Chapter 11 #2
That was fine with Clay, but two striking women deserved a more prominent seat. He longed to announce to the captivated audience that Marcelle and Skye were the headliners at the Sunset Café tonight.
Remy sat down next to Skye, smiling. “Did you two buy out the women’s department?”
Capone sat between the women and signaled the waiter.
“We left a handful of dresses on the rack,” Skye said.
Marcelle unfolded her napkin and spread it across her lap as Clay settled into the chair beside her. “Mr. Samuel might choke when he gets the bill.”
“If he doesn’t choke over yours, he will over ours.” Clay squeezed her hand under the table, and she squeezed his before letting it go.
“I’ll have to take out a second mortgage to pay you back.”
Clay leaned close while Capone spoke to the waiter. “The CFO pays all expenses out of a special account. We just need to find a treasure while we’re here to cover what we’ve spent.”
Marcelle whispered, “Do you think we can find Capone’s vault?”
“We can try.” Clay straightened, surveying the restaurant, his gaze drawn immediately to a strikingly handsome man.
The gentleman was distinguished-looking, with thick brown hair silvering at the temples.
His large, dark eyes, creased with laugh lines, sparkled with an intelligent and captivating presence that was only enhanced by his confident posture and demeanor. “Is it possible?”
“What?” Marcelle asked.
Before he could answer, servers surrounded them with platters of food.
“I ordered pot pie, corned beef hash, and potato flour muffins. You’ll find the meal an epicurean thrill of the highest order,” Capone said.
Clay ignored the food, his attention locked on the man seated across the room. He had to be a doppelg?nger. “Excuse me.” Clay pushed back his chair under Capone’s scrutinizing glare. “There’s a man I must speak with. Please start without me.”
One of Capone’s guards quickly blocked Clay’s attempt to get up.
“Speak to him after lunch,” Capone said with mild curiosity.
“This can’t wait.”
The guard pressed a hand on Clay’s shoulder and exerted significant pressure. Clay tightened his muscles and resisted while returning Capone’s glare. “It would be extremely rude to ignore my friend, whose presence here is a complete surprise.”
“Then invite him to join us.” Capone signaled the guard. “Ask Mr. MacIntyre’s friend to join us.”
Clay shrugged off the guard’s hand. “I’ll ask him myself.” Remy would cover his back, but Clay neither wanted to escalate the situation nor put Marcelle and Skye in danger. “I won’t be long.”
Capone gave a sharp nod to the guard positioned behind Clay, and the man immediately fell back. Clay offered Marcelle a tight, reassuring grin, though he knew it was futile. Her life was a tempest of unknowns, and one small assurance wouldn’t calm the rest.
Clay strode towards the man’s table, anxiety coiling in his gut. If the broad-shouldered gentleman was indeed Archibald, the years had been incredibly kind—he looked exactly the same as when Clay was a pimply-faced middle schooler.
Reaching the edge of the table, Clay cleared his throat, his heart thundering a relentless tattoo against his ribs, his hands involuntarily clenching into fists at his sides. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Archibald MacIntyre from Buffalo?”
The man looked up from the menu. His eyes narrowed, then he blinked, and his mouth slowly curved into a smile. He closed the leather menu holder and set it aside. “Aye, lad, I am.” Archibald squinted. “Ye look like a younger me. What’s yer name?”
Care and unease tangled in Clay’s chest. He wasn’t clever enough to play a delicate game of cat-and-mouse with his perceptive uncle.
There was much he couldn’t say about their relationship because the defining events hadn’t happened yet in Archibald’s life, and Archibald would subtly try to outflank him for information.
“I’m Clay MacIntyre. I’ve grown up since I saw you last, although I’m not sure when that was.”
“Clay?” The color drained from Archibald’s face, and he slumped against the back of the chair. “Impossible.”
“Since I’m here, it’s not.” He let anger at Archibald seep into his tone and wished he had better control over his emotions. If Archibald asked him why he was so angry, what could he say? You lied to me my entire life, for starters.
Archibald nervously manipulated the thick cotton napkin in his lap, smoothing it repeatedly, only to have it catch on the wool of his pants. He cleared his throat. “But how?”
“Not much is impossible when you have”—Clay leaned over the table and lowered his voice—“a Celtic brooch.”
Archibald cleared the second chair at the two-person table and moved the packages to the floor. “Please sit and tell me how ye came to have one.”
Clay’s gaze darted away, avoiding Archibald’s, until his turbulent emotions subsided and his breathing steadied. Once composed and certain how to proceed, he began, “There’s a lot I can’t tell you without revealing your future.”
“I see.” Archibald straightened and rolled his shoulders as if accepting the fact and embracing a new mindset. “Then can ye tell me why ye’re not surprised to see me?”
“I am surprised, but I shouldn’t be.” A waiter approached the table and offered Clay a menu. “I’m eating at another table. Thank you.”
Archibald’s head tilted curiously. “When’d ye discover I was a traveler?”
Clay’s inner critic—the one that always criticized his writing—waved an accusing finger, warning him in a dim subconscious way to be careful or he’d screw up his life with a flippant answer. “A few months ago.”
“Did I tell ye about it? Or did yer parents?”
Clay planted himself, crossing his legs with deliberate, ankle-to-knee precision.
This cultivated appearance of calmness was a calculated tactic he deployed in tense interviews to help relax the interviewee.
Yet, it never stemmed the tide of his own internal tension, which predictably crawled up his spine and bunched his shoulders, just as it did now.
Without a flicker of hesitation, he said, “Neither.”
Astonishment vacuumed the breath right out of Archibald’s lungs, prompting a frantic grasp at his throat. Clay tensed, poised to toss Archibald to the floor and start chest compressions. But Archibald finally forced the question past his constricted airway: “I died, didn’t I?”
The way he said it—quiet, certain—made Clay’s chest tighten.
His gaze drifted momentarily. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a waiter stumbling, tripped up by a package that had tumbled off a nearby chair and into his path.
Clay braced for the impending catastrophe.
A tray laden with plates and silverware crashed to the floor, the resulting cacophony of shattering glass and pinging silver echoing through the walnut-paneled room.
The string quartet fell silent. Shards of ceramic and glass sprayed outward, a small piece puncturing Clay’s leg and eliciting a pained groan.
Women throughout the restaurant, wrapped in fur-trimmed coats, shrieked and clutched their wraps tightly, while others instinctively hunched in their seats.
Archibald leaped to his feet, overturning his chair, his hand instinctively reaching inside his jacket as his eyes darted across the room.
Capone’s bodyguards immediately encircled their boss, hustling him briefly toward the kitchen before the room settled again.
Remy instantly huddled over Marcelle and Skye, his arms spread wide in a protective embrace.
The sheer force and chaos made Clay believe an explosion had occurred, despite having witnessed the cause.
The immediate commotion subsided, giving way to the panicked buzz of a startled crowd. The ma?tre d’ rushed through the dining room, frantically waving his hands to restore calm among the diners.
Clay reached for Archibald’s arm tucked inside his jacket. “If you have a pistol, I’d keep it hidden.”
Archibald lowered his arm. “Ye’re more observant than yer younger self.”
“I’ve worked on it, and my reaction would have been similar if I hadn’t seen the waiter trip and drop the tray.” Clay used his pocketknife to cut a cloth napkin into strips.
Archibald retrieved his chair and sat down. “What are ye doing?”
“I have a piece of glass embedded in my leg.” He discreetly raised his trouser leg, removed the shard, and wiped away the blood.
Archibald grimaced when he saw the injury. “Do ye need medical attention?”
“It’s just a small puncture. No stitches needed.
” He tightly bound the cloth strips around his leg before lowering his pants.
“I’ve got a medical kit with my gear. I’ll add antiseptic ointment later.
” He glanced at Remy and the girls. They were laughing.
Remy’s joke had broken the tension, or perhaps he’d just made a crass comment about Capone hightailing it out of the restaurant.
The interruption had killed the conversation with Archibald, and Clay was content to let it die. He savored the silence between them, then deliberately steered the topic with a new question. “How old was I the last time we were together?”
“We just returned from a trip to California by train. Ye were fourteen. We spent days talking and reading.”
“But we didn’t talk about what was most important.
” The first notes from the string quartet pierced the silence, and Clay let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
This wasn’t the time or place. He had to keep Archibald from leaving, to pin him down for the serious conversation they needed to have.
Their gazes locked for an instant before Archibald tore his eyes away. A heavy sigh escaped him, followed by another, and a third. Finally, he turned to Clay and asked, “What was most important that we didn’t talk about?”
Clay closed his Swiss Army knife and put it in his pocket. “Time travel creates conundrums.”