Chapter 17 Chicago, 1928—Remy
After Clay’s telephone call, maddening tension moved through Remy, as he sat alone in the living room to calm himself. He clenched his hands, released them, then fisted them again and again.
Elliott would be furious when he learned Remy had split up the team.
But in Remy’s defense, he never could have predicted Clay and Marcelle would leave Chicago, a development they hadn’t foreseen either.
None of which would mitigate Elliott’s anger.
He would argue that Remy should have expected an unusual event.
If he and Clay intended to act like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, they never should have traveled to the past. Remy favored a Starsky and Hutch dynamic, but Elliott was decidedly old-school.
On the positive side, Clay and Marcelle were with Sean MacKlenna, and Elliott would approve of that arrangement.
But—and this was a crucial distinction—Remy didn’t know Clay well enough to trust him to avoid trouble.
Clay had a hint of Jack Mallory’s personality—a resemblance the entire family recognized.
Honestly, Remy worried most about Bastien, whose short fuse made him easy for gangsters to provoke. Anything could happen. Marcelle remained an unknown quantity. She was resilient, determined, and unlikely to back down easily, but she was a fish out of water.
So why was Remy staying in Chicago? To locate the Robertsons, shield Skye from Capone’s reach, and keep Archibald from unraveling. A straightforward mission.
Once his pulse steadied, he retrieved his medical bag and ascended the stairs toward Archibald’s room.
The door was closed. Parked in the hallway was a rolling table stacked with used dishes.
Remy rapped on the door. After a tense pause, Archibald cracked it open.
His prominent stubble, creased clothes, and bloodshot eyes instantly confirmed Remy’s fears. Violet hadn’t returned.
“May I come in?” Remy asked.
Archibald stepped aside, raking his fingers through his unruly hair, which was already standing on end. “She hasn’t come back,” he said, the softness of his voice a fragile cover for the desperation and concern etched on his face.
Remy unpacked his instruments and checked Violet’s vitals. “Everything is still within the normal range. How does she keep her body functioning when she abandons it?”
“I think she’s learned how to shut down her body to make it appear she’s left it, and she won’t come back as long as we’re hovering over her.”
“Which means she doesn’t intend to talk to us again. If that’s the case, then let’s leave her alone. Clay and Marcelle are in New York City, searching for Bastien. They woan be back for the show tonight. We need a few special numbers, so Capone woan take his frustration out on us.”
“What do ye have in mind?”
“Soft romantic duets with you and Skye might lower Capone’s temperature, especially if you play the piano and Skye sits on top, à la Marilyn Monroe.”
“River of No Return with Robert Mitchum.”
“I’m not trying to demean or sexualize her, but we need Capone distracted so he woan focus on what’s not on stage but what is.
” Remy packed his medical kit. “Why doan you freshen up, then come to the music room? I’ll get Skye started on a setlist.” Before Remy left, his gaze swept back to Violet. “You love her, doan you?”
Archibald cast a long shadow over the bed, fixing an unwavering stare on her. “Aye, and I have for thirty years. I knew it wouldn’t work early on, but I never gave up hope.” Archibald emitted several deep, shuddering breaths before steeling himself to enter the bathroom and close the door.
Remy could almost taste Archibald’s pain, a familiar bitter vintage.
There was a time in Remy’s life when things were simpler.
It was a sweet time when laughter came effortlessly, and feeling alive required so little.
Then, the calamities struck—a relentless storm of misfortune.
His father died. Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans.
His mother passed. The Gulf War erupted.
Bastien suffered a serious injury. Hope became a stranger until Elliott arrived, a turning point that shifted his world once more—this time, definitely, for the better.
He meandered into the music room, Archibald’s plight weighing on his thoughts, and froze at the sight of Skye at the piano.
The way she played was purely sensual. Her fingers struck the keys, conjuring raw depth and stirring emotion from the music.
Her right hand danced through octaves while her left commanded a jumping bass line.
She wasn’t just playing. She was reimagining Duke Ellington’s “The Mooche,” injecting it with a propulsive contemporary pulse.
When she finished, he clapped. “That was amazing. I’d love to add some drum brushes to that.”
She swiveled on the stool to face him. “Be my guest.”
“I will in a minute, but I need to talk to you about tonight.”
Her brows knit. “Are we revising our setlist again?”
“Clay and Marcelle heard the Cotton Club was looking for a saxophonist,” he said carefully. “They caught the train to New York City. They won’t be back tonight.”
Her eyes widened, then she blew out a breath. “Oh, geez. What are we going to tell Capone?”
“I have an idea,” he said, lifting a hand in surrender before she could react. “But if it offends you, smack me.”
She studied him for a beat, then smiled faintly. “There isn’t much I haven’t seen or heard during late nights and early mornings in clubs around Chicago.” She tipped her head, inviting him to continue. “So whatever it is, it won’t offend me.”
Courage didn’t thrum in his chest, only caution, but he was doing it to protect her and hoped she’d see that.
“I envisioned you and Archibald delivering several sultry romantic duets, with you perched on top of the piano while Archibald coaxed music from the keys. That spectacle might appease Capone tonight, but it could be dicey if Clay and Marcelle haven’t returned by tomorrow night’s performance. ”
“A provocative dress and an even more provocative pose while singing love songs? That’s your plan?”
He held out his hands, shrugging. “That’s all I’ve got.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a performance. I can sing romantic songs with Archibald and thrill the audience. I don’t have feelings for him, but the audience won’t know that.”
Remy drew in a slow breath and blew it out. “Are you sure?”
“This is simple and uncomplicated, Remy.”
“It may seem simple,” he said quietly. “But it isn’t.”
“To me, it is. I need to focus on my career. If the audience likes the act, I can replace Archibald with another piano player or singer.” She picked up a music book. “Do you have any songs in mind?”
“No, do you?”
She thumbed through the music book for a couple of minutes.
“How about ‘All Alone,’ ‘Always,’ ‘April Showers,’ ‘Blue Skies,’ ‘Everybody Loves My Baby,’ ‘I Can’t Believe That You’re In Love With Me,’ ‘I Wanna Be Loved By You,’ ‘Side By Side,’ ‘Stardust,’ ‘The Best Things in Life Are Free.’ Do you think that’s enough? ”
“Let’s see how tonight works out and go from there.”
Whistling, Archibald strode into the room, scanning his surroundings.
The abrupt shift in his mood jolted Remy.
Archibald had either just won the lottery—or Violet was back.
Remy silently prayed for the lottery, already bracing for the chaos her return would unleash.
He fixed Archibald with an unblinking stare and waited for an explanation.
“Violet is better. She woke up smiling. Whatever was wrong with her has passed—for now. She’ll be down shortly and wants to hear Skye sing.”
“I’m glad she’s better,” Skye said cheerfully. “I’ll ask Anita to fix her breakfast. Would she prefer to eat in her room?”
“Aye, she’d appreciate that.”
“Excuse me, then. I’ll go find Anita.” Skye left the room, leaving Remy and Archibald staring at each other.
“Did she say anything?” Remy asked.
Archibald rocked back on his heels as a simple smile played across his face. “I came out of the bathroom and found her gazing out the window like nothing had happened.”
“That’s frustrating.”
“Violet will never change. If I asked where she went, she’d say she didn’t go anywhere.” Archibald picked up the music book Skye left behind and thumbed through the pages. “Did ye talk to Skye? Is she on board with the plan?”
“She’s fine with it and rattled off a dozen songs that would work.” Remy nodded toward the music book in Archibald’s hand. “Do you know any of those?”
Archibald slowly fanned the pages. “Most of them. How about ye?”
“I can quickly pick up the beat. Doan worry about me.”
Skye returned, carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. “Are you two ready to try some new material?”
Archibald sat on the stool and swiveled to face the keys. “Where do ye want to start?”
“Let’s start with the As—‘All Alone,’ ‘Always,’ ‘April Showers,’—and work our way through the book.”
Remy filled three glasses and placed his drink on the table next to his drum kit. Then, he picked up his brushes. “Any time you’re ready, Skye.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she climbed up on the piano, crossed her legs, and began singing in a more than usual sultry voice.
“All alone / I’m so all alone / There is no one else but you / All alone / By the telephone / Waiting for a ring-a-ting-a-ling.”
He struggled to focus on the music, but her presence distracted him. When her magnetic smile—fierce and undeniably charming—settled across her face, it triggered a powerful tug in his mind and a deep, low rush of excitement.
“I’m all alone / Every evening / all alone, feeling blue / Wondering where you are / And how you are / And if you are all alone too.”