Thank you, Clara. Nothing else.
I take the private elevator up to the fifth floor, leaning against the cold back wall as it rises. The doors open onto my open space.
I drop my keys on the cement countertop and walk to the bathroom. The lights come on automatically. I strip off yesterday's clothes and step into the shower.
The water is hot. I let it run over my shoulders and down my back, steam rising around me. I close my eyes and think about what I know.
Charlton Grant. He's fifty-five years old now.
Thinking about his age makes me realize my mom would be fifty-six right now.
I wonder what she would be like at fifty-six.
I think about her hair graying, lines on her face.
She died so young that she never had to experience any physical signs of aging.
A sharp pain races through me at the thought.
I shut off the water and step out. I wipe the mirror clear with my hand and look at myself.
My eyes are tired. My jaw needs a shave, but there is no time. I grab a towel and dry off, then walk to my closet.
I choose a charcoal gray, almost black, and a white shirt with no pattern. Then I grab my narrow black tie.
At the mirror by my dresser, I button my cuffs. The fabric is smooth and crisp against my wrists. I straighten my collar and reach for my tie.
That is when I see it.
A faint mark on my collarbone, just below where the shirt will cover. It's red, and it hits me the moment Quinn bit me as her body convulsed around me.
I stare at it for a long moment, running my finger over it.
Who knew Quinn was a little tiger in bed? I smile to myself. A little piece of her to carry with me that no one will know is there except me.
I finish knotting my tie and check my watch. Plenty of time to reach the hangar. I grab my wallet, my phone, and my keys. I slide my glasses into place.
The elevator doors close behind me.
The hangar doors slide open as I pull up, metal groaning against metal. Morning sunlight floods the concrete floor in a wide stripe, catching dust motes in the air. The jet sits on the tarmac beyond, white and sleek, its engines silent.
I park the Range Rover in the designated spot near the office and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there, hands on the wheel, watching the ground crew move around the aircraft.
I grab my phone and step out of the car. The air inside the hangar smells like jet fuel and metal. My boots echo on the concrete as I walk toward the plane.
The pilot meets me at the base of the stairs. Gray hair, weathered face, calm eyes. He has flown for us for years. Never asks where we are going or why.
"Mr. Stone. We're cleared for departure whenever you're ready."
"Good. Let's not waste time."
He nods and heads back up the stairs ahead of me.
I climb the steps slowly, one hand on the cold railing.
The metal vibrates faintly under my fingers.
At the top, I pause and look back at the hangar.
The Range Rover sits small and dark against the gray concrete.
Beyond it, through the open doors, I can see the city skyline catching the morning light.
The interior is quiet. Cream leather seats, polished wood trim, everything in its place. I settle into my usual spot by the window and buckle the lap belt. Through the glass, the tarmac stretches flat and gray toward the runway.
The engines begin to whine. Low at first, then building. The sound fills the cabin, overtaking the silence, drowning out everything else.
Two paths now. Quinn in one direction. Charlton Grant in the other.
The jet rolls forward, picking up speed.
Whatever waits in Savannah might change what I think I know about my mother. About my father. About the fight that ended everything.
I press my palm flat against the armrest and watch the ground fall away.