Chapter 76 Mallory Plantation—Elliott #3
“In New Orleans.” Meredith smiled at that, turning her gaze back to the couple.
There was a tightness in the back of Elliott’s throat as he struggled to hold back tears. He took a long drink to settle his emotions and then broke away from thoughts of Remy and said, “I heard ye were digging through yer archives today.”
“I was checking on where Emily’s parents were living in 1902.
Kit and Emily want Frances and Christopher to be at the wedding.
I wanted to know if they remained in Chicago.
They didn’t. They retired to Napa the next year.
Kit wants to go back there to visit Thomas and bring Frances and Christopher back for James Cullen and Emily’s fall wedding. ”
“Work it out with Kit and Cullen. I’m sure James Cullen and Emily will want to go, too. Let’s keep this small. Just the six of us. The last time we all went to Napa, it was a disaster.”
Meredith kissed Elliott. “That will please Emily—which will please James Cullen.”
“And that,” Elliott said lightly, “will please his mother.”
He would have done anything to please his bride.
Their partnership was deep and enduring, forged in unshakable love.
The only true rupture had come after James Cullen’s return from the future, following a year of recovery there.
For a time, Elliott hadn’t known if they’d find their way back.
But they had—choosing forgiveness, choosing each other.
He squeezed Meredith’s hand. “I love ye.”
“I love you.”
Marcelle and Clay strolled past the table. “We don’t want to intrude,” Clay said, slowing, “but Marcelle wanted to say hello.”
“I thought Kenzie put ye on bar duty,” Elliott said.
“I got fired,” Clay replied cheerfully. “Apparently, my bartending skills didn’t meet her standards. I spent too much time flirting with a certain customer instead of pouring drinks.”
“Are you ready for tonight?” Meredith asked.
“We are,” Marcelle said. “Clay’s playing three different instruments.”
“I hope not all at once.” Meredith slipped on her glasses. “Come closer, Marcelle. Let me see your brooch—it’s beautiful.”
Marcelle leaned forward. “It’s a silver thistle tartan pin Remy bought at the same shop where I bought the jasper brooch.”
Meredith chuckled. “If it opens and has an inscription—don’t read it.”
“One surprise trip is enough for me.” Marcelle smiled, then pointed across the room. “But look at the one Skye’s wearing.”
Her gaze followed the line of Marcelle’s finger. “From what I can see, it’s beautiful.”
“It’s a Victorian Scottish agate-and-silver bow brooch. Remy bought it at the same time. Supposedly, there’s a story behind both purchases, but neither Clay nor Remy will say what it is.”
“Knowing the old Remy,” Meredith said, faintly amused, “it probably involves a woman.”
Clay smiled. “I hope someone documented all of Remy’s moves. Now that he’s off the market, they’ll be lost to time—and they were classics.”
“You should give those traits to a character in one of your Pinkerton novels,” Meredith said.
Elliott blinked. “What? Ye knew what he and Daniel were planning?”
She gave him a look. “Elliott, step away from the chessboard. You’re missing things.”
Meredith beckoned Skye closer. “Marcelle told me to look at your brooch.”
Skye’s fingers brushed it, almost unconsciously. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Her voice warmed. “And to think it came from the woman whose store brought us all together.”
Meredith studied the brooch, then her attention caught on the mother-of-pearl locket hanging from a delicate gold chain at Skye’s neck. Her fingers hovered, then stilled. “I’ve been meaning to ask about this. Where’d it come from?”
“My mother.”
“And inside?”
Skye hesitated—just a beat. “I don’t know. She told me never to open it until it was time. I asked how I’d know.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “She said I would.”
Meredith and Elliott exchanged a brief, wordless look. Elliott held out his hand. “Let me see it, lass.”
Skye unclasped the chain and placed the locket in his palm.
Elliott turned it once, then eased it open with his thumbnail.
Inside, etched with deliberate care, were the letters M M D C C C L X X V I.
Elliott lifted his head. “Kenzie.”
Kenzie dropped her bar towel and crossed to them, already frowning. “What is it?”
“Skye’s locket,” Meredith said quietly. “Her mother said it was never to be opened.”
Kenzie studied the inscription, her lips moving soundlessly. “Roman numerals,” she said at last. “If I’m right…” She swallowed. “Two thousand eight hundred seventy-six.”
No one spoke.
For Elliott, the number landed like a weight finally given form. Not relief. Not fear. Certainty. He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “It’s the answer to the question Vivica wouldn’t give me.”
Kenzie’s breath left her in a quiet rush. She closed the locket with careful fingers and pressed her thumb briefly to the metal before handing it back.
Skye took it without flinching. Her shoulders were squared, her breathing measured. “If I’ve been wearing a locket with the year the world ends etched inside,” she said calmly, “I don’t want it on me anymore. Lock it away—with the brooches.”
Elliott felt something shift then—not despair, but resolve settling into place. Kenzie met his eyes, and in that brief exchange was everything: fear acknowledged, purpose affirmed, no room left for doubt.
Elliott reached for Skye’s hand, holding it firm. “Because of ye, we know how long we have to set things right. That knowledge matters.”
Skye looked at the locket once more, then placed it in his palm and folded his fingers closed. “I wore it until the message could be shared,” she said softly. “That was my part.” A small, resolute smile touched her face. “Now it belongs in the vault.”
A soft thump, followed by the scrape of a drum stool, drifted from the stage. Skye glanced over, the weight easing from her expression. “Remy’s behind his kit,” she said. “He’s ready to get started. We’ve got a short set before the fireworks. After that, we’ll play a longer one.”
“Do we have to wait until later to hear David and Bastien?” Meredith asked.
Marcelle smiled. “That’s in the second half of the program. They’re trying to build suspense.”
“I’ve heard the early reviews. I’m not sure the women in this family can handle it,” Meredith said.
Clay reached for Marcelle’s hand. “Come on. Let’s find your trumpet.”
“I know exactly where it is,” Marcelle said. “Rory left it near the stage.”
“He needs music lessons,” Meredith said.
“Clay and Alistair are working on it. Now that Skye’s recording studio is up and running, the students will get to write and record their own music.”
“That’s fantastic. Can’t wait to hear them.”
“Next, we’ll need a performance space. The stage out here works great for the band, but if the kids want to put on a play or a musical, they’ll need a theater,” Marcelle said.
“There’s more expansion space in the resource center. Tell Braham what ye need, and he’ll have his architects out here tomorrow,” Elliott said.
“Just like that?” Marcelle asked.
“Just like that,” Elliott said. “If ye ever tire of the Richmond Symphony, ye can start yer own here.”
Marcelle smiled at Clay. “Let’s wait a year or two. Clay and Alistair can handle it for now.”
They walked away, and Elliott and Meredith sat there sipping their drinks. “Have ye seen Sophia’s painting Clay commissioned for Marcelle?”
“No, what is it?”
“The first morning Clay and Remy were in Chicago, they bought Skye a shiny red Model A Ford sports coupe. When they left the house to go shopping, Remy exchanged words with Capone’s men standing guard across the street.
From what he said, it was a tense moment.
When he returned to the car, Skye floored the Ford, and it roared down the street. ”
Elliott took another slow sip. “Sophia titled the painting A Dangerous Femme Fatale. It depicts a Model A from the rear, with Marcelle and Clay snuggling in the rumble seat and Remy riding shotgun, but Skye dominates the canvas. Her scarf flies dramatically in the wind, a slash of scarlet cutting across the canvas.”
Meredith smiled. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Ye can’t even see Skye’s expression, but it’s the perfect embodiment of her personality.”
“When’s the big reveal?”
“The painting will be a prominent feature of Sophia’s Roaring Twenties exhibition, which she’s planning to hold in New York City this September.”
“Let’s plan to go. It will be our last vacation before we move back to MacKlenna Farm for the wedding.”
“Ye’ve got a date. Now, what acts are ye most excited about hearing tonight other than the saxophone duets?”
“That’s easy—Skye and Rick. Don’t get me wrong. I adore Remy’s solos… from a safe distance and with earplugs.”
“Did I hear earplugs?” Charlotte asked, appearing behind Meredith with her trademark efficiency.
Braham trailed her, setting his glass down. Elliott stood to pull out chairs for them—old instincts of hosting that carried more tenderness than protocol.
“Consider yourselves prepared for the apocalypse,” Charlotte said, dropping a handful of earplugs on the table. “Remy claims that tonight they’ll ‘bring the house down.’ I called my insurance company in advance.”
“Ye spoil us, Char,” Elliott said, laughing.
“Thank you.” Meredith snatched up a package. “I apologize for missing the meeting this morning. Is everything on schedule for the fireworks?”
“Kenzie took care of assignments and food,” Charlotte said. “Braham took care of the fireworks.”
“They’re shooting them off from two barges in the middle of the river at ten o’clock,” Braham said. “The company promised no dead time. With the ones going off over the Richmond area, along with ours, fireworks will rain down on the water.”
Meredith tucked a set of earplugs into her pocket and another into Elliott’s. “I heard the kids set up lawn chairs on the bank, roped off the area, and are selling tickets for reserved seating for five dollars.”