Chapter 43
Mallory Plantation—Remy
Remy rolled over, his hand falling on the cool, empty sheets.
The bed held only the fading imprint of Skye’s warmth.
A low groan rumbled from deep within his chest, muffled by the goose-down pillow as he forced his heavy, sandpaper eyelids open.
A sickening wave of disorientation washed over him: Where was she? And what time was it?
The darkened room offered no clues. No hint of sunlight or shadow. It could have been Christmas morning for all the difference it made to his battered senses. Staying up for nearly forty-eight hours straight had completely drained the metaphorical batteries that kept his internal clock running.
He reached for his phone to check for messages. He had a half dozen, but he only clicked on one.
Skye: I’m with Kaitlyn and Roisin, trying on clothes. Text when you wake up.
He responded: I’m awake. Take your time. I’m going to check on Archibald. Have fun with the girls.
He was relieved to find Archibald sitting up in bed, eating breakfast. “How are you?” Remy asked while checking the monitor.
“I’m well enough to go to New Orleans.”
Remy used the pulse oximeter to measure Archibald’s oxygen saturation, then the touchless thermometer to check his temperature. “You’re better than you were a few hours ago. But whether you go to New Orleans or not is Charlotte’s call. Not mine.”
“If I don’t have a fever, there’s no reason to stay behind. I’ll take it up with Charlotte,” Archibald said. “Where is she?”
“Eating breakfast. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
After last night’s heart-stopping scare, the very gates of Hell couldn’t compel Charlotte to let her patient fly to New Orleans.
But Archibald, a charismatic son of a bitch, had lived with Violet for several years, a testament to his stamina and resilience, so maybe he could convince her to let him go.
Remy’s phone shattered the silence with its shrill ring, and he stared at the glowing Caller ID display. It was Lamar. What the fuck did he want? At least Remy didn’t have to avoid his calls now. “Benoit,” Remy said flatly.
“I talked to the other band members. They’re interested in your jazz singer. Bring her around to meet the guys and send me a list of her favorite songs.”
“You want her to sing now? What changed your mind?” Not that Remy cared.
“There’s a lot of competition this weekend, and we need an edge. Your singer might be just what we need.”
“I’ll ask her and send you a text.”
After ending the call with Lamar, he sent Skye another text: You’re invited to sing with the band. Will you make a list of songs you’d like to sing?
She responded: Archibald won’t be there to sing the duets, and those are my favorites.
I know someone who would love to sing with you, and he plays piano.
Are you sure? We’ll need rehearsal time.
He’s a professional. He’ll walk in and knock it out of the park.
Then Remy sent Rick O’Grady a text: Would you like to sing and play keyboard with the band? Got a knock-out jazz singer who sang duets with Archibald, but he’s in no condition to perform. Interested?
Rick responded: Is she a traveler from the 1920s? If so, then hell yeah. Count me in. Will you bring the keyboard from the musical storage room? We’re leaving San Francisco in an hour. See you in The Big Easy.
Remy didn’t think Rick and Penny had returned to the Crescent City since the high-stakes climax of their adventure fighting the British during the Battle of New Orleans.
That escapade had left them with a few indelible scars.
Still, the story ended happily ever after.
Hopefully, they’d find this trip less stressful.
But when the MacKlenna Clan gathered, dramatic surprises always lay in wait.