A Ghost of a Chance - Cherie Claire (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📗

The table conversation at dinner is lively and fun, no doubt from all those specialty cocktails served in the Baker Bar while the earth tilted and the sun disappeared, mirroring the sensations in my head. Despite the sunset’s beauty, I’m still focusing on the fact that the Crescent Hotel is one of the most haunted inns in America, according to Nanette Wells, the friendly tourism director. Not to mention the other bomb she dropped while we lingered in the history room.

“Eureka Springs is probably one of the most haunted cities in the country,” she had said with a laugh. “We have ghosts everywhere.”

Nanette didn’t get a chance to explain for Henry arrived with my martini and ushered us to the balcony where thankfully the mayor was nowhere to be seen. When we made it to dinner, I made sure to sit at Nanette’s table, grabbing a seat to her right. I needed Nanette to explain more about this haunted city — and inquire where the mayor rushed off to — but TB is dominating the conversation with his adventures in alligator season. The man has a horrid desire to murder gators in the wild.

Winnie sits to my right, also keeping me occupied with her one hundred questions about the cave. I answer with short answers; I don’t want to talk about it.

“Okay,” she says placing her napkin firmly in her lap. “If you don’t want to tell me what happened in that cave, at least explain him.”

She nods her head in the direction of my ex-husband who’s busy stuffing bread into his mouth as if he will never eat again. “He was always like that. Eats anything he wants and never gains a pound.”

Now, Winnie’s royally pissed. “Fine,” is all she manages.

I take a deep breath and touch her hand. I lean in close so no one else will hear. “He’s my ex. Or soon to be ex. He showed up this afternoon thinking he could hang around with me. I wanted to send him on his way — and hopefully he will tomorrow — but he started talking about us and Katrina and Henry felt sorry for him.”

I hope that will be the end to it but Nanette overhears and blurts out to TB, “You were in Katrina?”

TB pauses with a mouth full of bread. “Huh?”

Everyone at the table stops talking and turns toward my ex-husband, looking for an explanation. All except Carmine, who studies me from behind a wine glass. I set my own glass down, defeated, waiting for TB to start telling stories I have heard way too often.

“Of course we were,” TB says. “Didn’t Vi tell you?

“Vi leaves out a lot.” Carmine raises that damn eyebrow again. How does he do that?

“We were there because of Vi,” TB adds, which makes me cringe. “We couldn’t evacuate because she worked for the newspaper. And yet she never wants to talk about it.”

I don’t know, guilt maybe?

TB then describes the long night of wind and rain, the lights flickering and dying around midnight, both of us falling asleep on the couch only to wake to the sound we still can’t place. Was it our imagination or did we actually hear the levees breaching? So many experts I have talked to said we shouldn’t have heard a thing where we lived in Mid City but then we were told by the same people those levees would hold.

“Vi and I both woke up at the same time and we never figured out what we heard,” TB continues. “But we saw the water slipping underneath the door and knew at least our street was flooding.”

“Why would you think that?” Stephanie asks, incredulously. “Does your street flood through your door all the time?”

“If the pumps stop working, sure. But the most that has ever happened is the water goes to the top step of our porch.”

Folks at the table fail to comprehend so I quickly interject that New Orleans has an elaborate system of pumps to quickly move falling rainwater into canals, bayous and Lake Pontchartrain. The system is so immense, if all pumps are working it’s the equivalent of the Ohio River flow.

“If the pumps stop working on your street, and rain falls like it normally does in New Orleans, sometimes several inches in an afternoon, your street floods,” I tell them.

“It’s kinda cool,” TB offers. “We get out our canoes and boats and take the kids for a ride.”

We did that for Lillye one year and the memory makes us both pause and take a sip of wine, neither of us looking at each other.

“So what happened after the water started coming in?” Joe asks.

“We put towels by the front door but they instantly soaked,” TB continues, “so I opened the door with my flashlight to see what was happening.”

The memory gets to TB; I can see the old fear in his eyes. The darkness of the night with the wind pushing so hard I had to help prop the front door open. The tree that suddenly floated by and took out the corner of the porch. A neighbor screaming off in the distance, asking for help we couldn’t deliver. Why must we go down this road when people ask?

“The water was on our porch and we could see it rising,” I add. “Literally, see it rising as we stood there.”

TB recovers and takes over. “I grabbed Vi and we headed for the attic and the rest is history.”

I glance at my soon-to-be-ex and find he is now visiting my dark place, the home of denial or whatever you want to name it but a safe haven where I hope I don’t have to relive this horrific event over and over again. For once I wish he wasn’t on the other side of the table for I want to touch his hand and welcome him in.

“But what happened in the attic?” Stephanie asks, and I realize that everyone continues staring, dying to know more.

“In New Orleans, you keep an ax in the attic just in case,” I explain softly. “We never ever expected the levees to break but we always knew there was a possibility.”

Nanette shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “What did you do with the ax?”

“They use it to break holes in the roof,” Carmine interjects. “Since New Orleans is mostly below sea level, if the levees