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

I was flying pretty high considering I solved several decades-old mysteries and reunited a mother with her child using my newfound SCANCy ability. Hot damn, I thought driving back to Bentonville, I can talk to ghosts and help them move on.

Once I get in the air, however, it’s like someone has shot a hole in my fuel tank. All the courage, confidence and optimism leaks out of me slowly until the pilot announces our descent into New Orleans and I crash. Suddenly, I’m so incredibly tired. And just what am I coming home to?

It’s late once again, our plane one of the last to arrive, and the New Orleans airport lacks the usual hum of tourists. I’m heading out the gate along with the other travelers, all of us moving like sleepy cows to slaughter, when I spot my Opera Singer looking lost around darkened gate number four. Even though I’m surrounded by people, all of whom cannot see or hear her sing, I pause at the Opera Singer’s side.

“What do you want?” I ask her.

The businessman to my left looks over at me apparently speaking to air but says nothing, keeps walking. It’s late, everyone’s tired and frankly I don’t care anymore. The Opera Singer stares at me, surprised that someone is talking to her. “I’m waiting for my kids to come get me,” she tells me.

“What’s your name?” I ask and she complies.

I have no trouble finding my car this time and speed back to Lafayette while gulping coffee to keep me awake. I can’t wait to return to my miniature sanctuary, even with its nasty bathroom and lack of furniture. It’s early morning when I arrive and both potting shed and big house are deep dark and I stumble getting the key in my front door.

When I finally get inside and flip on the light, my new home greets me for what it is, a tiny efficiency lacking everything from curtains and bedspread to artwork on the walls. The bare concrete floor appears so barren in the light of the early morning, with no baseboards and rugs to offer a homey touch. I think of how I will awaken to a brown-water shower and sandpaper towels gleaned from the sales bin at Bed, Bath & Beyond. The starkness of my post-Katrina life reopens the hole in my heart, the one I left home with one week before. I feel the malaise spreading over me again and I haven’t the strength to fight so I fall into bed and don’t even bother removing my clothes. Within seconds I am sound asleep.

An insistent pounding wakes me and I squint to see my landlord knocking on my front door. I dread greeting him knowing how awful I must look — or how I must smell; it’s now day three in the Crescent Hotel Polo. I open the door slightly. “Hey Reece.”

“Hey Vi.” It’s obvious Reece is working on the main house for atop his clean purple and gold LSU Polo and khaki pants a tool belt graces his hips. He’s country cute, as my mom used to say, although it usually wasn’t a compliment coming from her. He’s rugged and a bit thick around the middle, as if he enjoys barbecue and beer on the weekends, but solid like a bulldozer. He could be butt ugly and I still would appreciate those dimples, his kind smile and that sexy Cajun accent. But he’s not ugly. He’s just married.

“I wanted to check on you,” Reece tells me. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

He cocks his head and one dimple appears. “You’ve been sleeping a long time, chèr, so it had me worried.”

I look outside and the sun’s warmed in the sky. “I got in late last night.”

Reece hooks his thumbs in his tool belt. Now there are two dimples. “You got in late the night before last.”

“What?” I grab my purse lying on the front table and pull out my phone. Sure enough, I’ve been sleeping for more than thirty hours. “Holy shit.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

I smile and shake my head. “That’s a loaded question. You have no idea the week I’ve had.”

“Want some coffee?”

I gaze at my sad little kitchen and wonder if there’s any milk, sugar or even coffee in the house. Reece takes the opportunity to open the door wider and come inside. “I was here this week doing some improvements to your bathroom and I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of making myself a pot of coffee one day.”

He’s in the kitchen now, pulling out my French press and pouring water into my teapot like he owns the place — which he does — but my mind is focused elsewhere. “What did you do to my bathroom?”

Reece puts the pot on to boil and begins scooping dark roast Community Coffee out of a pound bag — that I certainly didn’t buy — into my French press. “Oh it’s nothing, really, had some leftover tile and marble so I decided to update your bath. I feel horrible that you’ve been using that old bath all this time. When I get to the kitchen in the big house, I’ll update your kitchen as well.”

I gingerly peer around the corner to my tiny bath the size of a seventies closet and sure enough, it’s glistening with a beautiful tile floor, pedestal sink and a brand-new marble shower. I’m so excited at this spa-ready bathroom but at the same time remember my job situation.

“Reece, I can’t pay for this.”

He doesn’t turn around. “I’m not asking you to.”

“You don’t understand,” I say, my throat catching because I so very much want to take a shower this morning in this lovely new room if only I had the money. “I have a story to write on this trip I just took but I doubt there will be any more. I screwed up and my career’s dead in the water and I have no idea where my next meal is coming from.” I pause because if I continue I will be bawling for sure.

Reece finally turns around, arms folded across his chest, eyes stern like a father’s. “I’m not asking you to, Vi. It’s what needed to be done. Besides, it’s all leftover from the main house.”

I shake my head because I know he’s lying. “No more Katrina pity. You’ve been more than generous.”

“And you’re doing me a favor by looking after this place while I renovate.”

I bite the inside of my mouth to keep the tears away and stare at my bare feet. “That’s not the equivalent of rent and you know it.”

“It is to me.” He says it so confidently that I look up and notice the darkness in his baby blue eyes. “My wife and I are splitting up and I need to pause on the renovations for a while, need to spend every moment with my kids right now. So you looking after this place is more important than ever.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter but my brain is considering the possibilities now that he’s a free man. “Stop it,” I tell myself.

“What?”

Oh my god, did I say that out loud? “I said of course. I’m here to help in any way possible.”

“Just keep an eye on things until I’m able to work on the house again.”

That house is his baby, his dream, and I know what he’s going through. Dreams are hard to give up.

Reece smiles sadly and heads for the door, pausing at the threshold. “I know things have been rough, Vi. But sometimes when you least expect it, life has a way of turning bright again.”

It just did, I think, and this time I silently admonish my brain. I should feel bad that his marriage is on the rocks but I just can’t. Something’s telling me I have a future with this man.

“Come up to the house later,” Reece adds. “The LSU game is on at two and I’m making a big pot of gumbo.”

“Sure, thanks.” The malaise has lifted, replaced by football, gumbo and an adorable Cajun who gives me hope.

Reece smiles and leaves and suddenly things don’t seem so bleak.