Chapter 9
While Clay dealt with bank affairs and Remy advertised for a saxophone player, Marcelle and Skye lingered over a late breakfast. Marcelle still wasn’t herself and hoped with another dose of caffeine she’d get close.
The fog, her missing brother, and her new bond with Skye, Remy, and Clay had made the entire ordeal more than strange—it was surreal.
Intent on finding a trumpet among the newspaper’s classifieds, her focus shattered the moment Remy’s distinct Cajun cadence pulsed up the stairwell. She snapped the paper shut and moved with purpose toward the doorway, eager to see them.
“Where are you?” Remy called out.
“Up here—in the library.” She flicked nervous fingers through the hair at her nape.
From across the room, Skye chuckled, arms folded. “You’ve got it bad.”
Marcelle glanced back at her. “Are you talking about me?”
“Of course—you.” Skye tipped her chin toward the stairs. “You don’t see me that eager.”
“You’ve scooted to the edge of the chair,” she said, amused. “One wrong move and you’ll fall on your butt.”
Skye wiggled backward into the cream-colored chair with the curved, fluted back, settling herself deeper. “How’s that?”
“Better, but you look like you’re sitting inside a clamshell.”
Skye popped to her feet. “That won’t do at all.”
Remy met Marcelle at the door and kissed her cheek. “You look rested.”
She smiled wryly. “I have tiny toothpicks holding my eyelids open.”
“Ouch.” His mouth curved. “I could only find paper clips.”
Clay stepped in behind Remy, pausing just long enough for his gaze to travel—taking in Marcelle’s face, then her shoes, and back up again. It lingered a beat too long before he caught himself, a flicker of appreciation crossing his expression.
“Looks like you already went shopping,” Clay said.
If Clay intended to gawk, Marcelle would give him exactly what he deserved—her best all-eyes-on-me walk, guaranteed to snap his head around.
She’d perfected the strut years ago, during the summer between her first and second years of college, when a Chicago boutique hired her as a six-week brand ambassador.
She could have earned more playing her trumpet, but had chosen the novelty of the experience—and the generous clothing discount instead. Both had paid off.
“I plundered Skye’s closet,” Marcelle said.
She shifted seamlessly into her model’s face—first the knowing smile, then a lifted brow, then cool indifference—owning the room as she crossed it with deliberate, unhurried steps.
At the turn, she pivoted sharply, skirt flaring at her knees, thumbs hooking into the belt of the structured jacket as it settled back into place.
Clay braced his hands on either side of the doorway and leaned forward, rolling his shoulders as if stretching out tension—or pretending to. His gaze followed her without apology. “It looks like you plan to deliver today,” he said.
She took more steps and turned again before stopping in front of him. “What does that mean?”
“Your brown skirt and jacket remind me of a UPS uniform.”
Marcelle bit her lip to keep a straight face, but Remy chuckled. “Fuck! That was funny.” When Marcelle glared at him, he straightened and cleared his throat.
“I don’t get the joke,” Skye said.
“Trust me. It wasn’t worth catching, but Clay compared me to a delivery driver,” Marcelle said.
Skye furrowed her brow. “Why would he do that? You look beautiful.”
“Because he thinks he’s a comedian.”
“I don’t see the humor. It must be a Southern thing.”
“Don’t lump me in with that ‘bless your heart’ crowd,” Clay said. “I’m a New Yorker.”
“What’s the ‘bless your heart’ crowd?”
“Oh, you know. People in the South always say, ‘bless your heart’ when showing sympathy, but they also say it sarcastically.”
“Since I’ve never traveled to the South, I didn’t know that, but if you say, ‘bless your heart’ to me, I’ll be leery,” Skye said.
A dimple flashed on Clay’s right cheek. Marcelle had previously fixated on his glacier-blue eyes and had missed the single-sided dimple.
In daylight, she now noticed the precise cut and shade of his ash-brown hair, a look that tempted her to run her fingers through it.
It wasn’t the slicked-back buzz-cut of the 1920s side part, but it perfectly suited him.
His short stubble beard contrasted sharply against his crisp white collar, adding a touch of grit to his rugged appeal.
While he lacked Remy’s panther-like, smooth, and noiseless predatory gait, Clay possessed a confident, assertive swagger.
“Honestly, Celle, you look lovely, but the dress you wore last night was a better look.”
Clay’s use of her childhood nickname—although unknowingly—sent a trail of tingly sensations through her body. “Did Remy tell you he used to call me that?”
“He didn’t mention it.”
The emotional intimacy at that moment was startling. Marcelle gave Clay a beauty-pageant smile. “Do you prefer me as a flapper or a UPS driver?”
“I’m not a fan of”—he pointed and circled his finger at her—“the tube look.”
“Tube look? What does that even mean?”
“Your skirt and jacket”—he drew a box with his hands—“it’s a boxy look. It highlights your legs, and the silky fabric clings to your body while moving easily. But I prefer a dress that accentuates your”—he cleared his throat—“fitness.”
Marcelle’s hands slammed against her waist. “Seriously? That’s exactly why we hide our assets. To keep men from gawking.”
Clay dropped his arms and stepped into the room. “I hate to tell you, but unflattering clothes don’t stop our imaginations. It just makes us work harder.”
She flicked her hair. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll never climb out of the hole you’re digging.”
Remy picked up a silver-plated carafe. “Better shut up, Clay. After listening to you insult Marcelle, Skye might decide we aren’t worth the bother and kick our asses to the curb.” He opened the carafe and sniffed. “Coffee, anyone?”
“I’ll take some.” Skye picked up her cup and crossed to him. “Did you get your assignments done?”
Remy poured coffee into her cup. “Yes. Did you?”
Marcelle returned to the sofa to finish her coffee. “Skye made some phone calls, but I relaxed and read the paper.”
Clay accepted a steaming cup of brew from Remy and then sat across from Marcelle. “Good. You need rest more than you need to tick off items on a list.”
“If you’d told me that two hours ago, I would have returned to bed. Now I’m dressed and ready to go out.” Skye had suggested she stay in, but Marcelle wanted to spend the day shopping with her new friends.
“How’d it go at the bank?” Skye asked.
“I threw your father’s name around and immediately attracted attention,” Clay said. “Mr. Samuel invited me into his office. I got everything I requested and walked away with cash and a checkbook.”
“He’s a lovely man and has been so helpful since I lost my father.”
Clay sipped his coffee. “He said wonderful things about him, and they still miss him at the bank.”
Skye released an audible sigh. “I do, too. I’m sorry you can’t meet him. He had remarkable insight into people and finances. He told me not to gamble everything on the stock market. I spoke with Mr. Samuel about it, and he suggested I purchase long-term treasury bonds, which I did.
“I’ll be glad to look at your investments and advise you if you’d like,” Clay said. “My degrees from Georgetown and Columbia are in history, literature, and journalism, but I have a minor in economics. Remy even listens to my financial advice.”
That surprised Marcelle. According to Bastien, who spoke to her off the record, Remy earned a high six-figure salary and lived rent-free, but she didn’t see him as an investor. “Is that true? You take financial advice from him?”
“I doan advertise it. Elliott Fraser’s son, Kevin, is my financial advisor, and he disagrees with Clay’s aggressive strategy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with an aggressive strategy,” Marcelle said. “But to change the subject, what about the newspaper ad? I saw two in today’s edition for saxophone players. Bastien might already have found a job.”
“Bastien’s not looking for work,” Remy said. “He’s searching for you. He’ll check the newspaper ads and keep looking until he finds you.”
“But he needs a job, and the only thing he has to sell for food and housing is his sax.”
“Doesn’t he have your luggage?” Skye asked. “Maybe he can sell something in your suitcases, like your dresses or jewelry.”
“He might get a few dollars for my clothes at a secondhand store, but I didn’t have any jewelry in my suitcase.” Marcelle despised lying, but her immediate circumstances had to take precedence over her personal values.
“Do you remember when Bastien came to see you in New York City when you were a graduate student? You’d just paid tuition and were broke, so you two spent the weekend busking. He’d play a few songs, and you’d pass the hat. Then you’d play, and he passed the hat,” Remy said.
Marcelle laughed. “I made enough to pay rent for the entire semester. We picked the right street corner.”
“Where was it?” Clay asked.
“Columbus Circle,” Marcelle said.
“Good call.”
“I bet that’s what Bastien will do now, but where will he go?”
“The Loop,” Skye said. “Somewhere around Dearborn and Randolph Streets. But the best spots at night would be Lincoln Gardens, Friar’s Inn, Dreamland Café, Plantation Café, The Savoy Ballroom, and the Sunset Café.”
“Bastien would probably go to The Savoy and the Sunset Café,” Marcelle said.
“Back to the ad,” Skye said. “Where’d you tell applicants to apply?”
“I put your telephone number in the ad,” Remy said.
“How’d you know what it was?” she asked.
“Your butler gave it to me before I went out,” Remy said.
“Remy didn’t share that information with me, so Mr. Samuel told me,” Clay said. “When I told him I didn’t have a number, he suggested I use yours since I was staying here.”
“You told Mr. Samuel you were staying at Skye’s house?” Marcelle asked, her heart beating in her throat. “What will he think? You’ve compromised her.”