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“Your business is fine,” Dad says. “Kathy’s a nice young woman. Sure, she’s motivated. She’s looking for opportunities. That doesn’t mean she’s trying to steal any business secrets.”
“Then why did she go to the powder room exactly when we were discussing a fake investment at your dinner party?”
“For Christ’s sake,” Dad says. “Maybe she had to take a piss.”
“Bray, come on.” This from Ben.
Fine. My phone dings with a text.
From Skye.
Your father’s girlfriend, Kathy, invited me to dinner tonight at seven. Will I see you later?
Hmm. Speak of the devil wearing Prada. Sure, Skye and I didn’t make plans. Not yet, anyway, but I do have ideas for this evening. I suppose they don’t have to include dinner.
I hastily type a reply.
Be at my place by ten. Don’t be late.
Okay, she texts back.
“So you’re not seeing Kathy tonight, Dad?” I say.
“Actually, I’m not, but how would you know that?”
I hold up my phone. “Easy. Apparently, she and Skye are having dinner.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Oh? I didn’t know they were friends.”
“I didn’t know they were either,” I say dryly.
“Fuck,” Ben says. “Now you’re going to think Kathy is cozying up to Skye to get in better with the company.”
“It crossed my mind,” I say.
“Braden,” Dad says, “I know we don’t see eye to eye on everything, but Kathy’s not a problem. I assure you.”
I close my menu as the server approaches.
Whatever.
I’ll get the information from Skye later.
But not before I show her something special later tonight.
Two years ago, I visited a bar and jazz club in New Orleans called 21st Amendment, so named in honor of the constitutional amendment that repealed prohibition in 1933. The club is located in the La Louisiane hotel building, which was once owned by notorious mobsters Diamond Jim Moran and Carlos Marcello.
When I walked through the wooden doors, I felt like I’d been transported back in time to the 1920s. From the wooden bar to the crystal chandeliers to black-and-white framed photos to the soft jazz in the background, I’d entered the era of prohibition. The only thing missing was cigar smoke.
When I returned to Boston, I began a search.
And I found what I was looking for.
Except my club doesn’t have a name. It’s a secret, like the speakeasys of old.
And tonight…it’s the location for Skye’s next adventure.
She’ll arrive soon. Out of curiosity, I check her Instagram.
Snails, anyone? The escargots at @mamaisonboston are fabulous! #yesieatsnails #escargots #frenchcuisine
Then a second post, this a selfie of Skye and Kathy. I groan. Kathy’s Instagram handle is @harvard_law_hottie.
At nine fifty-five p.m., my phone dings with a text from Skye.
I’m in the lobby of your building.
I quickly text Christopher.
He’ll bring her here, to my speakeasy.
And the evening will begin.
Chapter Forty-One
We’re here.
I respond to the text from Christopher. Be right out.
Skye sits in the back seat of the car, wearing dark jeans and a simple beige blouse. She looks beautiful, as she always does, but it’s the black blindfold that truly gets me going. She doesn’t know where she is. She’s apprehensive.
She’s also excited.
My heart skips at the sight of her, but I exhale calmly.
“Skye,” I say.
“Hi, Braden.”
I touch her arm. She shudders.
“Come with me.” I help her out of the car and then place my arm around her waist. “Don’t be afraid.”
She clears her throat. “I’m not.”
“You are. I can feel the tension in your body. There’s no reason to be afraid.”
“I know that.”
“Good. You’ll enjoy tonight. I promise.”
A few moments later, we’re inside the building. The scent of cigar smoke wafts toward us. Jazz music plays softly.
“Where are we?” Skye asks.
I gently pull off her blindfold. “Look around. See for yourself.”
The atmosphere is smoky and hazy. She looks around, squinting. She’s trying to adjust her vision.
“This is another place I own. An investment. It’s a cigar bar and jazz club, but tonight, it’s all ours.”
“What?”
“I closed it to the public tonight. Just you and me, Skye. We’re going to listen to some incredible music.”
“Oh.” She sighs softly. “It sounds wonderful.”
“Not only that,” I continue, “but we’re going to make love here, Skye.”
“But what about the band?” she asks, looking around. The stage is empty.
“The music is on the sound system,” I say. “I had them record a set, and then I gave everyone the night off with double pay.”
The scent of cigar smoke doesn’t bother me, and I hope it doesn’t bother Skye. It’s part of the ambiance of the place. The leather chairs are worn, the lighting dim. I want her to feel like she’s traveled back to prohibition, when anything could happen. A mobster could walk in, or the cops could raid us.
“Why, Braden?”
“Because it’s different. It’s exciting.”
A wooden bar stands along one side of the large room. Tables with worn leather chairs are scattered throughout. A small area by the stage provides a makeshift dance floor.
I personally chose—with help from Glenna, of course—each piece of furniture and other decor for its character. Some are actual antiques, and some just look the part.
