Chapter 65 Chicago, 1927—Rick
When Rick was alone, he often held silent conversations in his head—with Penny or, sometimes, his mother.
The ones with Penny were practical: the kids, the winery, and questions about harvest or the cellar.
The ones with his mother were softer—about a Broadway review he’d read, or a restaurant in Midtown she would’ve loved.
But tonight, crossing the street, the words wouldn’t come. For once, Rick had nothing to say to either of them. They never answered, of course—but if they could, they’d tell him exactly what he already knew—stay away from Bowes.
He glanced back toward the house where Tavis and Clay watched from the window. He considered giving them a quick nod to say he was fine—but he wasn’t sure that was true.
On the opposite curb, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, the Marshalls’ house loomed—its windows lit, silhouettes shifting inside. Rick paused at the door, took a long breath, and straightened his tie for the third time. His hand was barely off the knot when the front door swung open.
The couple he’d seen enter the house earlier stepped out. Their faces were pale, bleached by grief. Rick tipped his hat politely.
The woman pressed a handkerchief to her nose. “It’s so sad,” she said softly. “I hope you can comfort Alistair. I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never seen him so despondent.”
Rick opened his mouth to answer, but she went on, voice cracking. “I don’t know how he’ll survive without his wife. She was such a lovely woman.”
Rick nodded, stepping out of the way while mentally cursing the situation. They should have stopped all this when they had the chance—should have gone back to New York, pulled Alistair and Sheena out of that mess the moment they arrived.
Remy would’ve lost Skye then, yes, but he would have found her again—years later, in his own time. They’d have fallen in love anew, on their own terms. That would’ve been a cleaner ending. Maybe even a kinder one.
Rick turned on his heel. He needed to talk to Tavis and Clay again before he said a single word to Bowes.
“Just Rick,” a voice called behind him. “Where are you going?”
He froze, hand instinctively pressing his chest to quiet the sudden thud in his heart. When he turned, Skye stood framed in the open doorway.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he said softly, recovering his breath. “I didn’t realize—this morning, when we spoke—that she had already passed.”
Skye blinked, eyes red but steady. “I thought you knew.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then you should come inside.” Her voice gentled, thin but warm. “My father is receiving friends tonight.”
Rick hesitated. “I don’t know him.”
Skye tilted her head slightly, assessing him. “But you know me.” She stepped aside and held the door open.
Walking away now would be an insult to her grief—and to his own conscience.
He almost turned to shrug at Clay and Tavis, to tell them this wasn’t in the plan.
But how could he explain it? He himself didn’t understand why he lingered—unless it was that same uneasy fear that always came around mourning.
The way other people’s loss awakened his own, yet that pain carried with it something else—a fragile reminder of hope.
So, with a slow breath, he crossed the threshold.
The house smelled faintly of lilies and polished wood. In the foyer, two men stood speaking in low tones—an older version of the young man Rick had seen in photographs and, beside him, Bowes. Their expressions were tight, unreadable, but the tension in their posture said enough.
Skye slipped forward, graceful even in grief.
Her resemblance to Alistair was striking—the same jawline and high cheekbones, the proud slope of the nose, the deep brown eyes that seemed to hold light.
Their hair shared the same dark hue, though Alistair’s was streaked with gray at the temples.
On her father, age lent elegance. On Skye, it was pure radiance.
Rick’s throat tightened as he studied them together. Those genes mixed with Remy’s dark looks… They’d make beautiful children. For an instant, hope flared—then twisted into an ache. He prayed Remy’s illness wouldn’t rob him of that chance.
“Papa,” Skye said. “Do you remember the man I mentioned to you this morning?”
Alistair’s gaze flickered toward Rick, recognition sharpening his features. “Just Rick,” he said, his voice rich and steady.
She nodded. “He’s here. I wanted you to meet him.” She turned slightly. “Rick, this is my father, Alistair Marshall.”
Rick stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
Alistair’s grip was firm, warm, the skin smooth—unsuited to hard labor or strings. The absence of calluses tugged at Rick’s chest with quiet disappointment. Once, this man had been a musician. Once, his hands had made art.
Before Rick could say more, Bowes turned—and the energy in the foyer shifted.
“Well,” Bowes said, his tone deceptively mild. “Surprised to see you here, Mr. O’Grady. I thought we’d arranged to meet later at your hotel.”
The voice caught Rick off guard—thick, deliberate, unnervingly even. Out in a crowd, it sounded unremarkable, but here within four walls, it carried something dark—too smooth, too sure.
Panic pressed briefly at the edge of Rick’s ribs. If the Marshalls thought he was an associate of Bowes, or worse, a friend, this entire charade would crumble. He had to set the record straight—now.
“Mr. Bowes,” Rick said evenly, “if you’ve brought the funds to settle our ten-thousand-dollar wager, I’ll take it now. Might save you the trouble of visiting the hotel later.”
Skye gasped. The soft sound cut through the tension like glass breaking. Alistair’s eyes narrowed, his jaw working as he absorbed the implications.
Bowes’s face hardened. A bitter smile flickered across his lips—the kind worn by men who decided, on quiet impulse, who would live and who would die. His eyes shifted, watchful now.
“Mr. O’Grady and I,” Bowes said slowly, “made a private wager on a horse race this afternoon. Mr. O’Grady won, and I… wasn’t carrying enough to cover the bet. We agreed to settle later.” He paused, turning back toward Alistair. “If you don’t mind, perhaps we could speak privately.”
Alistair’s nostrils flared, the faintest sign of control slipping. “If you have business to discuss,” he said firmly, “I’d prefer to do that another time.”
“I’d prefer not,” Bowes replied, his voice tightening into something more dangerous, less polite.
Rick had to rein in his emotions before he raked the smirk off the arrogant, self-absorbed bastard’s face. That about covered Rick’s disdain for the man, and he wasn’t leaving here until he discovered what business Bowes had with Alistair.
A tic appeared at the corner of Alistair’s mouth as he obviously tried to conceal his contempt and maintain composure. Then he swept his arm toward the hallway. “Shall we go to my office?”
Rick watched Alistair lumber down the hall, burdened by his weariness. He was grieving and forced to deal with Bowes. Rick had to know why.
“Come this way, Mr. O’Grady,” Skye said softly from behind him.
He turned. “Rick—or Just Rick—is fine.”
Her lips curved—a faint hint of a smile. “Then, Rick,” she said, lowering her voice, “I have coffee or tea… or, if you’d prefer something stronger.”
Rick tilted his head with a half-smile. “Stronger works for me.”
He followed her toward the rear of the house, down a hall that smelled faintly of roses and furniture polish. They entered a space that, from Clay’s description, Rick believed Skye would later use for music.
There was a round Rosewood table with an inlaid chessboard that gleamed under a pair of low lamps.
The craftsmanship created an extraordinary playing surface.
Only half of the pieces remained in play.
Knights, bishops, rooks, pawns—and one queen—stood along the sides in defiance as if they were spectators to the defeat of a toppled white king. The decisive moment of checkmate.
Who tipped their king in defeat?
Skye crossed over to a serving cart, poured two drinks from a crystal decanter, and held one out to Rick. “Do you mind staying in here? I didn’t offer anyone else a stronger beverage. You never know how one feels about Prohibition.”
“I see it as a failed social experiment, and I support the repeal movement.” Rick accepted the glass and sipped.
The alcohol had a one-dimensional flavor and was harsh and unbalanced.
He swallowed, resisting the urge to cough, recalling his early wine-tasting lessons—never spit, never wince, never show disgust. “Tell me about your mother.”
Skye pointed at the chessboard. “Who do you think played that game and toppled the white king?”
Rick shook his head. “I assume it was your father.”
A flash of sorrow crossed her face. “You assume incorrectly,” she said. “Mama could have held her own against Capablanca or Alekhin. She was brilliant.”
“Did she teach you to play?”
“She tried,” Skye said, with a small, wistful smile curving her lips. “That was my white king.”
Rick felt the urge to laugh but held it back.
Not even a thin layer of dust covered the board, making him wonder how long Skye had left it that way.
It didn’t really matter. The chessboard was like a closet full of clothes.
At what point do survivors remove the deceased’s clothing?
Weeks? Months? It was part of the grief process, and everyone moved through the stages at a different pace.
He had stopped looking in his mother’s closet, so he never knew her things were gone until Pops sold the house and moved to MacKlenna Farm.
Skye moved to the sofa and sat down, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Rick joined her, setting his drink on the small table beside them.