Chapter 24 New York City, 1928—Bastien #3
“That’s me!” She tapped her finger on her face. “It’s so clear and real.” The picture moved, and she jerked her hand back. “What’d I do? Did I mess it up?”
“It’s okay. You can move the picture around to enlarge it or scroll to the next one.” Bastien showed her how to do that.
“That’s amazing. Where’s Remy’s picture?”
Bastien scrolled through his pictures. “Here he is with the band.”
She took the phone back and studied the picture. “Remy’s very handsome, and that drum set is huge.” Then she pointed to a woman. “Is this his wife?”
“He’s not married. That’s my sister, Marcelle.”
“She’s beautiful. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Hopefully, it’ll be soon.” Bastien scrolled through more pictures. “Here’s a picture of Remy playing his drums during a sing-off at Mallory Plantation. I wasn’t there, but he sent it to me.”
“He looks so happy. How long ago was this taken?”
“Only a few months.”
“So he looks just like he did when he was here?”
“Just like…”
“Do you have pictures of Elliott, Patrick, Aislinn, and Gabe?”
Bastien enlarged another picture. “This is Elliott.” He scrolled through more photos. “Here’s Patrick, and this is Aislinn. There’s Gabe. That’s Patrick’s father, Jack Mallory.”
“Do you have a picture of my grandmother?”
“No, I’m sorry. I took these pictures before they arrived.”
“Who is this?” Kaitlyn asked.
“Kenzie McBain.”
Kaitlyn rubbed her finger over Kenzie’s hair, making the picture move again, and she teared up. “Her hair is the same color as mine. She’s beautiful.”
“So are you.”
She blushed. “Papa tried to describe her, but I never imagined she was this beautiful.” Kaitlyn sat there, her shoulders sagging, looking ahead wistfully.
“What’s wrong?” Bastien asked.
“I’ve always wanted to meet them. Seeing pictures makes that desire even stronger, and I know it’ll never happen.”
“Your dad didn’t think he’d ever hear from anyone again, and I showed up.”
Kaitlyn took a deep breath, blew it out, then pulled back into traffic and continued driving up Fifth Avenue. When they reached the Met, she pulled over to the curb again. “That’s the house where they stayed. Do you want me to go to the door with you?”
“I can handle it.” He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles before he could overthink it. The warmth of her skin lingered. Her smile made him want to linger too. “Thank you.”
Using his cane, he carefully navigated the uneven sidewalk towards the front door, concentrating on keeping his balance. Upon reaching the door, he turned back to meet Kaitlyn’s gaze, offered a confident thumbs-up, and rang the bell, bracing himself for a sting of disappointment.
A butler opened the ironworks grill door. “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”
“Is the owner home?”
“No, he’s not.” The doorman tried to close the door, but Bastien placed the cane in the way and blocked it. “I had several friends stay here a few years ago, and I wanted to speak to the owner about that visit. It’s very important.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. MacKlenna won’t be here until tomorrow or the day after.”
“Is that Mr. MacKlenna from MacKlenna Farm in Kentucky?”
The butler nodded. “Yes, sir. Would you like to leave your card?”
“That’s unnecessary. I’ll come back.” Bastien returned to the car, wondering if he should at least leave a note or his name, but decided against it.
“That was quick,” Kaitlyn said when Bastien slid into the passenger seat.
“Good news. Mr. MacKlenna owns the mansion and should be in town tomorrow or the day after.”
“Does he know about time travelers in the family?”
“If this Mr. MacKlenna owns MacKlenna Farm in Lexington, Kentucky, I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Elliott owns the farm in my time and this house in 1896. Since the brooches are ancient, it’s logical that MacKlenna and Fraser either know or know of each other. I’ll have to dance around my conversation with Mr. MacKlenna to uncover his secrets without revealing mine.”
“I liked to be there to watch you dance.”
He grinned. “You can be my partner.”
They lingered there, lost in a gaze that stretched for several charged moments past the point of casual interaction until Kaitlyn broke the current that held them captive. “Do you still want to go to Harlem?”
“Yes. Maybe we’ll find Marcelle this afternoon.”
As they headed north, Kaitlyn talked as she drove—about the relentless hours of her law practice, the cases that followed her home. She kept one hand light on the wheel, the other punctuating her words, confidence threaded through every sentence.
Bastien countered with stories about Remy and their band. Kaitlyn laughed, wiping at her cheeks with the heel of her hand, until the car ahead stopped short.
She swore under her breath and yanked the wheel, tires skidding just enough to make Bastien brace. The car shot past the bumper by inches before she straightened out again.
“Sorry about that.”
“My fault. I shouldn’t have distracted you.”
“I’ll keep my eyes on the road. How different does it look? Are these homes and businesses still on the avenue?”
“A few, but traffic is the most notable difference. When I come to the city, I rarely come up this way. I usually stay in Midtown.”
She glanced over at him, smiling, and then touched his arm. “You are for real, aren’t you? I still can’t believe I’m with Remy’s friend.”
“I’m more surprised than you are to discover my friend is a time traveler, but I guess it wasn’t something he could tell me.”
“Would you have believed him?”
“No, but you believe the stories.”
“I had firsthand reports and newspaper articles. And Papa’s customers have kept the memory of Remy and Patrick’s boxing matches alive—through their stories, the two became real to me.
” She gestured toward the window. “Connie’s Inn is over there, but our itinerary begins at The Cotton Club.
We’ll then return to Connie’s, followed by Ed Small’s Paradise.
If Marcelle hasn’t been to any of them, The Savoy is on our schedule for tomorrow. ”
“I don’t want to take you away from your work.”
“I only have an early morning appointment. After that, I’m available to go to every speakeasy in New York City.”
“I hope we don’t have to hit up all of them. The official estimate is between twenty and a hundred thousand.”
“That’s impossible.”
“New York City is the hub of the underground bars. Since they’re illegal, it’s believed the number is much higher. Texas Guinan, Manhattan’s most famous speakeasy hostess, manages more than half a dozen joints herself.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve studied jazz since I was a teenager, and speakeasies are a big part of its history.
” Bastien observed the buildings and shops lining the street while simultaneously studying the contours of Kaitlyn’s face.
Though no artist, he recognized that her flawless complexion, sculpted jawline, proportionate nose, and high cheekbones presented a subject worthy of a master’s brush.
And he wanted to be first in line to commission her portrait.
She pointed ahead. “The Cotton Club is up there on your right.”
“Park wherever you can, and I’ll go in and ask about Marcelle.” He pulled his saxophone from the back seat.
“Are you going to audition?”
“If they ask me, I will, but it’s mostly a pretext to meet the manager.”
Kaitlyn found a parking spot about half a block from The Cotton Club. “I’ll wait here unless you want me to go with you.”
He paused for a long ten seconds, then concluded he could handle it.
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” He quickly slipped the neck strap over his head, gripped the cane, and reached for the door, nearly throwing her a kiss.
Remy would have, but Bastien faltered around women.
He knew that his physical condition didn’t define him.
His heart and mind did. But despite this intellectual certainty, he remained uncomfortable in certain settings.
He found the front door locked, so he walked around to the side of the building, found an unlocked entrance, and stepped inside.
A burly man blocked his path. “We only allow performers in here.”
Bastien held out his sax. “I am a performer. Where’s the boss?”
The guard gave Bastien a tough-guy look, flexed his shoulders, and finally pointed with his chin. “Mr. DeMange is that way.”
Bastien adeptly navigated around scattered set pieces, discarded props, and a maze of dressing rooms until he finally located a prominent door marked MANAGEMENT. He knocked.
“Come in,” a man demanded in a tone that carried an edge.
Bastien shoved the door wide and immediately swept the room for potential threats.
The floor was a carpet of discarded cigarette butts and general filth.
Playbills, personal correspondence, advertisements, and forgotten coffee cups created a chaotic landscape across the desktop.
The window, caked in grime, completely obscured the view outside, and the desk chair appeared so frail it wouldn’t support anyone over ten pounds.
“What do you want? I don’t have all day.”
“I’m looking for a job with the band.”
DeMange tapped his cigar against the edge of an overflowing ashtray as he gave Bastien the once-over. “Not hiring. Now get out.”
“How about a female trumpeter? Would you hire her?”
“Is she any good?”
“As good as Louis Armstrong.”
DeMange sat back in his chair. “As good as Armstrong? Now, that might be worth hearing. Send her in.”
“That’s the thing. I’m trying to find my sister. She’s auditioning in the city, and I don’t know where. I figured she’d come running if she heard a white saxophonist was playing at The Cotton Club.”
DeMange pointed his cigar at Bastien. “I’ve heard all kinds of stories in this business, but yours takes the cake. Get the hell out. The Cotton Club isn’t your billboard.”
“If you see my sister—”
“Get out!”