Chapter 11 #4
Archibald extended his hand first to Skye, then Marcelle, and then to Remy. “I’m Clay’s uncle.”
Remy scratched his cheek. “Uncle?”
“The resemblance is undeniable,” Marcelle said.
Archibald grinned at Clay. “The older he gets, the more we resemble each other.”
“Archibald and my dad resembled twins, so I inherited the high cheekbones, strong jawline”—Clay tweaked his chin—“and all the other handsome MacIntyre genes.”
“And all this time I thought you were a one-off,” Remy said, a curious note in his voice.
Clay’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Skye tilted her head as if trying to process the interesting new dynamic Archibald brought to the table. “What brings you to Chicago?”
“I had planned to meet a friend. But finding Clay is a stroke of luck. And now I’ll get to hear yer band perform.”
“If you’re Clay’s uncle, you must also be talented. What instruments do you play?” she asked.
“Piano,” Archibald said.
Remy eyed Clay suspiciously. “Is playing the piano another of your hidden talents? Next, you’ll tell me you play drums.”
Clay gave Remy a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t play drums for the same reason I didn’t stick with the piano.”
“Clay didn’t want to play an instrument he couldn’t carry,” Archibald said.
“That almost eliminated the double bass.”
Remy finger drummed on Skye’s shoulder. “Ba-dum-tss. Ba da dum ching!”
She looked up at him. “Is that beatboxing?”
He tapped her nose. “Nothing gets by you, dollface. Now we should go. It’s rehearsal time. I want to try out my new drum kit.”
Archibald tipped his hat. “I’ll see ye at the Sunset Café this evening.”
“Where are you staying?” Skye asked.
“The Drake Hotel.”
“Please come stay at my house. There’s plenty of room, and we’ll need a piano player for our rehearsal this afternoon.”
“I don’t want to impose or keep ye awake with my late hours.”
Clay remembered that Archibald was hoping to meet a friend. If the friend were a woman, Archibald would want privacy. “If you change your mind, I’m sure Skye could find room for you later.”
“Yes, of course,” Skye said. “I live a bohemian lifestyle and reject the constraints of mainstream society. You can feel comfortable entertaining in my home.”
“So that’s why you invited two single men to stay there,” Remy teased.
Skye swept a curtain of hair behind her ear, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone and the glint of a diamond stud. “If I’d told you that last night, you probably would’ve run from me.”
Remy delivered his best version of a devilish grin. “No, dollface. I would’ve run toward you faster.”
She faked a gasp.
Marcelle covered her smile with her fingertips, but that didn’t stop her eyes from twinkling.
“Archibald, why doan you take your packages to your hotel and then come to Skye’s for rehearsal?” Remy suggested.
“I’ll do that.” With a crisp click, he opened the watch he’d taken from his vest, turning the dial toward Remy. “How about meeting in two hours?”
“That’ll work,” Remy said.
Archibald slipped his watch back into his vest pocket and tilted his brown trilby hat to a rakish angle. Then, he exited the restaurant, radiating an unmistakable aura of self-assurance.
Watching him leave, Clay remembered his pre-teen belief that Archibald embodied the traits the actors who played James Bond brought to the movies.
He channeled Lazenby’s vulnerability, Moore’s sophistication, Brosnan’s charm, Dalton’s intensity, Craig’s physicality, and Connery’s undeniable coolness and swagger.
Even now, to Clay, Archibald remained the definitive James Bond.
Clay returned to his seat next to Marcelle. There was one remaining muffin. He snatched it up and didn’t bother to butter it.
“Archibald’s delightful,” Marcelle said.
“I’m glad he’s here,” Remy said, reclaiming his chair. “Maybe he can fill in some gaps.”
Skye pushed the pot pie serving dish toward Clay. “I’m surprised you didn’t know he’d be here.”
Clay scraped the remaining pot pie onto his plate and all but shoveled the chicken and vegetables into his mouth. “Archibald doesn’t answer to anyone and travels when and where at his pleasure. I never know where he’ll be.”
“Having him play piano will make our rehearsal more productive, since I won’t have to play and sing. And if Capone shows up to see if we’re rehearsing the songs he wants us to play tonight, we won’t answer the door.”
Clay savored the last small bite of pot pie and looked around the table for something else to eat. “We can’t let our guard down with that monster.”
“He’s a killer, and syphilis is slowly altering his mental abilities. We can never trust him,” Marcelle said.
Skye made an icky face. “How do you know that?”
“I heard it from a reliable source. Needles scare Capone, so he refuses treatment,” Marcelle said.
Skye visibly shivered. “No wonder you didn’t want to dine with him. You should have told me.”
“Even if you’d known, it wouldn’t have mattered. Capone was determined. Look how he manipulated us into having lunch. He’s dangerous, and falling for his charm could be deadly,” Clay said.
“It won’t happen again,” Skye said.
“Let’s wait until we return to the house to talk about him,” Remy said. “We doan know if anyone’s listening, and I’d hate for Capone to hear we were badmouthing him.”
A wave of unease washed over Clay. His hands trembled. He almost spun around to check for observers, but forced his attention forward. “Do you feel eyes on you?”
“I’m not getting any vibes. You?” Remy asked.
Clay nodded.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Marcelle said. “You just arrived last night. What’d you do to make enemies so soon?”
“If we have enemies, they followed us here.” Clay didn’t want to sound like an alarmist, but, like Remy, he didn’t want to continue the conversation in the restaurant. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just not right now.”
Remy stood and wrapped a protective hand around Skye’s arm. “Let’s go get your new car and drive out of here.”
Marcelle linked her arm with Clay’s, a comfortable silence settling between them as they trailed Remy and Skye. “Is Archibald really your uncle?”
“Are you asking if the well-read, gracious, highly intelligent, charming, modern-day Scottish warrior is my uncle?”
She stopped mid-stride. “I think so.”
He tugged on her arm to keep her moving.
“I grew up believing Archibald was my uncle, my father’s brother, and I hated it because I wanted him to be my dad.
Earlier this year, I discovered that he and my parents conspired to hide the truth from me.
Archibald is my biological father, but he doesn’t know that I know. ”
She stopped again, and her mouth dropped open. “Noooo!”
“Yes.”
They strode through the seventh-floor aisles, heels clicking, until they halted before the elevator.
The doors peeled open, revealing the attendant inside.
Remy and Skye climbed in. “First floor,” Remy ordered.
“Marcelle and I’ll take the stairs.” Clay grinned with an easy, unhurried expression. “We’ll meet you in the great hall.”
He gently clasped Marcelle’s elbow as they descended the stairs. “Archibald died last December. In January, I went to Buffalo to pack up his house. I found his brooch and discovered he’d been traveling through the universe for decades. I also learned about a half sister and a nephew.”
“As awful as that is, you’ve got a sister and nephew you didn’t know you had.”
They reached the sixth floor, the fashion floor, and turned to go down another flight of stairs. “Except my sister died several months before I discovered her existence.”
Marcelle clutched her chest. “I’m so sorry for your loss. That makes it even worse. What about her husband and son? Where are they?”
“Her husband died years before her, and Rory is with me at Mallory Plantation. He’s twelve and the coolest kid I’ve ever met.”
They reached the landing on the fifth floor, which held the beauty salon. They rushed to get out of the crowd and went down another flight of stairs.
“Do you have legal custody of him?” Marcelle asked.
“I share it with our cousin, Robert Davidson.”
“How old is he?”
Clay was instantly jealous and didn’t want to feel that way about Robert. A woman had come between them once before, and Clay didn’t want to go there again. “He’s really old. I had to get him hearing aids and thicker glasses so he could function.”
“It’s a shame you’re not closer in age.”
He didn’t want to confess the truth, but he had other crimes to explain later, so why add more sins to the list? “I’m just kidding. He’s a lawyer and a Thoroughbred breeder. He’s a good guy. You’ll like him.”
“Is he as handsome as you or as striking as Remy?”
Clay paused at the fourth-floor landing, home to the bustling children’s department, his thoughts a jumble as he considered her question.
Marcelle had described him as merely handsome.
Clay understood that simple descriptor, but the word striking eluded him.
He took a risk and asked, “Does striking mean a guy is not only handsome, but truly captivating?”
She didn’t avert her eyes but continued gazing at him. “Something like that. You have the look of the most popular boy in high school with golden highlights in your brown hair, mesmerizing blue eyes, and broad shoulders. But Remy has developed a Frenchman’s dramatic presence.”
Clay hung his head, no longer feeling fearless. “If I were a girl, I’d rather be with a Frenchman than the star quarterback.”
Shoppers accidentally bumped into them, so they started down another flight to the third floor, which housed the rare books section, writing room, escort shopping, and theater tickets—the everything floor.
“I’m glad you’re not a girl, and I didn’t say you were a quarterback. I said you were like the most popular boy in high school, which implies much more than looks or athletic ability. The most popular guys were compassionate, had integrity, and made outstanding leaders.”