Page 118 of Stealing Blinds

“We have chefs,” Remy announces as he takes a few of the circles Sylvie has cut and sets them in a dish. He’s sitting on the counter next to the cutting board, his heel kicking the black cabinet repeatedly with a thump that escorts their chitchat. “But I make pancakes with Daddy sometimes. And other stuff too.”

“That’s amazing. Your dad is pretty cool.” Sylvie beams. “So is your mom. And you’re going to be a big brother soon.”

“That’s why they’re sleeping,” the nearly six-year-old says with the wisdom of a twenty-six-year-old.

“I bet.” She laughs and directs him to put the last of the rolls in the dish. “They should sleep now.”

“Uncle Axel said that too. ’Specially since you’re all going away.”

She cleans the cutlery. And when he finishes transferring the last roll, she wipes his hands with a dish towel. “These have to rise for about an hour, but if you’re hungry, I can make you something else.”

She’s so natural with him. She’d be such a good mom.

He stares at her with the sweetest expression of wonder. “Are you coming back?”

She lifts her chin, taking him in for a long beat, and I know this woman so well at this point that the war inside her head is echoed in mine. She’s thinking about the consequences we discussed and the stakes of what we’re trying to pull off. And she’s probably remembering how she believed her dad would come home, but never did.

Finally, she swallows and cups his chin. “There’s nothing I want more.”

“Good.” He pulls the ace of hearts out from behind her head. “Wanna play cards?”

Christ, I fucking love that kid. He’s already got moves. I wish I could record this, but I left my phone in my room.

“Remy Noire.” Her jaw falls slack, marvel and joy lining her features. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Uncle Cash is magic.”

“He really is.” Her teeth sink into her lip, and her eyes well with tears as she pulls him in for a hug. “And so are you.” After a final squeeze, she releases him and holds out her palm, so he smacks the deck he was hiding in it. “What else did he teach you?”

“Everything,” he gloats, hopping off the island and peering up at her. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you too. ’Cause you’re coming back.” He swaggers to the dining room table, taking a seat and declaring his reasoning. “The house always wins.”

Even the youngest resident Noire knows she’s home.

SYLVIE

The most moving pieces of art are those that shape us or reflect us.

A chisel or a pond.

Throw in a little distortion, an unexpected angle, a shadow that is haunting, or boldness that spears, and depth replaces simplicity.

We become the masterpiece, and it becomes us.

My art appreciation began with Highlights Hidden Pictures. I was three, so not quite a critic. But I was fascinated by the melding of images to create one large illustration. And enchanted that when I turned it upside down, thereby releasing my vision of the big picture, the distinction of all that had been concealed was clear.

Three-year-old me would be so disappointed that as an adult, I’ve come to drool over canvases and sculptures, but abandoned that fundamental lesson. If only I’d knocked a few real-life moments on their heads.

Cash guides me, hand in hand, through the casino to the tune of chinks and bells. All eyes track us. High rollers toss their chips into the pot or glance up from their cards, noting that the most notorious Noire playboy has a woman attached to him. And pride fills me.

The root of this parade through La Lune Noire is to be certain we’ve been spotted together before Minds of Our Time. All week, we’ve been strategically placing ourselves near members we believe may be in attendance there. But I won’t let that swallow how he holds me close or grins at me in adoration.

I haven’t seen Danny, and I’m guessing that’s by design. There’s a part of me that would enjoy him witnessing how happy I am with Cash and how protective Cash is over me. It probably wouldn’t hurt our mission for him to bitch about it to Peter either, but I’m not going to request that. Someone here has likely shared it, and I wouldn’t want Cash to perceive it as me using him.

Once we’re past the gambling ruckus and cruising by the hoopla from the bars and restaurants, I finally inquire about our destination. “Where are we headed?”

He smirks as we turn to stroll through the hall with the shops. “We leave tomorrow, and you haven’t cashed in on your massage yet.”

“True,” I utter with skepticism because I’m certain I didn’t misread his I-will-murder-any-masseuse-who-touches-you vibe when Bernard offered it to me.