Noel smiled, clearly relieved. “I’m sure that’s it. Why don’t you have a seat?” She indicated a cozy little sitting area around a fireplace where Amy imagined that people sat to sew. “Would you like a cup of coffee or a Coke?”
No way. Amy wanted out of here and now. The next time she set foot in this shop, she wanted to have the right card and collect her package. If Nickolai Glazov and his French friend were back by then, Cameron would just have to suck it up. Served him right for leaving her with no way to buy anything.
But she didn’t say all that, of course. Instead, she smiled. “I think I’ll watch for him outside and enjoy everyone’s fall decorations. The weather’s so nice.”
Noel nodded. “See you soon, then. I’ll just put this aside for safekeeping.” She placed the box with Stir Crazy behind the counter.
Chapter Three
Emile settled the check at The Café Down On The Corner as Glaz settled Anna Lillian into her pushchair.
“Have you heard from Swifty since yesterday?” Glaz asked, referring to the Sound’s top defenseman and Emile’s closest friend, Bryant Taylor. He’d earned his nickname back in his junior hockey days for his backward skating speed, though that little blond country music star, Taylor Swift, told a reporter it was for her.
“He’s fine. A little rest. A little ibuprofen. He will be on the ice today. He might have lost that little altercation with the boards yesterday, but he never loses for long.”
Glaz nodded and picked up the bag with the takeout they had gotten for Noel. “Good. Would not want to face the Blackhawks without him next week.”
“I am in front of Eat Cake.” Emile pointed down the block to where his Bugatti Chiron was parked. There were four teenage boys gathered around, taking pictures with it.
Glaz shook his head. “I am surprised anew every time I see that vehicle. I do not know what is crazier—that you paid three million dollars for a mode of transportation or that you painted it up like a circus train.” In keeping with his notoriously thrifty ways, Glaz had driven a used Jeep until the baby was born. Then he’d replaced it with some kind of American-made SUV.
“Not a circus train. It matches my goalie mask.” Emile was proud of that design. He’d thought it out very carefully, and everything had symbolic meaning—the metallic silver and purple were the Sound’s colors. The giant wolf head and stars on the hood were for his name—Emile meant excellent and Giroux meant wolf. The Sound’s logo—a musical note—and his sweater number—30—were interspersed with the stars that orbited around the wolf’s head.
“Thor told me the manufacturer of that car threatened to sue you for defacing it. Is that true?”
Emile shrugged. “They wrote a letter. I gave it to Miles Gentry, and he made it go away.”
Glaz nodded. “Agents are good that way. At first, I did not want to pay the fee, but Jean Luc has made me much more money.” Glaz looked at the car. “Is crazy, what you did. That is for sure. But if you want to paint your car, is for you to say. No one else.”
Emile stopped in front of his car. “So, a man has a right to be crazy.”
Glaz laughed. “Keep making the saves, I will defend your right to be crazy.”
“See you later at practice.” Emile bent to give Anna Lillian a goodbye pat, but Glaz wheeled her away from his reach.
“If you must wake more babies today, go find someone else’s.”
Emile watched the boys taking pictures of his car for a moment after Glaz moved on, and then he stepped closer and waited for them to notice him. Noticing him never took long.
“Why aren’t you young men in school?” he asked. Emile believed in education. He’d gone to college less than a year before going to play for the St. Louis Blues. He’d wanted Gabriella to finish college, but she’d been set on being a baker and didn’t want to go at all. He could have sent her anywhere, but in the end they compromised, and she agreed to attend the community college near home for two years. After that, Miles had found the apprenticeship for her with the pastry chef in Beauford and negotiated a nice deal for Emile with the Sound so he could be near his sister. Pickens Davenport had paid dearly, but Emile had earned every cent. He gave the boys a stern look. “You should be in school.”
The boys looked startled.
“Teachers’ work day,” one of them said. “We got out at noon.”
“So you’ve been to school today?”
They all nodded. Emile believed them, so he smiled.
“Then, maybe I will take a picture of all of you together with my car.”
“This is your car?” That came from the short redheaded one.
“Of course it is! That’s Emile Giroux!” the skinny blond said. “I told you I heard about his car on ESPN.”
So lots of picture taking and autograph giving ensued. Emile never charged for autographs. He didn’t even care if they sold them. He admired enterprising people.
He considered going into Eat Cake to say goodbye to Gabriella but decided against it. She had that birthday cake that she was so excited about.
He slid behind the wheel and pulled the car out into traffic. Even considering the half hour it would take him to get back to Nashville, he still had couple of hours to kill before practice. Crazy practice schedule. Eight in the morning some days, noon, others. Sometimes late afternoon like today. Some of the guys didn’t like it, but Emile didn’t care. He didn’t have much else to do. He passed Glaz, who had stopped on the street to talk to Miss Sticky from the knitting shop. He waved and drove past Piece by Piece.
It was three doors down in front of the shop called the Pottery Wheel that he noticed the purple-eyed woman from Piece by Piece sitting on a hay bale beside a scarecrow. There was something about the slump of her shoulders and the way she was looking at her hands folded in her lap. She looked distressed.
Had there not been a parking space right in front, he would probably not have stopped. Or maybe he would have. Emile tended to respond to stimuli rather than thinking things through. A goalie who thought things through was a doomed goalie.
When he parked, her head snapped up, her eyes seeking and hopeful. He gave her a little wave, but she didn’t return it. The hope went out of her face as she looked up and down the street. Then she looked down again.
A mystery. Not for him to solve, but interesting. He should get back to Nashville. He could get to the rink early, maybe visit with Packi. He went to pull back out into traffic but then killed the motor and opened the door instead.
• • •
Where was Cameron? It had been more than two hours now since he’d dropped Amy off at Piece by Piece. At first, she’d been patient, but then after an hour, she’d been annoyed. That was when she’d tried to call him and found that her phone wasn’t working. It wasn’t dead exactly—she could see the time and date—but the phone wouldn’t unlock.
After her experience in Piece by Piece, she’d felt too awkward and conspicuous to stand in front of the shop, so she’d walked across the street and stood to watch for him. After the same couple had passed her twice, she’d gotten the feeling that people were looking at her, so she’d moved locations every ten minutes or so, never getting too far from where Cameron expected her to be. She didn’t dare go into a shop, in case she missed him.
Now she was worried, terrified. What if he was dead? That had to be it. Or dying. He would not have left her sitting here for two hours. She wished a policeman would walk by so she could ask for help. Or a man or woman of the cloth. Of course, she wouldn’t know one without a clerical collar. Nuns should never have been allowed to stop wearing habits. She wasn’t Catholic, but a nun would help her. She was sure of it.
These were hysterical thoughts. Amy knew that. But there was reason there, too. Maybe she should start walking until she found a church or a police station. That nice Noel would probably help her, but she’d rather find a nun. Though if she left here, Cameron would surely come back and wouldn’t know where she was. He’d probably been trying to call h
er and tell her why he was delayed.
If he was still alive.
For what seemed like the millionth time, the sound of an approaching car made her heart leap. But it was only that French hockey player in a car that looked like it belonged to a radio station. Maybe he worked as a deejay part time.
And great. He was getting out. She’d wished for a nun and gotten a hockey player/deejay.
“Hello.” And he wasn’t just passing by. He stopped in front of her. “I was in the quilting shop before when you were there.”
“Yes.” She had nothing to do with her hands—no phone, no coffee, no cigarette. Never mind that she didn’t smoke or drink coffee. Wait! Her bullet journal was in her purse. She pulled it out, along with the navy-blue LePen she liked to use when making new notations. She could start a new page: What to Do When You Are Left with No Phone, No Money, No Credit Card, and No Nun. Except she didn’t have any bullet points to make, because she didn’t know what to do.
“You are sitting with your friend the scarecrow?” He spread that gorgeous mouth into a smile she would have enjoyed if she’d been of a mind to enjoy anything.
Amy nodded. “Lovely weather.” Now, go away!
“Can I help you in some way?”
Was it that obvious that she needed help?
“No, no. I am waiting for my . . . er . . . fiancé.”
“Is he late?”
Did this man have a crystal ball in that ridiculous car?
“A bit,” she admitted. “I’m sure he’s tried to call, but my phone suddenly stopped working.”
His brown eyes danced like magic. “So, I can help you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “You would like to, maybe, use my phone to call him?”
The phone he held out to her looked like a lifeline—a lifeline with a custom phone case with a picture of this man spread-eagle on the ice in front of a hockey goal. Across the top it said “Emile Giroux, French Kiss” in silver metallic letters. Not that she cared. It was a phone and he was offering it to her.
“Yes.” She took the phone. “If you don’t mind. That’s so kind.”
“I hope you know the number.” He stepped over and leaned a shoulder on the building. “Me? I am bad with numbers. I depend on my phone to tell them to me.”
“I don’t know phone numbers as I should.” She opened her bullet journal. “Luckily, I have important numbers written down.” When all else failed, you could trust pen and paper.
“So your phone isn’t out of charge? But will not work. Funny.” He frowned like he was trying to reason it out. He probably thought she hadn’t paid her bill. And she hadn’t. Cameron did that. She was pretty sure he had it set up to auto pay.
No matter. She punched in the number. Pretty soon, Cameron would answer and all this would be resolved.
Except he didn’t.
“That can’t be right.” She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“You did not reach him?”
“I got a message that the phone had been disconnected. I must have dialed wrong. Do you mind if I try again?”
“Please.” He nodded, and his messy black curls bounced around his cheeks.
So, she tried again. And again, with the same result.
Out of desperation, she dialed his business number, though she knew he wouldn’t answer. He screened those calls and only returned the ones that interested him. His clients all had his private number. She left a message. “Cameron, I’m still here waiting for you. My phone isn’t working and well—there have been other complications.” Out of habit, she almost said to call her, but how would he do that? She couldn’t keep this man’s phone. “Come and get me, please.”
Knowing it was futile, she dialed his private number again. It was like the rejected credit card all over again. There was nothing to do but hand the phone back.
“No luck?”
“No.” She looked at her hands. “I’m really worried that something has happened to him.” She had to say it to someone.
He looked sympathetic. “We have not exchanged names. I am Emile Giroux.”
She nodded. “I read it on your phone case. Amy Callahan. Thank you for the use of your phone.”
She thought he would leave then, but he shoved the scarecrow off the hay bale and sat down beside her.
“What should we do now?”
“Pick up that scarecrow before the pottery people find out and get mad?” Where had that come from? Making jokes when Cameron was dead or kidnapped—it must be shock. “Anyway, this isn’t your problem.”
“No, but I am gallant. Like Lancelot.”
“Didn’t he have sex with his best friend’s wife?”
“My best friend doesn’t have a wife. And I wouldn’t do that anyway. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened. We were going to spend the day in Beauford shopping. He dropped me at Piece by Piece and was going to the Cracker Barrel out by the interstate to get a cup of coffee. He was coming right back. He said he’d pick me up in a half hour. But he didn’t come.” She felt the tremble in her voice and hoped Emile didn’t hear it. “Now, I’m afraid something’s happened to him—a wreck or maybe he’s been kidnapped . . . ”
“Kidnapping a grown man seems unlikely. A wreck? I don’t know. I can call Bradley Stanton. I am friendly with him from the time he dated my sister. She grew tired of him after two dates, but he still likes me.”
“Who’s that?”
“The sheriff. He would know if there has been a wreck.”
“Then, yes. Please. If you don’t mind.”
“I have his private number.”
He put the call through. “Bonjour, Bradley! This is Emile. Yes, yes. The Blackhawks will regret that they came to Nashville, Tennessee. If you would like tickets, you have but to ask. I do have a question. I am here with a friend, and it seems her fiancé has gone astray.”
They were friends? No. And Cameron hadn’t gone astray, not really. Of course, he wasn’t her fiancé either. Was nothing true?
“She wondered if there had been any car accidents this morning. Non. Not that early. In the last two to three hours. No? Good.” He met her eyes, shook his head, and said, “Amy, Bradley asked his name and what he was driving.”
“Cameron Snow.” Was it her imagination, or did Emile react with surprise when he heard Cameron’s name? “We drove over from Nashville in my car. Audi sedan. Blue.”
Emile repeated the information into the phone and continued, “He went to get coffee at the Cracker Barrel two hours ago and hasn’t come back. Yes. I will tell her. Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “No accidents, so that’s good news. Bradley cannot officially do anything until Cameron has been missing twenty-four hours, but he said he would keep his eyes and ears open and check around, call the hospital. He’ll call me if he hears anything. He said to tell you that in cases like this, it’s usually nothing. Cameron probably decided he wanted some biscuits and gravy with his coffee and started surfing the net or answering emails. Lost track of time.”
That was certainly possible. “Sounds like him.” And he would have had his laptop and tablet. He never went anywhere without them.
“Bradley offered to go to the Cracker Barrel,” Emile went on, “but I told him we could do that. Cameron is probably having a crisis with one of his clients.”
That sounded like him, too. “You know Cameron?”
“No, not really. He is the agent of my teammate Jan Voleck. He gave me his card once, but I did not call. No offense. My agent is Miles Gentry. I . . . what is it? Ride out on the horse who dances with me?”
Despite her stress, Amy smiled. Now that she had pictured Cameron with his laptop open at one of those wooden tables, with a plate of pancakes, she felt better. Their phones being shut off was surely a glitch. That’s it. He was on his laptop, emailing, trying to get their phones straightened out.
“I believe you are trying to say, ‘Ride out on the horse I rode in on,’ or ‘Dance with the o
ne who brought me.’”
Emile nodded. “Yes. That. Should I take you to Cracker Barrel? I have been there many times. It’s Glaz’s favorite eating establishment. I’m sure Cameron will be there.”
Amy nodded. “I really would appreciate it.”
Emile stood up, restored the scarecrow to its rightful place, and began to look around and behind the hay bales.
“What are you looking for?” Amy asked.
“You package—the quilt that you bought from Noel.”
Damn. “I didn’t get it after all.”
“No? You seemed to like it so much.”
She almost told him she’d changed her mind, but lying was against her nature, even to save pride. She had already trotted out the word fiancé too many times. Besides, he was clearly friends with the Glazovs and saw them often. If it came up, Noel would tell him.
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what went wrong. It has never happened to me. My credit card and debit card were denied. I was waiting on Cameron to come back so I could find out what happened and get another card. He takes care of our finances.”
Emile’s eyes widened, and he drew his lower lip into his mouth and bit it.
He was going to say something, something bad that she didn’t want to hear and absolutely was not possible. She’d seen those late night cable TV shows with people who disappeared without a trace. But that hadn’t happened. Cameron couldn’t do that if he wanted to. He had famous clients. And he hadn’t wanted to. They’d made love no more than four hours ago. He was at Cracker Barrel trying to rid their phones of whatever virus had shut them down. And that was that.
But when Emile spoke all he said was, “I would be happy to get the quilt. We can settle up later.”
Amy put her hand. “No. Please. I’ll take care of it once I find Cameron. I just need to go to Cracker Barrel if you are still willing to take me.”
“But, of course, chérie.”
Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1) Page 3
