Chapter 45 Flying to New Orleans—Skye #2
“He wanted to know if you were as good as Remy said you were. I gave you a glowing review. But I hope Remy warned you that Rick has the chiseled jawline of a silver-screen leading man, the velvety vocals of a chart-topping sensation, and moves through a room with the quiet strength of a skilled warrior.”
Skye’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “Does Rick look like Rudolph Valentino or Gary Cooper?”
“Hm.” Clay considered. “He could easily be the Valentino of our time.”
“I think Remy could be the next Valentino,” Skye said, glancing his way, “so maybe Rick’s the next Gary Cooper. Either way, it’s a relief—it takes the pressure off me. Rick’s presence will mesmerize the entire audience.”
Clay smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. “He’s handsome, sure—a solid B-minus. But when you walk out there, and the spotlight finds you, you knock it out of the park every time.”
“Thanks, Clay. But I’ve never sung to a twenty-first-century audience. They might not like my sound.”
“They’ll love you,” Marcelle said. “Sing a duet that you and Archibald performed, and you’ll have them eating out of your hand.”
“You know what you should sing?” Clay said. “You and Rick should perform ‘Shallow’ tonight. If you sing it the first night, the band will sell out the rest of the shows.”
“I don’t know that song,” Skye said.
“Do you remember us talking about the Bradley Cooper–Lady Gaga duet?” Remy asked.
“Sure. That’s the inspiration for sitting on the piano bench with Archibald. I’d love to hear the record when we get back.”
“You don’t have to wait.” Remy reached into his computer bag and handed her a small white box.
She turned it over in her hands. “What is this?”
“AirPods. Open it.”
She did, lifting the lid. “What do I do with them?”
“I’ll show you. But first, let me have your phone.
” Skye handed it to him, and he pulled up the video of Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper’s performance at the Oscars.
“Now put the earbuds in your ears, and I’ll play the song for you.
” He showed her how to insert the earbuds and then pushed play on her phone.
“Oh, my God. This is magical.” Skye held the phone up to her face.
The singers were so amazingly talented that they effortlessly pulled her into their world.
The powerful delivery unleashed a primal wave of emotion.
A flurry of goose bumps erupted across her skin, and the heartfelt lyrics brought a cascade of silent tears.
There was a sense of spontaneity in the recording, as if they were having an intimate jam session.
If she and Rick could channel that depth of emotion into their performance, the audience wouldn’t just watch—they’d feel like intruders on a moment meant for two.
Her performances with Archibald had been good, but now she understood the secret of infusing a song with soul-stirring power to make her performances even better.
She handed the phone back to Remy. “Will you show me how to play it again?”
He showed her how to restart the video. With a deep sigh, she surrendered to the melody, her eyelids fluttering closed as her head bobbed to the driving beat.
When the last note faded, her finger tapped the replay button, over and over, desperate to recapture the magic.
She finally lowered the phone, and a lingering sigh escaped her lips as she pulled the delicate AirPods free from her ears, the spell finally broken.
“I want to sing this with Rick. What style of music is it?”
“It’s a power ballad that blends rock, country, and folk-pop elements,” Remy said.
“I don’t know what any of those are. But since it’s not jazz, we shouldn’t do it.”
“You and Rick could sing it during our break. Although after the audience hears it, they woan want us back on stage.”
“Then we’ll sing it another time.”
“Ask him. See what he says.”
Skye opened Rick’s message and asked if he would sing “Shallow” with her. He responded almost immediately.
Yes! Tell Remy we’ll steal the show.
She showed Remy the response, thinking he would change his mind. A smile unfolded gradually as if he were taking time to process. Then he took the phone from her and texted Rick.
Bring it on, bro!
She gazed at Remy. “Do you think I can sing the song like Lady Gaga?”
“Your cover version of ‘Shallow’ will be fantastic. You want to sound like yourself. Not another artist. Give it your personal interpretation.”
“What does a cover version mean?”
“It’s a new recording that updates or interprets an original song,” Remy said. “It also showcases an artist’s unique style and musicality.”
“I’ve been doing that for years.”
“It’s different now.”
“Does she need a license to sing it?” Clay asked.
“The bar has a blanket license to cover a broad catalog of songs. That allows the venue to host performances without getting individual permission.”
“Interesting,” Clay said. “I didn’t know that.”
“The orchestra performs cover songs of popular music all the time. It bridges the gap between classical music and mainstream pop culture,” Marcelle said. “We reimagine it with an orchestral arrangement.”
“I didn’t know that either,” Clay said.
“The next song Skye should try is ‘Never Enough,’” Marcelle said.
Skye handed her phone to Remy. “Would you find that song for me?” She watched him pull up a video of Loren Allred’s performance at BGT—some televised competition, whatever that was.
She put the AirPods back in and turned the song on.
Allred’s vocals created a sense of awe and wonder in Skye, and chills ran down her spine and across her body.
Could she make her voice that powerful? After listening to it three times, she turned it off.
“That performance was breathtaking and awe-inspiring, but I can’t sing in that demanding vocal range.” She chewed her bottom lip and then asked, “Does Rick have a record?”
“He could have released several highly acclaimed albums by now, but he’s never been tempted to produce even a single song,” Remy said.
“Because it would interfere with his work at the winery?”
“That, and he’s married and has three children. He’s a busy guy.”
A wave of regret washed over Skye, along with a pang of guilt for even considering imposing on Rick’s time. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have dreamed of bothering him.”
Remy took Skye’s hand and kissed her wrist. “Rick’s mother was a singer and dancer on Broadway—”
“Broadway! In New York City?”
“Yep,” Remy said. “Rick and his siblings love to entertain. Your request wasn’t an imposition.”
The plane lurched. Skye’s hand flew to Remy’s arm, her fingers digging in before she could stop herself. “What was that?”
“Turbulence. Remember, the captain mentioned the possibility.”
“Right. Over Alabama. Remind me never to fly over that state again.”
“You’re safe. If you weren’t, we wouldn’t have gotten on this plane.”
She drew in a shaky breath and let it out in a single rush. “I heard flying was supposed to be fun. This isn’t.”
Marcelle glanced around the interior. “This is an incredible aircraft. Traveling like this could spoil me.” Then she asked Remy, “Is this the plane you always fly on?”
“MacCorp has several planes. I usually fly on a HondaJet Elite 2, unless I’m traveling with Elliott.
He just bought this Dassault Falcon 7X a couple of weeks ago.
He modified it, adding two bathrooms—one with a shower—and seating for sixteen passengers.
The other one carries four. But he’s thinking about buying an Airbus A380 that will carry fifty passengers.
Meredith talked him out of it for now. But if Elliott wants it, he’ll get it. ”
“That’s almost the size of a commercial airplane,” Clay said. “Why get on a plane when we can travel anywhere with the brooch?”
“I think it might come to that, but Elliott’s not there yet.”
Marcelle put up her leg rest and tossed a blanket over her lap. “Clay said Archibald had a rough night. Did you see him before we left the plantation?”
Remy nodded. “He’s eager to get to New Orleans, but it depends on how he feels today and tomorrow. Charlotte might bring him for our last performance.”
“It’s a shame Charlotte and Braham have to miss the fun,” Skye said.
“Honestly, I think they’ll enjoy the quiet.”
Skye laughed. “Do you know how many kids under fifteen are running around her house?”
“A hundred?” Remy teased.
Skye laughed again. “I love children. One day, I’d like to have a dozen of my own. I was lonely being an only child.”
“A dozen? Seriously?”
“How many do you want?” Skye pressed, watching him closely.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” he admitted. Then a smile tugged at his mouth. “But a dozen works for me.”
“Remy, you’re the last person I could picture wrangling even five kids. Twelve is unimaginable,” Marcelle said with a skeptical arch to her brow.
Remy crossed his legs and fussed with the precisely folded line down the front of his khakis. “If each kid played a different instrument, just think of the band we’d have.”
A glint of excitement appeared in Clay’s eyes. “You only need nine souls to field a proper baseball team, a nimble five for basketball, eleven fierce warriors for football or soccer, and a cozy six for volleyball. Imagine the possibilities.”
“Priorities, man. Music first,” Remy said.
“Aren’t you the one who has a betting pool for every sporting event on TV? Even curling?” Clay asked.
“Yeah, but—”
Clay waved him off. “I made my point.”
“Which is?”
“You’d rather have athletes than musicians.”
Skye’s gaze bounced from Clay to Remy and back again, trying to follow the conversation. “I’m confused,” she said. “So, which is? A band or an athletic team?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Both?”
Marcelle patted Skye’s knee. “Don’t let him fool you. Music will always come first.” Then she added, “After giving the love of his life everything she wants.”
Skye’s gaze slipped down to Remy’s mouth. She wanted to give him the kiss of a lifetime, of her lifetime, but it would be hard to stop there. “Is Marcelle right?”
“She’s known me my entire life. If anyone knows, she does.”
“Before you two lock in like the rest of us disappeared, where are you staying? At the hotel, like everyone else?” Clay asked.
“Remy reserved an Airbnb, whatever that is,” Skye said without taking her eyes off Remy.
“It’s a rental, and I’m sure it’s lovely,” Marcelle tilted her head slightly. “Why aren’t you staying at the hotel with the rest of us?”
Skye finally broke eye contact, surprised by the powerful sense of intimacy she had just by looking into Remy’s large, expressive brown eyes.
“I booked it, so I’d have a place to chill after we played. If you and Clay want to stay with us, the place has nine bedrooms and bathrooms, and it’s near the French Quarter.”
“Are you sure you want people there? Won’t we get in your way?” Marcelle asked, giving Remy a knowing look.
“Yeah, but what the hell. If anyone else wants to stay there, it’s fine with me.”
“We should invite Bastien and Kaitlyn,” Clay said. “You know, to keep the band together.”
“Go ask them,” Remy said.
Clay returned minutes later. “They said yes. Elliott was on the phone with Rick, and he and Penny would also like to stay there. That way, he and Skye can rehearse.”
Then David walked over to their seats. “If ye’ve got more room, Kenzie and I’d like to stay there.”
“Sure. That makes five couples. I rented an SUV, but with Skye, my drum kit, and luggage, there’s no more room. Did you rent a vehicle?”
“I’ve got a van with room for eight. Clay and Marcelle, Bastien and Kaitlyn can ride with Kenz and me.”
“I’ll text you the address and the code to the front door.”
“Noted. I’ll let Elliott know our plans,” David said before returning to his seat.
Within minutes, Heather served brunch, filling the air with the comforting aromas of truffle scrambled eggs, buttery croissants, crisp thick-cut bacon, and seasonal fruit.
Skye’s shoulders, still tight from the takeoff, ordered her third Bloody Mary.
As the alcohol erased the tension she’d carried onto the plane, she quit white knuckling the armrests.
She still dreaded the inevitable jolt of the landing gear hitting the tarmac, but the apprehension she had boarding the plane was now only a faint memory.