Chapter 31 #3
“Nobody, and you already drink. So, listen up, soldier. If I go, it’s because I want to be with you.” She poked his chest with her finger. “If you doubt that, then we have a problem.” He grabbed her finger and sucked it into his mouth. “Do we have a problem?”
He let go of her finger. “I hope not, but let me ask you this. Did you refuse to move to Washington, D.C., because you thought Remy would come back and he wouldn’t be able to find you if you weren’t living here?”
She gasped. “Did Papa tell you that?” She let out a harsh laugh. “What I didn’t tell Papa was that Declan hit me. He didn’t know I could box. I punched him in the nose and knocked him onto the floor. When he got up, he left, and I never saw him again.”
Bastien was torn between a bark of laughter and a full-throated roar of disbelief.
“I’m proud of you for planting him on his ass,” he said.
“If I ever meet the son of a bitch, I’ll make sure he can’t sit down for a week.
” Bastien’s finger traced a deliberate path along the curve of her cheekbone, the line of her chin, and the pulsing column of her throat.
A wave of raw, possessive intimacy crashed over him, sending a jolt of searing heat straight through his core.
“If Remy is here, Tony will let him know. Let’s go back to your place and continue this conversation. ”
“That’s tempting, but I have an appointment on the Upper East Side. I’ll drop you off at the apartment first, meet with my client, and then come back. We’ll have the rest of the day. Do you want to make dinner reservations?”
“I’ll do that and surprise you.” He smiled, then held up a hand. “But don’t drop me off. I’ll wait in the car.”
She considered that. “It might be an hour or longer.”
“What about your meeting with Ed Small?”
“He called and rescheduled. So after my meeting, I’ll be free.”
“I have my saxophone. If I get bored, I’ll give a free concert on the street, or maybe I’ll stop by the MacKlenna mansion and introduce myself.”
“I can drop you there. I’ll only be a block away.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Good idea.”
When they reached the MacKlenna mansion, Kaitlyn found a parking space near the house. “I’ll go to the door with you. If the MacKlennas aren’t there, you can come with me.”
Bastien opened the car door. “I don’t want you worried about my sitting in the car. It will distract you from your client’s business. I’ll either be here or across the street at the Met. You can follow the sound of my saxophone. Maybe I’ll earn enough money to take you to dinner.”
“You know that’s unnecessary.”
“Can’t help it. It’s a guy thing.”
“I don’t like this. I don’t want to leave you here.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’m a big boy. I can’t walk as fast as I used to, but I can handle myself.”
“Okay, but I’m still going to the door with you.”
He chuckled as he stepped out of the vehicle and paused on the sidewalk, waiting for her to join him.
It was a perfect day. Colorful daffodils and tulips swayed in the gentle breeze, waving as they walked by.
He was beside the woman he adored, yet his mind raced, grappling with nagging inconsistencies.
Just steps from the front door, a sudden, brassy blast shattered the peaceful afternoon.
A trumpet solo blared from an open second-floor window.
Moments later, a piano joined in, the pair launching into a lively, improvised cover of Louis Armstrong’s “Hotter Than That.” As the music enveloped them, an overwhelming wave of relief, potent as a deep breath after a prolonged crisis, washed over Bastien.
The tension drained from his shoulders, leaving a pleasant ache in its wake.
Kaitlyn stopped and put her hands on her hips. “That sounds like Louis Armstrong. They’re having a private concert. Let’s not bother them.”
“It’s not… Armstrong,” Bastien said, pushing the words out over the lump in his throat.
Her brow furrowed as she cocked her head. “It sounds like him.”
“She’s that good.” Bastien swallowed, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window.
“Who?” she asked.
“Marcelle.”
“That’s Marcelle?” She turned fully toward him. “How can you tell?”
He put his arm around Kaitlyn and snuggled her to his side.
“You know which lawyers are good and how they’ll represent their clients.
I recognize the unique quality of the sound Marcelle produces.
Her technique is masterful. She pushes the instrument’s limits and has a distinctive improvisational style.
Her technique enables her to play incredibly high notes that sound almost delicate, like those of a flute. It sets her apart.”
“You can hear all that?”
He nodded. “And more. I need to get my sax out of the car.”
“Are you going to stand on the street and play a duet before you’re even sure? It might be Armstrong.”
“Then I’ll play a duet with him. But I’ll bet my prosthesis that it’s Marcelle.”
Kaitlyn laughed softly, shaking her head. “How often do you bet your leg?”
“Only when I’m certain I’m right.” He met her eyes. “You’ll know I have doubts if I don’t.”
She studied him for a beat, then smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Bastien turned toward the car, already moving.
“Wait.” She caught his sleeve. “Stay here.” She nodded toward the curb. “I’ll get it for you.”
His nerves jangled like faulty wires. A raw, exposed current of panic pulsed through him, worse than any stage fright he’d ever known.
He prayed the sound of his sax would ripple through Marcelle, as her trumpet had coursed through his own veins.
Relief was a sudden inhalation. The gnawing worry that had been his constant, unwelcome companion evaporated.
And he felt weightless, as if someone had lifted a crushing stone from his chest.
Kaitlyn returned with his saxophone. He waited until Marcelle started the next song, “Bye Bye Blackbird.” After a few measures, he slid in with a warm, bluesy moan.
Bastien had felt great the past few nights playing in the saloon, but nothing resonated like a duet with his sister.
He funneled his energy and emotion into his interpretation of the song, and Marcelle matched him note for note with the same intensity.
For jazz aficionados, nothing was better.
When that song ended, whoever was on the piano played a lovely intro to “My One and Only Love.” When Marcelle didn’t start playing, Bastien did, and the smooth lyrical tones and soulful, smoky sound of his saxophone captured all the nuances of love, longing, and passion.
Pedestrians stopped, cars parked at the curb, and birds quieted.
When he finished, there was a burst of applause from the street.
“What is that song? I’ve never heard it before,” Kaitlyn said.
“The songwriter hasn’t written it yet, so whoever is playing piano is a time traveler, and that song was a message.”
The door burst open, and Marcelle plowed into him, threw her arms around his neck, and knocked him off balance. “You’re here!”
A man ran out behind her and grabbed Bastien, holding him upright until Marcelle released him. “She’s a little excited to see you.”
“Any other time, I could’ve handled her. It took a moment to balance. Thanks.”
The man released his grip and stretched out his hand. “I’m Clay MacIntyre. It’s great to finally meet you. Did Tony send you?”
“He doesn’t know we’re here.” Bastien reached for Kaitlyn’s hand. “This beautiful lady is Kaitlyn McSorley.” He turned to Kaitlyn and said, “This is my sister, Marcelle.”
Kaitlyn extended her hand to Marcelle, but Marcelle had other ideas, sweeping her into a robust embrace with the same enthusiasm she’d given Bastien, which pleased him. Kaitlyn remained rooted to the spot, absorbing the powerful hug. “I’m so happy to meet you. What a perfect reunion!”
“When did you talk to Tony?” Bastien asked.
“Clay talked to him this morning.”
“Tony didn’t mention either of you. We stopped here to talk to Mr. MacKlenna. Tony told us that Kaitlyn’s grandmother and uncle stayed here in 1896. So we were looking for information.” Bastien glanced at the door. “Where’s Remy?”
“In Chicago. It’s a long story,” Marcelle said.
“What the hell is so important in Chicago that he couldn’t come here to get me?” Bastien laughed, a harsh sound that held no humor. He looked away, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “It better be a fucking good reason.”
Marcelle clenched her jaw, then relaxed it immediately. “It’s okay, Bastien. Remy showed up for me. Given the choice, that’s what you would’ve wanted.”
He slanted a look down at her. “Never mind!”
Kaitlyn pulled her lower lip through her teeth and then calmly said, “Let’s put a lid on that boiling temper and wait until Remy can explain. Taking care of your sister is a pretty good reason. Don’t you think?”
“She’s here. Remy should be here, too.”
Kaitlyn squared her shoulders, closing the distance until their faces nearly touched. Bastien’s gaze plunged deep into hers. As she stroked his arms, he matched her breath for breath, inhaling her scent. Within seconds, the fear raging through him dissolved.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly.
He took one more deep breath. “I’m good.”
She smiled and then kissed him lightly on the lips.
Marcelle looped her arm around Kaitlyn’s elbow and all but dragged her into the house. “The MacKlennas are eager to meet you, but they went to a luncheon. You can meet them later.”
“We didn’t know when that would happen,” Clay said. “I’m glad you came here now instead of waiting another day or two. I’m not sure your sister could have waited that long.”
“If I’d known she was here, I wouldn’t have waited.”
Marcelle led the way through the foyer to the staircase.
One of the Pinkerton men Bastien recognized from the other day stood in the corner, a granite block of silent threat.
Bastien was unarmed, and the vulnerability tasted bitter.
But neither Clay nor Marcelle flinched, so he hid his tension, even though every nerve ending screamed caution.