Blue Bayou Final

by Kate, Jiffy

  Table of Contents

  Other Titles

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  About The Authors

  An Excerpt from Finding Focus

  Blue Bayou (French Quarter Novel)

  Copyright © 2018 by Jiffy Kate.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase.

  Jiffy Kate Books, LLC, www.jiffykate.com

  Editing by Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing

  Cover Design and Formatting by Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl Design

  Proofreading by Karin Enders

  Cover Model: Forest Tyler

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  First Edition: August 2018

  Other Books by Jiffy Kate

  Finding Focus Series (Complete)

  Finding Focus

  Chasing Castles

  Fighting Fire

  Taming Trouble

  Table 10 (Parts 1-3)

  The Other One

  Watch and See

  Eventually, everyone comes back to the Blue Bayou.

  Chapter 1

  Maverick

  “You’re so spoiled...weak,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand down his face in disgust and frustration.

  I grit my teeth and pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort to not respond. That’s what he wants. He wants me to fly off the handle and prove I am what he says I am—a wild card, unpredictable, unfocused. And now, I guess, spoiled and weak should be added to his ongoing list, but what he’s really angry about is that I’m not him.

  My last name might be Kensington, but I’m definitely not like him.

  Sighing, he collapses into his oversized, leather office chair and spins until his gaze is on the city in front of him. The shiny buildings of downtown Dallas are a backdrop to his soliloquy.

  “You had one job today. Close on the McDaniels properties. That’s all you had to do, but just like everything else, you fucked it up. Royally. Kensington Properties is not in the salvaging business. We buy. We filter out the shit. We resell. We make a profit.” His voice rises as he goes and I’m sure, if I could see his face, it’s probably an angry shade of red. But I want to laugh at his we because what he really means is he. He buys. He sells. He makes a profit. It’s all about him and it’s all about money.

  “You want to do things your way?” he continues. “Fine, but not on my time or my dime. When you have your own money, you can do whatever you want. For now, you work for me. You do what I say when I say. It’s not up for discussion. You’d think after six years, you’d have that down, but I think I made a mistake by bringing you up the ladder too fast. I should’ve left you at the bottom and let you claw your way up.”

  He pauses for a second, his chair rocking slowly. I think he’s done and I’m going to make my exit before things really get fucked up, but he starts again.

  “Tomorrow, you’ll go back to McDaniels and you’ll get the fucking contracts signed. And you’ll be there on demolition day. It’ll be a good life lesson, showing you how things work. Your mother and grandfather coddled you too much. They made you into a bleeding heart, but that will get you nowhere in this life. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Maverick.” Finally, he turns his chair and faces me, folding his hands in front of him on his pristine desk. “You should write that in your little journal.”

  I stare at him for a minute, wondering how I came from him. How is this man my father? I’ve always sought his approval. I went to the college he wanted. I got the degree he wanted. I came to Kensington Properties fresh out of school. I started in the mailroom, which was my favorite job thus far—it wasn’t a dog-eat-dog world.

  Who says life has to be like that?

  Without a nod of my head or a word of agreement, I turn on my heel and walk out. When I get to the corner, on autopilot my feet head toward my office, but I stop. No. I don’t want to.

  I’m not going to.

  What I want to do is tell him I quit. But I can’t do that, not yet.

  So, I’ll stand up to him the only way I know how. Words don’t work with Spencer Kensington. He can argue his way out of a brown paper sack. He should’ve been a lawyer. Or a fucking politician.

  All he cares about is money. Simply put, he wants to purchase properties, demolish the existing structures, and turn them into shiny, high-rise apartment complexes. Today, it just so happened to be in the middle of a predominantly historic district and I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t close the deal. Scratch that. I didn’t fucking want to make the deal. Work, for me, has become a soul-sucking rat race and I can’t do it anymore. Today’s deal was the proverbial straw.

  Consider the camel’s back broken.

  Turning left, I walk toward the elevator and bypass it, going for the stairs. I need to blow off some steam before I get to my car.

  I guess if I don’t show up tomorrow, he’ll have to close the McDaniels deal on his own.

  When I pull into the drive at my house, I sit in my car for a minute, still forcing myself to cool down. Banging my head against the seat, I groan out my frustration. I’ve hated my job for a while. I knew a long time ago that I didn’t want to be the next Spencer Kensington. Shit, I don’t even want to be associated with him.

  A few years back, I considered going out on my own or finding a job somewhere else. I have a fucking college degree. I can get a job. But in the real estate world, my father’s word is golden. What he says matters, unfortunately. So, if I made a move, I’d literally have to make a move. I wouldn’t be able to stay in Dallas. But the thing that keeps me here is the company. Even though Kensington is now on the side of the high-rise building, my grandfather built the company.

  Maverick Johnson, the man I was named after, started in real estate more than fifty years ago. Unlike my father, he made an honest living buying and selling properties, while making a difference in people’s lives. He found dream homes. He put people’s businesses on the map by finding them prime locations. He was active in his community and was known as a philanthropist. The summers I spent on his ranch were some of the best days of my life.

  But when my father took over after my grandfather died, everything changed.

  I guess I’ve always hung on in hopes I could change things back.

  In two years, I’ll have access to the inheritance my grandfather left me. It probably won�
��t be enough to buy my father out, but I could try. Regardless, I’ll definitely have enough to open up a company of my own.

  Twenty-eight is kind of late in the game to still be trying to decide who you are, but here I am: stuck in a job I hate, with a father who hates me and a life I’m not satisfied with.

  Eventually, I get out of my car, pack a bag and lock up my house. I need to get away, clear my head, and there’s only one place I can think of that’ll get the job done.

  Laissez les bon temps rouler.

  Chapter 2

  Carys

  “Laissez les bon temps rouler,” the DJ on the radio says boisterously, entirely too energetic for this early in the morning. I slam my hand down on the snooze button, needing just a few more minutes of sleep.

  The good times are definitely not rolling around here.

  As I close my eyes to try to squeeze just a little more rest out of the morning, my mind starts to drift to all the problems I’ve been facing lately. There’s the water leak in room 204. The toilet that has been clogging up nonstop in 201. The A/C hasn’t been running properly in one of the rooms on the third floor. My computers have been on the fritz. I have a mountain of paperwork waiting on me in my office.

  My office. That still sounds weird.

  A few years ago, if you’d have asked me what I’d be doing at the ripe age of twenty-five, I’d have told you I have no idea. That’s the honest truth. I’m sure I would’ve been doing something; just not this, not running and operating a hotel by myself. Well, not technically by myself, but without my mom and grandpa.

  It’s weird how we think the people we love will live forever. It’s also a harsh reality when they don’t.

  Rolling out of bed, I decide to forgo the extra minutes the snooze button would provide and go ahead and get ready. I need coffee.

  I’m also hoping for some beignets from Mary. She stops and picks them up, hot and fresh, on her way into work sometimes. We tend to be on the same wavelength, even though she’s forty years older than me, so I’m hoping she picks up my need of fried dough and powdered sugar.

  Before I even get my clothes on and teeth brushed, my phone rings.

  “Hello.”

  “Miss Carys, I hate to bother you,” George says, concern evident in his tone. “But these computers are on the fritz again.”

  I sigh, tucking in my shirt. “Sorry, George,” I tell him, knowing he isn’t incredibly tech savvy, so when things don’t work the way they’re supposed to, he gets flustered easily. “I’ll be right there.”

  Tossing my hair up in a messy bun on top of my head, I run out the door and across the courtyard. In my world, problems concerning customers trump personal appearance any day. Without customers, I don’t have an income. Without an income, I can’t keep the lights on...or food in the pantry or pay George and Mary.

  And let’s face it, I’d be living in a van down by the river if it weren’t for the two of them. Shit, I might not even have a van, more like a cardboard box, if I was lucky.

  When I took over the daily operations of the hotel eighteen months ago, I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I had no clue exactly how difficult it would be to keep this place afloat. My mom, and grandparents before her, made it look simple. The hotel business was second nature to them and they ran this place like a well-oiled machine. But it’s becoming apparent that the business-running gene skipped me entirely.

  “Take a deep breath, baby,” Mary urges when I come jogging in the back door. “This too shall pass.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, but it sounds more like a cry. A cry for help. Because it’s mornings like this when I ask myself if I’m really cut out for this job. Can I run a hotel? Can I keep it open?

  One look at the desk in my grandfather’s old office has me following Mary’s advice and taking deep breaths… lots of them, as I talk myself off the ledge.

  Come on, Carys. Pull it together.

  The surface of the desk is hidden with piles of papers awaiting my attention and causing me anxiety. All of this on top of today’s computer failure might be what finally plunges me into eternal darkness.

  Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, even for me.

  “I know you’re letting that head of yours get the best of you this morning, but a little computer problem never stopped nobody.”

  “Right,” I mumble, biting my lip while I try to get a grip.

  “Your grandfather never used a computer.”

  “Nobody did back then,” I add, rubbing my forehead as a slight headache begins.

  “Well, still. He got by just fine without one.” Mary walks up behind me and places a comforting hand on my shoulder that I quickly lean into.

  “And he had a lot more people come through those doors than I ever have,” I add with a sigh, not sure if that should make me feel better or worse.

  “He did,” she pauses, with a hint of hesitation. “But those were different times. People brought their families to the city, and they didn’t need fancy pools and bars,” she says in her deep Louisiana drawl. “They just wanted a nice room and a soft bed and familiar faces.”

  She sounds like I feel: nostalgic, sentimental, and on the edge of tears.

  “I’m not sure if this is helping, Mar.” I look to the ceiling, saying a silent prayer to keep the hotel running, even if just for another day.

  “You’re right.” Mary brushes her hands down the front of her white apron, the same type of apron she’s worn every day of my life. Literally. Mary has always been here. She worked for my grandfather and then later for my mother. She helped me learn to ride a bike and sewed my Halloween costumes. “I’m gonna find a ledger and the manual credit card machine. Those will get us by until we get this computer problem figured out.”

  “Thank goodness we didn’t give into the keyless entry system that pushy guy tried to sell us last month.”

  “See, modern amenities aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” she says smiling at me from over her shoulder as she digs through a file cabinet in search of the old credit card machine that works on elbow grease and carbon paper.

  “Tell that to all those travel websites and adventure bloggers.”

  Sitting down at the desk, I try to take a page from Mary’s book and make a dent in the papers and bills while I wait to hear back from the computer guy. Before I can even get started, my attention is caught by a picture sitting on the corner. With the frame in my hand, I trace my finger over the faces of my grandfather and grandmother, then my mom’s, and finally, my own. I was only a kid when this photo was taken, but it’s always been a favorite of mine. My grandfather would show it off to anyone who’d give him a moment of their time, declaring he was the “luckiest man on earth to be surrounded by such beauty.”

  Anticipating the tears I’ve been trying to avoid, I put the picture back in its place and try to focus on the task in front of me. They didn’t raise me to fail. If they didn’t believe I could run the Blue Bayou, they wouldn’t have left her to me. At least that’s what I have to tell myself, and for the most part, it makes me feel better. So much so, I make it through the sales tax form and a few other important tasks in just a couple hours.

  When I can’t stand being cooped up in the office any longer, I walk into the lobby to stretch my legs and check on how things are going, hoping there are no new catastrophes waiting for me.

  I find George sitting behind the front desk, working on the daily crossword puzzle.

  “Hey, George. Everything okay up here?”

  “Well, hello there, Miss Carys.” He puts his newspaper and pencil down and stands, greeting me with the same broad smile he’s had since I was a kid. Along with Mary, George has practically been here since the beginning of the hotel, and I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen him without his trademark smile. Nothing gets him down and I love that about him.

  “Don’t stand on my account. I’m just taking a break from the office and wanted to see how you’re doing.” I motion for him to sit back down before po
uring us each a glass of water from a pitcher I keep on top of a nearby antique table. We always have ice cold water for guests as they come inside or to anyone who needs it, really. It’s always so hot and humid here in New Orleans that it’s more of a necessity than anything. Plus, I just think it’s a nice thing to do.

  It’s what my grandmother did. She started so many wonderful traditions here, some I continue, like the fruit infused water, and some that have fallen to the wayside.

  “We’ve had two guests check out so far and that computer guy you spoke with yesterday called to say he’ll be here after lunch.”

  “Oh, good. I was afraid he was gonna cancel on me. Was it a big pain to check out the guests by hand?”

  “Oh, no,” he says, grinning. “Miss Mary helped me with the first one, but it didn’t take much for me to remember how we used to do it.”

  George is the resident jack of all trades, and even though he’s in his seventies, he’s still as sharp as a tack. But I have no doubt he enjoyed Mary reminding him how to manually check the guests out. Those two have always had eyes for each other and a sweet, flirty relationship. When I was a little girl, I used to daydream about being the flower girl in their wedding, even though they’re both old enough to be my second set of grandparents.

  “How many guests are scheduled to check out today?” I ask, looking through the ledger. “We had four rooms sold last night, right?”

  “That’s right. Besides the two that done left, we’ve had one request late check-out and one say they’re gonna stay another night.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s great.” With it being close to the weekend, I’m hopeful we’ll have even more rooms booked tonight.

  “Yes, the lady who extended her stay said the hotel was very lovely, even though it’s lacking in character.” My eyes light up at his words only to come crashing back down along with my shoulders as he finishes his statement.

  Character? I feel like the Blue Bayou has tons of character. I mean, if you looked in the dictionary under character, a picture of the hotel should be there. If we don’t have character, what do we have? This place used to be the bee’s knees, to quote my grandmother, and was always packed with guests.