Chapter 16 Chicago, 1928—Clay #2
“I’ll open the brooch, press my finger to the inscription, and we both think about Bastien.” Clay held her gaze. “We ask it to take us to him.”
“Out loud?”
“Or silently.” He tapped the paper in his pocket. “You have Skye’s number in case we get separated.”
“Separated?” The word hit her like a slap.
Pain pinched through him. He should have been more considerate of her recent trauma, but he couldn’t take her into the fog without telling her the truth.
He squeezed her hand. “I don’t think we will.
But I’d be irresponsible not to plan. If it happens, don’t waste time looking for me. Call Remy. He’ll come get you.”
Color drained from her face. Her lips went pale. Her breath came out in a shaky exhale, and a fine tremor started in her hands.
Clay stepped closer, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin felt cool.
“I’m here, Celle,” he said, voice low. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You can’t make that promise,” she said, and the crack in her voice cut him clean.
He leaned in, hovering near her mouth. “Maybe not,” he breathed. “But I can promise to protect you.”
Then he kissed her.
Deliberately. Not tentatively. Sweet and urgent. Not devouring—anchoring. A vow made without words.
She kissed him back lightly, then squared her shoulders. “Okay.” She squeezed his hand, forcing a smile. “If you ever need to ground me again, that’s the way.”
He lifted her chin gently. “Count on it, Celle.”
Refusing to give her time to reconsider, he opened the diamond brooch and pressed his thumb to the inscription. “Take us to Bastien.”
Time erupted.
Not a gentle slide or drift—but a bone-deep lurch, a careening rush that swallowed them whole and spat them forward again in a jarring halt.
Clay wrestled for control, breath sharp, then looked at Marcelle. Color was returning to her skin. He forced his shoulders to loosen.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“That was an express ride straight into a nightmare,” she whispered, trembling. “It consumed me instantly. Swallowed me. And ejected me before I could even scream.”
“That nightmare is over now,” Clay said. His gaze snapped to the street beyond the windshield. Traffic clogged a wide avenue. The sky was bruised, threatening more than rain.
A foreboding spike pierced his chest.
“We’re in New York City,” Marcelle gasped, pointing. “That’s the Metropolitan Museum of Art—before the expansions. Why’d the brooch bring us here?”
Coming to New York felt illogical. Clay couldn’t remember any previous clan trips where the brooch deliberately separated travelers across cities. And yet—
Bastien had to be here.
“This must be where he is,” Clay said, certainty settling like iron.
“That’s crazy. Why’d the brooch send me to Chicago and Bastien to New York? Has that happened before?”
Her breathing was turning ragged again. Clay forced calm into his voice. “No. But adventures get complicated.” He glanced at her. “Bastien’s here. And Louis Armstrong is here. Bastien will make money first—food, shelter—then he’ll start searching. Especially with his leg.”
“Finding me will be his only concern,” she insisted, hugging herself.
Clay massaged her shoulder, grounding her. “He can’t search if he can’t function.” He nodded toward the street. “We need a home base, too. Somewhere close. Then we can place an ad—like we did in Chicago.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Clay started the engine, then stopped, a sudden thought snagging. This location wasn’t random.
“There’s a reason we’re here,” he said. “Give me a minute.”
“Is there a hotel nearby?” she pressed.
“I’m not sure.” He got out and opened her door. “Let’s walk a block. Maybe I’ll remember something.”
He took her hand and helped her out.
They moved along the tree-lined sidewalk in front of the Met, past 82nd Street. Marcelle looked up at the building’s steps. “Do you want to go inside?”
“Let’s stand on the steps,” Clay said, scanning Fifth Avenue. “Then we’ll walk around to the park side.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, and Clay swept his gaze over the avenue.
“It’s here,” he murmured. “But I’m missing what I’m supposed to notice.”
Marcelle pointed across the street. “Look at that mansion on the corner. Can you imagine the view from the terrace?”
Clay stared—and the report he’d read of the clan’s 1896 adventure snapped into place like a lock turning.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Thank you.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s coming back.”
“Are you going to explain?”
“You deserve five-star accommodations with the MacCorp seal of approval.” Clay tugged her along. “Come on.”
They returned to the car, and Clay made a careful U-turn as soon as traffic allowed.
“The MacKlenna Clan has made dozens of trips,” he said as they drove.
“One was in 1896, when Teddy Roosevelt was police commissioner. Elliott Fraser’s uncle built that mansion and deeded it to the family trust. Stocked it with cash and investments for maintenance, renovations—everything.
The instructions were simple: family can always stay. They just need the password.”
He pulled onto the private drive and stopped at the front door.
“And you know what it is?” Marcelle asked.
“As long as it hasn’t changed, we’re good.”
He helped her out, and they approached the door. Before he could knock, the doorman flung it open.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”
The man looked more like a Pinkerton agent than a domestic servant—but this was Erik’s house. Why not?
“I’m Clay MacIntyre,” Clay said. “This is Marcelle LeBlanc. We’re members of the MacKlenna Clan out of Virginia, and we hope you can accommodate us for a few days.”
“There is a password requirement.”
“It’s Stormy,” Clay said, remembering the name of Kit MacKlenna’s time-traveling Thoroughbred.
The doorman stepped aside at once, ushering them into a grand, columned hall with pristine marble floors and Greek busts on marble pedestals.
Goose bumps rose on Clay’s arms. The memory of the family’s harrowing adventure in this house hit like cold water.
Another “Pinkerton agent” appeared in the foyer. “Edward, who is it?”
“Mr. Clay MacIntyre and Miss Marcelle LeBlanc. Members of the MacKlenna Clan from Virginia.”
“See to their luggage,” the man said. “Please follow me.”
He led them up the marble staircase to the second floor.
Marcelle slowed at the top, taking it in. “This is incredible. It reminds me of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles—smaller scale, but the same idea.”
“The architect designed it that way,” Clay said. “And there’s a rumor Erik Fraser pilfered items from there.”
“May I present Mr. Clay MacIntyre and Miss Marcelle LeBlanc,” the man said, pausing at the entrance to a reception hall with Louis XV furniture and Persian rugs. “They are part of the Virginia clan.”
A man rose. A woman remained seated.
“Thank you, Marcus.” The man stepped closer, puzzled. Then: “Mallory Plantation?”
Clay blinked. “Yes, sir. Braham McCabe and Charlotte Mallory’s plantation.”
“And how are the major and the doctor?”
“Doing well,” Clay said, then cut straight to it. “Elliott Fraser is also doing well.”
The man smiled. “I’m Sean MacKlenna. This is my wife, Eleanor. We’re happy to hear from the Virginia MacKlennas.”
“We didn’t know you were here,” Clay said. “We don’t want to impose.”
“You’re clan,” Sean said simply. “Your timing is perfect. We just returned from six weeks in Europe and planned to spend a few days shopping before going home. Have you been here before?”
“I know the stories,” Clay said. “But I wasn’t part of that traveling party.”
“We haven’t had news of Elliott since 1901,” Eleanor said.
“You’d never know he was eighty,” Clay said. “He looks fifty—maybe forty.”
“And his chess game?” Sean asked.
“As sharp as ever.”
Sean laughed. “My father’s experience exactly. Whisky, cigars, horse talk, and chess.”
“None of that’s changed,” Clay said. “May I ask what number you are—Sean III or IV? Elliott will ask.”
“I’m Sean IV.”
“And Kit’s father was Sean VI?”
“Yes—but that stops with me,” Sean said. “We don’t want our son or his son knowing the future.”
“Understood.” Clay turned to Marcelle. “Let me introduce my fiancée, Marcelle Bonnard LeBlanc.”
Marcelle’s brows lifted—surprised, but not furious. Clay braced anyway.
“French?” Sean asked, shaking her hand.
“Ah…” Marcelle hesitated. “South Louisiana.”
Eleanor’s eyes brightened. “Bonnard—are you related to Marguerite Bonnard? Sophia Orsini’s friend?”
Marcelle looked at Clay. “I’ve never heard of Marguerite. Do you think I am?”
“It’s possible,” Clay said. “We can ask Meredith to put her genealogy team on it.”
Sean studied Clay. “And you? Is there a direct link between the MacIntyres and the MacKlennas?”
“James Thomas is my seven-times-great-grandfather through my mother, Violet Digby Davidson. I believe you know her nephew, Robert.”
Surprise crossed Sean’s face, then delight. “I wondered what happened to him. Never thought he’d gone to another time. When he disappeared, the farm purchased his horses at auction.”
Clay gave a brief summary of Violet, Archibald, and the brooch. Eleanor listened closely.
“You hide it well,” she said gently to Marcelle when she admitted she’d been on edge. “But you’re safe here.”
“Thank you,” Marcelle said. “But out there—there are no guarantees.”
Sean nodded. “Then let’s place your call. Do you have a number?”
Clay handed him Skye’s number.
Sean’s brows lifted. “Skye Marshall? The singer?”
“Yes,” Clay said. “You’ve heard of her?”
Sean smiled. “I have. Her father handled my business when I bought horses in Chicago. A year before his death, he invited me to dinner. His daughter sang at the club.” His expression softened. “His death was upsetting. Vice President Samuel took over the clients.”
Sean guided Clay to the phone and showed him how to place a long-distance call.
Clay asked for Remy and relayed their location and plan.
When he hung up, the room settled again—sherry, quiet, and a new kind of hope.
Eleanor offered them dinner reservations at The Cotton Club and proposed a safer cover story: they were seeking a saxophonist to rehearse with Marcelle for an upcoming Kentucky engagement.
Marcelle’s eyes sharpened with purpose. “That’ll work. Bastien and I have played classical duets—trumpet and alto sax. If he hears a trumpeter needs a partner, he might seek me out.”
“There’s one problem,” Marcelle said. “We didn’t bring dinner clothes.”
Eleanor’s smile turned delighted. “Then we’ll find you something divine in Coco Chanel red.”
Marcelle exhaled—still afraid, still determined. “Then let’s go find that red dress.”