Chapter 62 Chicago, 1927—Rick
The owners of the rental house on N. State Parkway had sounded very particular on the phone.
Rick worried they might reject his application, so he set up a face-to-face meeting.
He was eager to see how close the rental was to Skye’s house and whether the sightlines would work.
If the fully leafed-out trees formed a curtain of green, it would defeat the purpose of establishing a base there.
Rick insisted that Tavis take the wheel.
He knew the route through the winding streets.
As they eased onto N. State Parkway, Tavis took the first available parking spot.
“Skye’s house is on this side, the fourth one from the corner,” Tavis said.
“The rental is across the street. You’ll see the sign. We’ll be right here waiting.”
Rick reached into his pocket for the amethyst brooch, and his fingers closed around the cool, smooth surface of the stone. “If anything goes wrong, if this falls apart, I’ll go home.”
“Don’t go home. Make a lateral trip to the hotel room. We’ll meet there.” Clay pulled a thick roll of cash from his pocket and doled it out to Rick and Tavis. “That’s two thousand dollars for each of us. If we need more, there’s plenty left in the account at the bank.”
Rick slipped the cash into his pocket. “We’re going to the track, and I’m the least lucky gambler in the family.”
“If you make contacts while losing it all, it’ll be worth it,” Clay said.
Rick gave Clay and Tavis a thumbs-up and took off down the street.
When his eyes landed on the wrought-iron balcony on the second floor of Skye’s house, he knew breaking in through the front entrance was out of the question.
Too exposed. The basement was a possibility, but they’d need serious recon before attempting that risky maneuver.
Upon reaching the imposing rental house, he used the heavy brass knocker, and a few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a stiffly starched butler. “Mr. O’Grady, I assume. Please follow me. Mr. and Mrs. Todd are waiting for you in the parlor.”
Rick spotted a half dozen suitcases stacked in the foyer, suggesting an immediate departure.
Mr. Todd hadn’t mentioned they were leaving town today.
A critical choice loomed. Should Rick introduce himself as a successful Napa vintner or a tough NYC detective?
Which one would they prefer to live in their house?
The answer came to him within the first few minutes.
After meeting the Todds in the parlor and hearing the heartbreaking details of their daughter’s illness—the very reason they were leaving Chicago for a few months—Rick made his play.
He offered to rent their residence for a full year.
Mr. Todd, his eyes swimming with unshed tears, insisted that six months was all they needed.
It was a painful admission. They clearly didn’t expect their daughter to survive much longer than that.
An hour after entering the residence, Rick paid the Todds six months’ rent, plus staff salaries, ensuring the house would be kept exactly as the Todds left it, and walked out with the house key and a damp handkerchief.
He stood on the sidewalk, the afternoon air chilling his skin, and scanned the deserted street. There were no cars parked in front of Skye’s house, only an empty space. Was she even home?
The answer to that question came immediately.
The front door creaked open, and she stepped out.
Rick’s heart didn’t just break. It splintered into a thousand jagged pieces in his chest. She didn’t look like the same person he had met a week ago.
She was rail-thin and walked with a pronounced stoop, as if the crushing weight of the world rested on her slender shoulders.
Deep circles smudged the skin beneath her eyes, and her once lustrous hair had lost its shine, hanging limp and lifeless.
He wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms, to shield her from the pain, and to tell her, with every ounce of his being, that he understood her sorrow and that one day, somehow, it wouldn’t hurt this much.
What would Penny want him to do? She adored Skye like a sister. If she saw the devastating state Skye was in, she would insist that Rick move heaven and earth to help her.
But how? The question cycled endlessly through his mind.
Skye crossed the sidewalk to the curb and stood there, her gaze fixed on the empty street. Whoever she was waiting for would probably arrive at any moment, and his chance to talk to her was ticking away.
But what could he say to her? He reached into his pocket, his fingers finding and clutching the cool metal of the rosary, and then, driven by an impulse he couldn’t ignore, he jogged across the street.
As he approached her, he doffed his hat, a gesture of old-world respect. He prayed for the right words to convey his sympathy, while simultaneously hiding the hammering of his own grief.
“Excuse me, Miss Marshall,” he said, his voice low and steady despite the turmoil within. Then he said the one thing he knew to be the absolute truth. “I’ve listened to you sing, and you’re one of the most talented women I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy from the hours she’d clearly spent crying.
There was no sign of recognition, no flicker of memory in her hollow, dark-brown eyes. That fact intensified Rick’s curiosity about why she had recognized Tavis.
“There’s not much to sing about right now.” Her voice was not only raspy but laced with despair.
Rick remembered that suffocating feeling all too well and had to clear the tight knot of sadness that had lodged in his own throat.
“I heard about your mother’s illness. My mother died several years ago, and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss her, that the loss doesn’t ache.
She was a Broadway singer and dancer, full of life and light. Your voice reminds me of hers.”
A connection now hummed between them, evidenced by the relaxation of her posture and the softening of her features.
Rick’s arms ached to embrace her as he would normally embrace a troubled friend.
But her frame seemed too fragile, bones too close to the surface, a testament to a soul pushing itself to the edge.
He’d lost ten pounds during those last days, when he’d feared taking time to eat or sleep, terrified his mother’s life would slip away in his absence.
“Thank you, Mr…”
“It’s just Rick.”
“What was your mother’s name? I might have seen her in a show.”
“Maggie.” He doffed his hat again and headed toward the waiting Chevrolet as the prickle of tears burned his eyes.
Skye had to walk this path of grief alone, and the realization gutted him.
When he returned home, he’d contact the talent scout to let him know he and Skye wanted to cut an album.
He couldn’t fix her world today. He couldn’t ease her sadness, but at another time, he could offer much more.
In his mind’s eye, this exact scene unfolded through Penny’s perceptive gaze.
God, the swell of love he felt for his bride—her inherent warmth, her quiet wisdom, the searing passion that defined her.
She was the anchor in his life, and through her strength, he found the love and energy to give to others.
Realization hit him, sharper than the sting of tears.
Penny had shaped him into the man his mother had always dreamed he could be.
Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Skye brush away a tear.
A vehicle roared down the street, tires protesting in a sharp squeal as it braked hard in front of her house.
The driver reached across and shoved the passenger door open.
The creep didn’t even step out to offer a hand into the vehicle.
Didn’t the asshole see how fragile she was right now?
Rick had half a mind to turn back and confront the insensitive jerk.
The car she was riding in coasted to a gentle stop beside him. The driver lowered the window, and Skye leaned forward. “Just Rick, can we drop you off somewhere?”
He forced a smile, his anxiety tightening in his stomach. “I have a car parked just ahead. But thank you.”
She managed a jerky nod, and the car peeled off down the street, vanishing around the corner.
The man’s face had been imprinted on Rick’s brain like an earworm—a tune he desperately wanted to forget. Still, the damn melody wouldn’t let him go. If he ever saw the asshole again, he’d knock him senseless on Remy’s behalf.
Rick returned to the car and sank into the seat next to Tavis. “Did you see that vehicle that just tore out of here? The driver’s a jerk. If you ever cross paths with him, do the world a favor and knock the shit out of him.”
“That was Skye’s piano player, and he cares a lot about her,” Clay offered from the back seat. “He’s a good guy.”
Rick shook his head. “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“What kept you so long?” Tavis asked, starting the engine.
“I talked to the Todds for about an hour, mostly listening to stories about the loopholes California vintners were exploiting to survive Prohibition. They’re nice people.
Their daughter lives in Washington, and she’s sick.
I settled everything—rent and staff salaries—for the next six months.
They’re leaving in a couple of hours, so the house is officially ours. ”
“How’s the interior?” Clay asked. “The people we’re planning to host for a reception or dinner need to walk in and believe we’re swimming in money.”
“The interior is much like how you described Skye’s house. It’s not my personal style. It has what Penny would describe as a distinct artiste décorateur feel to it.”
“What the hell is that?” Tavis asked.
“Professional interior designer.” Penny had used the phrase while describing a few of her former clients’ homes. This chic descriptor clung to his memory, like everything she said.
Tavis let out a low chuckle. “I almost forgot you and Penny are practically Napa royalty—the power couple of the wine and hospitality industry.”
“Well, thank God one of you knows how to plan a party,” Clay sighed.
“Takes some of the pressure off my shoulders. The last party I hosted was after high school graduation. The Hamptons estate was all mine for the weekend. It was the best party ever until the blue lights started flashing. Archibald had to fish me out of lockup.”
Tavis shook his head. “I’m not sure how to respond to that confession, Clay. I’ve fortunately avoided a night in jail.”
“Knowing you, when trouble started, you used a brooch to vanish into the night air,” Clay teased.
Tavis’s laugh was bright and genuine. “I didn’t, thank heavens—but Erik managed that trick perfectly.”
The image of Tavis and Erik in a holding cell sparked a brief laugh from Rick, the reflex of a former cop. “So where are we headed now?”
“First the department store, then the barber, and then we’re off to the races,” Clay declared, his energy infectious. “If we’re serious about throwing a party, we need to circulate and meet people.”
The car eased smoothly away from the curb.
Rick glanced down the street just in time to see Mrs. Todd approaching Skye’s front door, a wicker basket hooked over her arm.
Regret hit hard and fast—if only he’d arrived hours earlier.
Maybe he could have intervened. Maybe he could have saved her mother.
No. That wasn’t possible. It was already too late—for Alistair and Skye, but most of all for Sheena.