Chapter 12 #3
“Nothing. My parents kept their end of the bargain. The last time I saw you, you told me some of the story, and Violet told me the rest. When you travel, you lose control of your secrets.”
“I don’t have any secrets.”
Clay laughed, a brittle, hollow sound. The claim was ludicrous.
“Ignore the truth if it suits you,” he continued, his voice hardening, “but I know you and Violet are my birth parents, and you both conspired to hide that from me. As for Violet, I despise her. Not only for what she did to me, but to Alana and Rory. Wherever she came from, I hope she vanishes back into the abyss.”
“I don’t know who those people are. And ye have the wrong opinion of Violet. She’s an amazingly loving person.”
Clay snapped a laugh at the absurdity. “I made it to”—he checked the mantel clock for the time—“two thirty in the afternoon before hearing the first bullshit response of the day. Here’s the truth. Violet abandoned Alana and me. I survived. She didn’t.”
Archibald’s quiet eyes looked back at him with something like resignation. “I don’t know where ye got yer information—”
“Straight from the horse’s mouth.” Clay resolved not to say anything about Violet and Erik’s departure from the cave on MacKlenna Farm. It was best to keep that information to himself for now. He joined Archibald on the sofa.
“When did the horse speak to ye?” Archibald asked, turning his head just enough to study him.
The question caught Clay unprepared. He blinked. “What horse?”
“The one with the mouth,” Archibald said mildly. “Ye just mentioned it.”
“Oh.” Clay let out a small breath, half a laugh. “Buffalo—1901. For me, that was a few weeks ago.” He hesitated, then added more carefully, “For you, it’ll be a decade or more in your future.”
“Were Violet and I together then?”
“No.” Clay chose the word deliberately. “And I think you were afraid to see her.”
Archibald’s hand came up to his jaw, fingers scratching thoughtfully as his gaze drifted away. “It wouldn’t be fear,” he said at last. “It’d be regret. That it didn’t work out.”
“Do you know why?” Clay asked gently now.
Archibald’s nostrils flared, the momentary softness snapping shut. He turned back, eyes guarded. “Is this how ye interview people for yer articles—firing one intrusive question after another?”
“I talk fast, or they’ll walk away. You know that. We’ve talked about my interviewing techniques dozens of times. But I won’t let you change the subject this time. Do you know why your relationship with Violet didn’t last?”
Archibald poured whisky into his coffee cup and offered the flask to Clay again. He declined. “Violet is… confused about love.”
“What the hell? You’re backpedaling. You just said she was an amazingly loving person.”
“Goddamnit, Clay,” Archibald said, his nostrils flaring again. “She’s a fucking mystery. It’s almost like she’s two different people.”
That statement hit Clay with a whammy! Was it possible? “Did you ever meet Violet’s twin sister? I heard Violet would do anything for her.”
“I knew she had a sister she loved, but I didn’t know she was a twin. When her sister and her husband died, Violet dropped everything to take care of her nephew.”
“I’m glad she loved somebody,” Clay said, the words brittle. “Because she didn’t love us.” Clay flinched. He sounded exactly like a petulant child.
“When Violet left, I shattered. Couldn’t feed myself, barely dressed.
” Archibald looked down at his hands, twisting them together.
“My brother and his wife saw ye fading, skin and bones. They threatened to call Child Protective Services if I didn’t get my act together.
Ye went to live with them. After a while, I saw the light in yer eyes again, saw how happy ye were.
” A heavy silence fell over the room. “I signed the papers. It was best for all concerned. I could never give ye what they could.”
“Which was what?” Clay’s voice tasted like rust and ash as he finally spoke.
The bitterness became a wave cresting over him.
He was on a roll now, the anger a welcome current.
“An apartment on the Upper East Side, a summer house in the Hamptons, private schools?” He snorted, a bitter, ugly sound. “I had more fun in Buffalo.”
“They offered stability and family.”
“You were family. My anchor. I don’t know who got to you, but they fed you a bunch of lies.
” Clay snatched the flask and killed the drink in one toss.
“You were always my first call—award, game, whatever. When I won the Pulitzer, I couldn’t find you.
I nearly went insane. The silence stretched seven days before you called back. ”
“That’s why I let them adopt ye, Clay. I knew I couldn’t give ye what ye needed.”
“Bullshit!”
Marcelle waved her arms. “Back up a minute. Remy said you were a prize-winning journalist, but he didn’t mention you won a Pulitzer. That’s impressive.”
Archibald pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket and removed a folded newspaper clipping. “Here’s The New York Times article announcing the prize.”
Marcelle scanned the lines. “Congratulations!” she exclaimed.
“A Pulitzer Prize winner. I’ve never known a genius before.
If you were mad at Archibald, forgive him.
Look at this,” she said, running a finger over the creases.
“It’s practically falling apart. He’s been carrying it in his billfold since the day the announcement appeared in the paper. ”
“I forgave him,” Clay grumbled.
“After I took ye to a Michelin-rated French restaurant in New York City to celebrate.” Archibald carefully refolded the article, matching the original creases with meticulous precision.
He fiddled with it a moment longer before sliding it back into his wallet.
He was deliberately delaying, relying on a familiar pattern of evasion.
Finally, he asked, “What exactly was Violet doing when ye saw her today?”
“Sliding behind the wheel of a blue two-seater in front of the department store.”
“She can’t resist fancy sports cars.”
“Why don’t you go look for her? You know that’s what you want to do.”
Archibald didn’t hesitate. He shoved the flask into a pocket and reclaimed his hat. “I’ll see ye at the Sunset Café tonight. If I find Violet, I’ll ask her to come with me.”
“How will you find her?” Marcelle asked. “We have the same problem trying to find Bastien.”
“The brooch will take me to her.”
Marcelle jerked her head in Clay’s direction. “You can do that? Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve found Bastien hours ago.”
Clay hissed. “I didn’t think about it. We thought he would turn up once he saw the ad. If he doesn’t call today, we can do that tomorrow.”
She snapped her hands to her hips and barked, “Let’s do it right now.”
Explaining this to her wouldn’t be easy. It would be agonizing. She wanted to find her brother immediately, unconditionally. “We can’t. We don’t know where it will take us or what we’ll find. And remember, we have a show to put on in a few hours. If we’re not there, Capone will track us down.”
Archibald headed toward the front door and stopped there, feeding his hat through his fingers. “I’m sorry I started an argument between ye. If I’m not at the café tonight, I’ll see ye tomorrow.”
Clay sensed a strange vibe from Archibald, leaving him unsure of the next move. Taking the lead, Clay embraced him and said, “See you later.”
Archibald didn’t linger. He opened the door and quietly closed it behind him.
Clay hurried to the door to see what Capone’s men would do next. Would they follow Archibald or stay and watch the house? But Archibald had vanished. Clay scanned the street, but there was no sign of him. “Well, crap. He disappeared just like Violet.”
Marcelle stood on the stoop with Clay. “Did he use his brooch?”
“We know of only two ways to disappear. You can go into the fog, like you did when you came here. Alternatively, you can open the brooch, press your finger on the inscription, and tell the brooch where you want to go. Your location will change, but not the date and time.”
“It will take you across town?”
“Or across an ocean, but Archibald and Violet know another way—a third way. And now I’m questioning everything he ever told me.”
“Just because he kept one secret doesn’t mean everything else was a lie.”
“Except I don’t know how many secrets he’s kept to himself, and it’s hard to trust a person when you know they’re lying to you.” Clay considered going home, getting Elliott, and bringing him here to deal with Archibald and Violet. Clay didn’t have enough experience to handle them.
“Do you believe that if someone doesn’t tell you a secret, they’re lying?” she asked.
“It’s a lie of omission. And yeah, I consider it the same.”
“Interesting. I’ve never thought about it. Come on. Let’s go back in and check on Remy. He should have put his drum kit together by now. If he has, we can rehearse a few songs.”
“I need to oil my squeaky double bass fingers.”
She paused, grabbed her trumpet, and played a drawn-out wah-wah that made Clay laugh. “How long has it been since you played a double bass?” she asked.
“You’ll freak out if I tell you.”
She cocked a hip, trumpet still in hand. “I won’t be concerned unless it’s been four or five years.”
Clay shook his head, already chuckling. “Rev up your concern—it’s been at least ten.”
“Months?”
“Years!”
“Crap!” She lowered the trumpet. “Whose idea was this?”
“Not mine,” Clay declared, taking her hand and leading her toward the music room.
“Then I’m glad you’re a prodigy.”
“Remember,” he said lightly, “you can’t believe everything Archibald says.”
“You have a history with him. I don’t.” She slipped her hand from his and played another exaggerated wah-wah. “He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“How can I argue with a girl who teases me with silly trumpet sounds?”
She grinned and broke into a jaunty march, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” as she went.
He marched alongside her, consumed by thoughts of Rory and a growing appreciation for Marcelle.
But he forced himself to stay alert to their surroundings.
He had urgent questions for Violet and Archibald that demanded his immediate attention, and he was determined not to go home until he had answers.