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

Say what you will about the South and its culture, but our food makes life more bearable. Nothing like cheese grits, over-easy eggs, large slabs of greasy bacon and biscuits and gravy to make a hangover disappear.

I’m eating way too much and I know it. I feel like a hunger victim at a feast. Carmine raises an eyebrow when I reach for another biscuit but it’s been years since I’ve had white gravy.

“You might want to pace yourself, Virgin,” Carmine says, raising that annoying eyebrow.

The city’s tourism director arrives, a perky woman with a nice smile and an armful of swag. Everyone gets a press packet and an accompanying bag nicely adorned with a big ribbon on top. I can’t wait to see what’s inside.

She gives her speech about northwest Arkansas and what’s in store for us during the next few days, talking mostly about her area of expertise, which is the Bentonville-Rogers area, but I’m too busy focusing on the drum player in my head. I motion the waitress for another cup of coffee, but it’s suddenly time to go and we’re rushed out the door. I get my coffee to go and thankfully don’t spill it on my way to the back of the van.

We’re headed to tour the Walmart Museum this time and I take the opportunity to peek inside my gift bag. It contains a Bentonville coffee mug and some assorted Arkansas state tourism do-dads such as a luggage tag sporting “Visit Arkansas State Parks,” a keychain from the Clinton Library and a wine opener announcing some festival. Cool. For a woman rebuilding her life after losing everything, I’m grateful.

The rest of the van is moaning about having to lug things back on the plane, particularly breakables like mugs (I get the feeling mugs are a common occurrence and these folks want nothing of them).

“I’ll take whatever you all don’t want,” I say, thinking a set of matching coffee mugs could be used for company when they come to tea. Okay, I’m kidding! Well, sort of. Much to my surprise, everyone — and I mean everyone — eagerly hands me their bags. I gather up what will become my Bentonville coffee set and feel thrilled. I’m sorry my mother with her uptown values and designer clothes isn’t here to witness my fall from grace.

The Walmart Museum offers the story of Sam Walton, his dream that resulted in enormous wealth and possibly the death of small-town America, although I never say as much. After a quick overview, we head to the Bentonville tourism office around ten for coffee and bakery treats — yes, more food, and yes, I eat some, plus stick a scone in my purse in case I get hungry later — then pile into the vans for a driving tour of Bentonville that’s a mix between Arkansas historic and Made in China. We pause at the lovely Compton Gardens and I’m thankful for the fresh air and exercise, even if it’s no more than a short walk. Then we’re back on the road, heading to lunch, which makes me regret that extra biscuit, not to mention the sticky bun at the tourism office. This will be our final destination together before we reconvene in Eureka Springs for dinner and more food.

Once again, the owner of the quaint restaurant brings out platters of appetizers, extolling the food’s quality, followed by a specialty soup, salads for those who need greens (I’m not one of them, although Miss Only-Seafood-Within-100-Miles insists upon it), entrees and a plethora of desserts. I think if someone pokes me I shall burst.

We split up in the parking lot, Carrie taking me, Winnie and the couple from Wisconsin to Eureka Springs via Sycamore Cave. Alicia hails Richard and Irene to her van for a visit to Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge with no doubt Richard nabbing the front seat; I overhear him mentioning car sickness. Henry and Carmine will hit a round of golf somewhere.

This time, Faux Joe gallantly opens the front door for me, which makes me feel guilty for labeling him that. I glance back at the others, offering my front row perch. Everyone politely declines and Joe smiles as he closes my door. Photographer or not, he's a good man in my book.

Winnie takes the back row again and stretches out, leaving the middle aisle for the journalism duo. I turn and make small talk, learning that Stephanie and Joe have been publishing their travel newsletter for years, hailing back to the days when newsletters arrived in your mailbox. They now have a blog, podcasts and a local radio show, and I admire their tenacity.

Alicia proves harder to dissect, fresh out of Florida State with a public relations degree, very sweet and polite but either told not to say much or is feeling self-conscious about doing so. She answers when spoken to and explains little bits of info on the area, but that’s about it.

I spend most of the hour talking to the Wisconsin duo about the possible demise of the newspaper as we know it while Winnie takes a nap in the back.

After twists and turns through the Ozarks we travel down a tree-shaded driveway to the cave’s entrance. On the right is a two-story stone house with charming gables and an oversized front porch, no doubt where the owners live. I immediately romance the lifestyle of living in the woods, operating a cave for a living, waking up to greenery and birds, maybe owning a cat or two. I tend to do that, drive down country roads and imagine the lives of people in the ranch house, the woodsy cottage, the sprawling farmhouse. Would I be happy chucking everything and living in the sticks? Doubtful, but then, anything looks better than a potting shed in the rear of an estate house that’s seen grander days. Not that I’m complaining. I wonder if my handsome landlord has looked at the busted pipe under my sink when I feel a set of gazes upon me; the hairs on my neck have come to attention.

I turn and find I’m right. Everyone is exiting the van. “What did I miss?”

“We’re starting in the gift shop,” Winnie says to me as she passes, rubbing her eyes. “Where did you go?”

If I had been born ten years later, they would have put Adderal in my formula. No one called me ADHD in school. It was more like “space cadet” and “spaz.” I used to tell people I was working on my Nobel Peace Prize speech. Today, I tell people I’m working on my novel. That doesn’t fly either.

We follow the owners into a building that’s not so charming, something built in the seventies no doubt to accommodate tourists but screaming in contrast to the sweet farmhouse up the road. Still, the windows let in tree-balanced sunshine and a cool breeze and we all turn ADHD as we gaze upon the gaudy trinkets, T-shirts, gardening accessories and a vast collection of rocks and minerals while the owners, Bud and Charlene Moseley, tell the history of the cave. Despite my lack of some brain chemical, I can listen to the story while perusing the shelves. In fact, moving around or holding items in my hands helps me focus.

The cave was discovered in the mid-1800s by a couple exploring the lake. They picked up a hot fishing spot and followed it to a remote cove blanketed by sycamore trees. When they stopped to enjoy lunch, the wife stumbled upon the entrance to the cave.

“She had to pee,” I mumbled, enjoying the smooth surface of a polished angelite.

Charlene laughs and I suddenly realize I spoke that out loud. “You’re probably right,” Charlene says. “What woman wouldn’t?”

I place the angelite back in its box, thinking I should focus more by actually making eye contact.

“Around the turn of the century,” Bud continues, “a family by the name of Jones bought the land and opened it up for tours, mainly attracting visitors who came for the waters at Eureka Springs. They used to advertise that waters deep within the cave would cure diseases, but there’s only one spring that we have found in the cave