Folding the letter, Trish slid it back into the envelope. She placed it on the table and stared at her friend intently. “How do you feel about that? Him moving on, I mean?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but she paused. How did she feel about it? At the moment, she wasn’t sure she felt anything at all. “Am I supposed to feel a certain way?”
Trish lifted her shoulders.
“I didn’t expect him to stay single forever. I guess it’s about time he moved on. A year is more than enough time to mourn.”
“You’re right. It is. Good for him.” She flashed an unconvincing smile.
“Good for Robert.” Emily scooped up the rest of the loose Styrofoam and dropped it into the box.
“What are you going to do with it? It’s kinda pretty.”
The finish of the wood was faded, and the rough edges could use a little sanding. But with a coat of fresh varnish—or maybe even a cheerful paint—the piece could be eye-catching on her shelf. She looked at the butterfly tattoo on her wrist, and the hollow heaviness in her chest lifted. It wouldn’t hurt to have another reminder of her sister around. They’d been best friends her whole life—up until Jessica’s obsession with the spirit world made her crack.
“I’ll keep it. It’ll look nice once I clean it up.” She picked up the heavy box and gave it a shake. The wood was so thick and solid, it was impossible to tell what was in it. Robert didn’t mention locking anything inside, but he also didn’t say the box was empty. “Do you think a locksmith could open it without breaking the lock?”
“It’s worth a shot. Maybe she hid a million dollars in the lining.”
“Yeah, right. I doubt Robert would’ve locked it away and sent it to me if that were the case.” She slid the box onto the counter and positioned it against the wall.
“Maybe he didn’t know.”
“Maybe, but I—” The theme song from The Princess Bride sounded from Emily’s purse, and she rushed to grab the phone.
Trish grinned. “No…you’re not hung up on Westley at all.”
“Shut up.” The urgent care clinic’s number lit up the screen, and her heart sank. That could only mean one thing. “Hello?”
“Hey, Emily. It’s Sarah. The school just called. Presley has a fever, and she’s vomiting. Peter’s out of town, and I can’t get ahold of my mom. I have to go get her. Do you think you could come in today?”
She glanced at the clock. Two p.m. “For the whole evening?”
“Yeah. I’ll need to stay home with her. If you’ll do this for me, I’ll work the first half of your Saturday shift this weekend.”
She closed her eyes for a long blink. Only working half the day on Saturday sounded nice, but she so wasn’t in the mood to deal with patients today. “Yeah. I’ll be there in half an hour. Go take care of your little one.”
“Thank you so much, Emily.”
She hung up the phone and tossed it into her purse. “That was Sarah. I have to go in.”
“Okay.” Trish picked up her purse and stepped toward the door. “Call me later, and let me know if you get the box open. I’m curious what’s inside it.”
She eyed the hunk of wood, not wanting to leave with the mystery unsolved. Something about the box called to her, but she didn’t have time to answer it now. “I will. See you later.”
* * *
Sean jogged behind the pit bull along the raised bank of the Mississippi River. He slowed his stride, trying to get the bundle of energy to relax, but all the dog wanted to do was run. “Calm down, Roxy. You’re never going to get adopted if you don’t let anyone meet you.”
He tugged on the leash and slowed to a walk, waving as he passed a young mother with two small children. A little boy with sandy blond hair reached toward the dog, but his mother ushered him away.
Poor pit bulls. They got such a bad rap.
Roxy sat in the grass, her tongue lolling from her mouth, and he scratched her behind the ear. The LeBlanc family chose a new charity every year and spent the next three hundred sixty-five days organizing dinners, auctions, and other fundraisers to provide much-needed supplies and cash to the recipient.
Walking the shelter dogs wasn’t part of the package, but he enjoyed doing it so much he planned to keep it up after the year ended. The shelter overflowed with pit bulls, dobermans, and other “aggressive” dogs that really just needed to be loved. He’d helped get six adopted so far, and hopefully, Roxy would make number seven.
He pulled the leash tighter to keep her walking by his side, rather than running, and crossed the street into Jackson Square. Hundreds of people milled about, stopping to take photos of the giant Andrew Jackson statue with the St. Louis Cathedral as a backdrop. Couples cuddled under trees, and children ran in circles around the park benches. A woman with long red hair stepped into view, and his heart nearly stopped beating. He started toward her, but as she turned, he caught a glimpse of her face. Definitely not Emily.
He stopped and bent to pet Roxy, hoping his hasty approach hadn’t been obvious. While she was an attractive woman, Paisley Monroe was nowhere near as drop-dead gorgeous as Emily. He’d memorized every curve of Emily’s perfect features, down to the tiny freckle beneath her bright blue eyes.
Paisley’s eyes held all the brightness of a dead fish, and her voice grated in his ears like the high-pitched squeal of a dental drill. If he kept his head down, maybe she wouldn’t recognize him. He scratched the dog behind its ears and imagined what he would have said to Emily had it really been her.
He should’ve told her who he was on the ghost tour. Maybe then she wouldn’t have run away. Or maybe she still would have. She was dead set against believing in anything supernatural, and that was a shame. If he’d had more time, he could’ve changed her mind. He still might. He could always call on his mom for that scheduled serendipity she’d promised. The real kind obviously wasn’t working out for him.
“That’s a cute dog. What’s his name?” Paisley stood over him, beaming a smile. Damn.
“Her name is Roxy. She’s up for adoption at the shelter. They’re offering half-price adoption fees this week.” He smiled back and rose to his feet, taking a step away.
“Oh?” She twirled her red hair around her finger. It wasn’t nearly as vibrant as Emily’s. Nor was it natural. In fact, now that he saw her up close, he couldn’t believe he’d mistaken her for his Buttercup, even if it had only been for a second. “Is Roxy the only woman in your life right now?”
He chuckled. “She’s, uh…no. I’m seeing someone.” It was only a tiny lie. He was seeing Emily every night…even if it was just in his dreams.
Paisley frowned. “Oh. That’s too bad.”
“But Roxy is looking for a companion.” He rubbed the dog’s head, knocking loose a string of gooey saliva that oozed from her maw to the ground.
She crinkled up her nose. “I’m more of a cat person.” She flipped her hair, wafting the overpowering scent of designer perfume into his face, and walked away.
That confrontation wasn’t so bad. At least she didn’t beg him for a date this time. He knelt down eye to eye with the dog. “I’m sorry, Roxy. We’ll find you a home.”
Her eyes locked on something behind him, and a low growl resonated from her chest. An icy hand gripped Sean’s shoulder, and every hair on his body stood on end. The dog stepped back and whimpered. It had been ages since a spirit had initiated contact with him. He did his best to block them out until he was ready to communicate. He’d either let his guard down today, or this spirit had something extremely important to tell him.
He gazed up at the woman and tried not to react to her gruesome appearance. Tangled blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, and her brown eyes, ringed with black, bulged from their sockets. Her lips were swollen and purple, and the rope burns and bruises from the noose that killed her were still fresh on her neck.
She moved her lips as if she were speaking, but no sound came from the spirit. She was either freshly dead, or this was her first time tryin
g to cross over, and here in Jackson Square, with all the noise and bright sunlight, it was impossible for him to tell. She tried to speak again, but still the words wouldn’t come. Her lips were too swollen for him to read, but the last word she said could have been “please.”
When the spirit released her grip on his shoulder and faded away, Sean let out a breath. Roxy’s gaze locked on something else behind him, and he swiveled his head to see what had caught the dog’s attention now.
“Please don’t let it be another ghost.”
He’d barely uttered the words when she barreled into him, knocking him flat on his back and using his chest as a springboard. The breath whooshed from his lungs as the dog darted over him and plowed toward a hot dog cart across the street.
“Roxy, no!” He scrambled to his feet and gave chase, but the damn dog was too fast. She lunged for the vendor, and Sean snatched the end of her leash in time to be yanked into the cart. His shoulder slammed against the rusty edge, and the entire contraption toppled over, spilling wieners and buns onto the street. As his head knocked against the metal, he bounced off, rolling onto the ground.
Piercing agony shot through his left arm, and when he reached toward the pain, he found himself skewered by a pair of hot dog tongs. Moisture stung his eyes, so he squeezed them shut and yanked the utensil from his arm. Blood poured from the crescent-shaped wound, dripping down to dot the mess of buns littering the ground.
“Damn dog.”
“Are you okay?” The vendor, a slight man in his mid-sixties with leathery skin and cracked lips, offered him a dirty rag and a hand up.
Sean accepted both, wrapped the leash around his wrist, and pressed the cloth against his left arm. His right arm burned from the scrapes extending from his shoulder to his elbow. Scrapes from a rusty piece of metal. Fantastic. “I’ll be fine.”
The hot dog stand was ruined. Roxy had lapped up every wiener the vendor had, and now she was working on the buns. The rusty edges of the cart had splintered with the impact, and it lay in three mangled pieces on the ground. The food stand was probably this man’s livelihood. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to feed himself or his family, if he had one.
The small crowd that had gathered around the accident dissipated, and the man looked at the mess in the street and pressed his lips into a hard line. His eyes shimmered, and he shook his head. “You’d better get that arm looked at. You’re bleeding through.” He shuffled toward Sean and pulled the bloody cloth from his hand. Then he took a clean rag from his pocket and tied it tightly around the wound. “That oughta hold ya until you can get it sewn up.”
“Thank you.” Sean’s chest tightened at the man’s compassion. He’d just lost his only form of income, but he was more concerned about Sean’s injuries than where he was going to get his next meal.
Sean pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed the man five hundred dollars. “That should cover the food and paper products.” He passed him his business card. “And here’s my number. Call me tomorrow, and I’ll see about replacing your cart. Maybe with something a little less rusty.”
The man’s eyes widened, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “This is too much. I didn’t have five hundred dollars’ worth of food in there.” He held the money toward Sean, but he waved it away.
“The rest is for the hassle. I’m sorry about all the trouble.” He bent to pick up a piece of the broken cart and winced at the pain shooting through his arm. Roxy sat on her rump, staring up at him with the big, innocent eyes of a puppy. A giant splotch of ketchup covered the letters on her “I’m adoptable” vest, making it read “I’m a table” instead. He shook his head.
“You go get that shoulder taken care of.” The old man took the piece of rubble from his hand. “I’ll take care of this.”
“All right. But I’m serious about replacing your cart. Please call me tomorrow.”
The man smiled to reveal a three-tooth-wide gap. “Will do. Now get on outta here.”
Sean managed to keep Roxy under control long enough to return her to the shelter and explain why she was covered in ketchup and mustard. Blood had already soaked through his makeshift tourniquet, and little bits of rust flaked from his shoulder as he stretched the soreness from his other arm.
“You probably need stitches.” The shelter receptionist nodded to his arm.
“I know.” But spending the rest of the afternoon in a hospital was not on his agenda. “Do you think that new urgent care clinic could take care of this? I don’t want to go to the ER.”
She keyed in something on the computer and nodded at the screen. “It says they treat most illnesses and mild to moderate injuries. I don’t see why not. It’s over on Canal.”
Emily had said she worked at an urgent care clinic. With any luck, he could turn his injury into another bit of that serendipity she’d been asking for. “Is that the only one in the area?”
“There’s a few in the CBD. This is the only one in the Quarter.”
She didn’t explicitly say she worked in the French Quarter, but the fact that she ended up on a walking tour that night made it probable. It was worth a shot. This was the first time he’d felt more than an inkling of attraction to anyone since Courtney, and he’d be damned if was going to let it slip away.
Chapter Five
Emily shuffled down the hall to the next patient room and nearly ran into Becca as she darted out the door and yanked it shut behind her. The nurse giggled and handed her the patient’s folder.
“What’s so funny?” Emily took the folder and hesitated to open it. “Please tell me someone didn’t ‘fall’ on a beer bottle and have it break off in an unspeakable place again.”
“Oh, nothing like that.” She glanced down the hall and stepped closer, lowering her voice. “He’s a hottie, and he asked for you by name.”
“Me?” She opened the folder and read the name. Sean LeBlanc. The only Sean she knew was the one from the ghost tour. Surely it wasn’t… Her throat tightened. What if it was?
Becca grinned. “You’re probably going to need some assistance with this one.”
She took a deep breath and rested her hand on the doorknob, hoping the cool metal would chill the warmth already spreading through her body. “I’ll let you know if I do.”
She slipped through the door and pressed it shut, keeping her back turned to the man on the table. She could get through this without making a fool of herself again. She had to.
“Hello, Emily.”
She slowly turned around and tried to smile, but as soon as she saw his condition, her nursing instincts took over. He was a mess, with blood dripping from a dirty rag tied around his left arm and dirt and who-knew-what kind of stains all over his dark blue shirt. She stepped closer and found a bloody scrape on his right arm extending from his elbow into his shirtsleeve. A knot the size of a golf ball protruded from his hairline, yet somehow, he managed to smile.
She scanned his chart. His vitals looked normal, aside from the elevated blood pressure she’d expected to see. “What happened to you?”
“I got in a fight with a hot dog cart.”
She stifled a giggle and shined a light into both of his eyes. The pupils constricted like they should, and the little flecks of gold in his irises sparkled in the light. “Looks like the cart won.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I did a number on it.”
“I’m not sure I want to know.” She brushed his hair away from his face and ran a finger across the welt. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and locked his gaze on hers. The moment lasted no more than a second, but something inside her melted just a little. She yanked her hand away and turned to the computer to enter her findings.
And her findings were that she was feeling things she shouldn’t be feeling about a patient, and she needed to get her act together. “Have you experienced any dizziness, sudden fatigue, or sleepiness?”
“No. My head will be fine. I think I might need some stitches, though.” He reached for the cloth tie
d around his arm and grimaced. She slipped her hands into a pair of latex gloves.
“Here. Let me.” Lifting his shirtsleeve, she untied the rag and peeled it away from his arm. Congealing blood oozed from a crescent-shaped incision about an inch and a half long on his deltoid. A trail of dried blood led her gaze down his very muscular bicep and ended in the crook of his elbow.
She chewed her bottom lip and stepped around the table to examine his other arm. If he were just any patient, she’d call the nurse in to clean him up, and she’d return to do the sutures. But the way his gaze never left her face as she lifted his sleeve and assessed his injury had her glued to the spot. A wave of possessiveness washed over her. She needed to take care of him. And, after all, he had asked for her by name.
She flicked her gaze to his and turned to the computer. The dark intensity of his eyes made it impossible for her to look too long without quivering. Maybe she should leave and let Becca take care of him. And she could take a cold shower in the process.
“A few sutures in your left arm will close that right up. I’ll clean up the scrapes on your other arm, and you should be good to go.” She opened a few drawers and cabinets, clanking supplies in her trembling hands.
“Are you okay? You seem a little nervous.” There was that smile again. So familiar, yet so foreign at the same time.
“I’m fine.” She placed everything on a metal tray and wheeled it closer to the bed. “I need you to take your shirt off.”
He arched an eyebrow. “But we haven’t even had our first date.”
Warmth spread from the bridge of her nose across her cheeks. She had to gain control of this situation before she turned into a pile of putty on the floor. “That’s highly inappropriate, Mr. LeBlanc. You are a patient in this facility, and I am your caregiver.” She sounded way more uptight than she planned, but at least she got her point across.
Love & Ghosts: Crescent City Ghost Tours Page 6
