Chapter 15 Chicago, 1928—Remy
For their fifth and final curtain call, the ensemble delivered a poignant rendition of “Someone to Watch Over Me,” featuring Skye’s sultry vocals, expertly accompanied by Clay’s thoughtful saxophone, Remy’s nuanced drumming, and Archibald’s elegant piano work.
Clay’s performance was commendably solid. While the saxophone wasn’t his primary instrument, and he didn’t pose a threat to the established mastery of McBain or Bastien, he showed a respectable command of the piece.
Marcelle skipped the number, and when Remy glanced at her, he was met with the sight of tears streaming down her face.
The song held bittersweet significance for them, recalling a powerful memory.
The night before Bastien’s devastating injury, he had electrified the air with a bold, boundary-pushing display of jazz improvisation.
As the last notes evaporated into the still night of the Afghanistan desert, a hushed, stunned silence from the troops gave way to an explosive eruption of applause.
The music had been a powerful, transient beacon of shared humanity amidst the harsh reality of war.
Remy immediately regretted sharing the story with Marcelle.
He had hoped it would offer comfort, but it only served as a stark reminder of how perilously close she had come to losing her brother forever.
Skye took her final bow, extending a gracious arm toward the band members and subtly signaling the end of the applause with a look that said, “Let’s keep them wanting more.”
They’d performed the songs Capone had requested, “Muskrat Ramble,” “Oriental Strut,” “Sweet Little Papa,” “West End Blues,” “Someone to Watch Over Me,” “Blue Skies,” “Tea for Two,” and “Sweet Georgia Brown,” finishing the setlist.
A standing ovation followed their last song, along with chants of “Encore! Encore!” But Remy was exhausted and left the stage. Backstage, wiping off sweat, he said, “Let’s go home. Capone probably wants us to join him for dinner, but not tonight.”
Skye pointed with her chin. “Here he comes. You tell him.”
“Brilliant,” Capone said. “With performances like that, you could have a hit record. Let’s have dinner and talk about it.”
“Mr. Capone,” Remy said, trying not to come off too strong, yet wanting to be assertive. “We rehearsed your additions to our setlist all afternoon and have been playing for hours. Skye’s voice is strained, and Marcelle’s facial muscles are tired. Both ladies need extra rest.”
Capone’s eyes flashed his disapproval, but he conceded, “I’ll forgive you tonight, but tomorrow night, I expect you to attend the after-parties with me.”
Remy cringed. They had to extricate themselves from this dangerous commitment because saying no to Capone wasn’t good for their health. “Let’s get out of here,” Remy urged. “I’m ready to dig into Anita’s chicken.”
“Are you coming with us?” Skye asked Archibald.
“One of yer bandmates told me about a speakeasy he thought I’d enjoy. I’m going there.”
“Take one of our cars,” Clay said.
“I’d rather take a taxi.”
Clay appeared profoundly uneasy, as though treading on perilously thin ice. His voice, soft with concern, cautioned, “Be careful. I’ll see you at Skye’s later.”
Remy perceived something more in Clay’s voice—raw desperation.
Watching Elliott and JC’s long journey back to reconciliation, Remy understood the immense challenge of rebuilding trust in a relationship. Given Archibald’s history of vanishing, the unsettling thought that Clay might never see him again felt uncomfortably possible.
Archibald flung one end of a light camel cashmere scarf dramatically over his shoulder and slid his hands into leather gloves. He declared with certainty, “I promise I won’t leave without saying goodbye.”
Clay gave a firm nod, his hands smoothing the luxurious fabric of Archibald’s scarf. Watching the quiet domesticity, it was simple to believe this gesture was a ritual, one Clay had performed countless times. Their love possessed a resilience that transcended mere physical strength.
Remy stood next to Clay, and they watched Archibald leave through the rear door. “He’ll be back,” Remy said.
“I hope so.”
Marcelle slung her trumpet case over her shoulder and strode out the door with Clay, Skye, and Remy close behind, their heads bent in conversation.
“You created something entirely new tonight,” Skye remarked to Remy. “You bridged the gap between two separate songs with a drum solo.”
“It’s called ‘Vamp Until Ready.’ It’s a technique to sustain the groove and keep the audience energized while the next performer prepares to join in. Knowing the setlist allowed me to repeat a few measures of the upcoming song until you were ready to launch into it.”
“It was seamless,” Skye agreed, an appreciative smile playing on her lips. “I loved the effect, and the crowd did too. Never stop doing that.”
Remy reached around her, his fingers deliberately savoring the slow journey across the small of her back to her hip.
He gazed down, his eyes locked on her perfect Cupid’s bow lips, a heart-shaped invitation he desperately wanted to accept.
Still, he held back, anticipating the next time he would have her completely alone, ensuring the kiss would be a moment to truly savor.
“Clay, is Archibald okay?” Skye asked.
“Yeah, I guess. Why?”
“Because he didn’t want to come with us,” she said in a soft, sad way that tugged at Remy’s heartstrings.
Clay stopped and looked back. “He’s lonely and wants companionship. The kind we can’t provide, if you get my meaning.”
“Oh,” she said, with a flirty head toss. “I do. I have several single friends. Should I set him up?”
Clay chuckled. “I think he can manage for himself, but I’ll tell him you have girlfriends who’d be interested in a wealthy older man.”
Skye laughed, too. “I didn’t mean it like that, and please don’t tell him I said he was an older man. I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“Believe me. Archibald’s been called worse.”
They reached Clay’s car, parked in front of the red one. “Archibald doesn’t want us tagging along, and he doesn’t want to tag along with us.” Clay opened the front passenger door for Marcelle, and she climbed in. “We’ll see you at the house.”
Remy escorted Skye to her vehicle. “I’d like to do more for Archibald,” she said.
“You’ve opened your home, fed him, and invited him to sing with your band. I’m not sure what more you could do.”
“Whatever I’ve done isn’t enough.”
Remy shut her door decisively and rounded the car to the driver’s side, pondering Skye’s resolve to do more. Skye was openly crying when Remy got behind the wheel. “What’s wrong?” Remy offered her a clean handkerchief.
“When my parents were newlyweds, they rented an apartment from a wonderful couple. The man secured my father an entry-level position at the bank. My parents’ future success hinged on their help.”
Skye fingered the embroidered linen handkerchief. “I told Marcelle that my mother instilled in me the importance of helping others. She believed that one day, in return, I’d receive a life-altering gift. You, Marcelle, and Clay are that gift, and all I did was invite Marcelle to join my band.”
“You did far more. Marcelle was terrified, and you offered her friendship when she needed it most.”
“And she offered me the best whisky I’ve ever tasted.”
Remy removed a flask from his pocket and handed it to her before edging out into traffic. “Members of the MacKlenna Clan would say any exchange that involves whisky is more than fair.”
Skye uncapped the flask. “MacKlenna? I’ve heard that name before. Who are they?”
“A family from the Scottish Highlands with a Thoroughbred farm in Lexington, Kentucky. Where’d you hear the name?”
“Must have been through the bank. Except for people in the music business, I rarely meet anyone who isn’t a bank employee or customer. How do you know them?”
“Horse racing. They always have a horse in the winner’s circle.” He stopped at the stop sign and watched as she upturned the flask. Her eyes met his just as the first taste slipped between her lips. He licked his own, imagining his tongue slipping into her mouth.
“Tell me about Bastien. I’ve heard his name so many times. I know he plays the sax, but I can’t picture him at all. What does he look like?”
“He’s as tall as I am, but not as handsome.”
She grinned. “Would Bastien say that about you?”
“Oh, no! He knows I’m better looking.”
She flashed an even wider grin. “Does Bastien resemble Marcelle? If he does, I might have to agree with him.”
Remy clutched his chest. “If that’s your standard, then what can I say?”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Remy stopped at the next corner and waited for his turn.
“I love him like a brother.” After looking both ways, he proceeded through the intersection.
“Bastien sustained injuries while serving in the war. A suicide bomber drove his truck into a convoy, detonating his explosive device. Several trucks separated me from Bastien’s.
The explosion is seared into my memory. When my ears stopped ringing, the world was still a blur.
I grabbed my medical bag and ran toward his truck.
He was trying to get to his feet, but shrapnel had torn his leg off below the knee. ”
Skye gasped.
Remy continued, his voice flat and detached.
“I forced him to the ground and cinched a tourniquet tight around his leg. Other soldiers helped me load him into a transport vehicle, which rushed him to the casualty collection point at the nearest military base. He underwent surgery there before eventually returning home.”
“How’d he do after that?”
“It was rough at first, but he got great help, and now you’d never know he was an amputee. He lives a full and active life, owns a security company, races, rock climbs, and plays basketball. Nothing stops him.”
“How’s that even possible?”