After a few moments of silence, I brave the question.
“TB, can I borrow some money?”
He looks up without speaking, staring at me with that vacant look that always drove me crazy. “Huh?”
“I have to get my car fixed. I’m late on bills because clients aren’t paying on time. It’s a temporary thing. I’ll pay you back.”
TB wipes his mouth on the Visit Tuscaloosa dishtowel and leans back in his chair. For a moment, I think he’s going to insist on me moving back to New Orleans like Portia did, even though TB knows about my ghostly abilities and understands how New Orleans with its plethora of watery deaths is off limits for someone like me.
He shakes his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Vi, but I don’t have any. I just spent every dollar I saved to fix the front porch. And I don’t get paid again until the end of the month. If you can wait three weeks, I can give you a couple hundred.”
That hole in my stomach rears its ugly head when I realize TB said give and not lend. I’ve wished with all my heart that I loved this man, this generous, sweet, lovable person with his adorable smile, head full of ash blond hair and vibrant chocolate brown eyes. I’m not only giving up someone who could grace a romance novel cover but the best sex I’ve ever had.
Add to this picture the fact that he’s slowly renovating the house we lived in for years, the one once submerged under twelve feet of water when the levees broke. I took one step inside that putrid mess of a house when they reopened New Orleans for visitors and swore I would never return. TB, on the other hand, cleaned out the fridge, gutted the walls, removed the pungent mold covering everything water touched, and restored the house piece by piece as money became available. I still own half although I want none of it, not even a second mortgage to save my ass at present. I don’t deserve it.
“It’s okay, TB. I’ll figure something out.”
Just what, I can’t imagine. The idea of returning to a newsroom to vomit news copy on a daily basis is totally out of the question.
A light goes off inside TB’s brain and the sudden change startles me.
“I almost forgot,” he says excitedly. “I’ve been working renovations on the new Courtyard chain of hotels and one of the managers I met the other day said they were hiring, that they are looking for people to travel around and review hotels.”
I shake my head, not following.
“Like mystery shoppers.”
TB reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a card and hands it to me. “Call him. Might be a fun job.”
“Reviewing hotels?”
TB shrugs and continues eating. “It’s a job. Might tide you over for a while.”
I look down. Jacob Yarbrough, Courtyard Hotels. Could work.
It’s late when we finish eating dinner, followed by Blue Bell, of course, then cleaning the plastic plates adorned with Georgia peaches. TB hovers, sliding his palms down his pant legs nervously.
“Of course, you can stay.”
The light goes on again, but I extinguish it with a look. As much as I would love to have those delicious hands working magic on my body, something I haven’t experienced in months, I know it’s not a good idea to give this man hope.
We watch The Daily Show, laughing at Jon Stewart’s quirky view of the news, then sleep together on my Sears queen mattress, me pulling out the giant throw I obtained from my trip to California, the one with the redwoods, a bear, and a snow scene which looks so incredible this time of year. It barely covers us and I wonder if it’s time to purchase a real bedspread.
“It’s fine,” TB mutters just before falling asleep, as if he reads my mind. He drapes an arm across me and I let him. Before twilight overtakes me, I actually believe it is.
I awake to the sound of Stinky demanding entrance once more and slip out of bed to open the door. Reece and his children are splashing in the pool so I command myself not to look his way, but, of course, I do anyway. Beauty queen is lounging in the morning sun in a fashionable bikini while Reece instructs the kids about water safety.
I can’t help but stare. He’s a tall drink of water, dark complexion and midnight eyes and he sports this adorable Cajun accent that cracks me up. He was off limits for months when I first moved in and started fantasizing, but he split with his wife and we started dating, if you could call it that. He showed me around Lafayette, invited me to parties, and we watched movies together. I know he’s interested, enjoyed a few sensual kisses during those sweet months, but his kids are young and he and his wife were only separated so it was mostly hands off the gorgeous landlord.
In the past month, Reece agreed to attend counseling with his wife and the fun ended. Once he made the move to reunite with Mrs. Perfection, I retreated to my potting shed to pine in silence. He acts like nothing’s happened and we can continue as before, sans the delicious kisses, but what’s the use?
Reece looks up and waves but I merely grab the newspaper and turn away. It’s then I notice that TB’s truck is gone from the driveway so I dart back inside and call his name to be sure. He’s left a note on my desk, explaining his work schedule — he’s working a job in Lafayette but only for the day — and for me to call him.
“PS,” the note reads, “I believe in legends and you’re the first person I saw last night when the moon rose so you’re going to see more of me. You can’t get rid of me this easily.”
I hang my head knowing that he doesn’t make needless claims and will be a royal pest and I wish I had a press trip lined up to get out of town. Then I remember the card he gave me and the possibility of a job traveling to review hotels. Just before I pick up the phone to call Jacob Yarbrough, there’s a knock at my door.
Two African Americans stand at my threshold, a man and a woman, the man in a suit and the female dressed in what I would call gypsy attire.
“I’m sorry,” I tell them, “but I’m not interested.”
The man puts out a hand as I attempt to close the door. “It’s not what you think.”
“Pray for me if you want. I could use all the help I can get,” I tell them. “But trust me, I don’t have any money.”
The woman laughs which gives me pause, lightens my heart with its lyrical sound. And that’s all it takes for the man to slip his foot over the threshold. I look down in amazement. I’ve only seen this move in cartoons.
“Ms. Valentine?” the woman asks.
I’m still in my pajamas and I’m beginning to think this might be serious, so I cross my arms over my chest to cover my bra-less bosom. “Yes?”
“We’re from Lake Lorelei, up near Alexandria,” the man explains.
“We need your help,” the woman says.
Now I’m back to being suspicious this is all about religion.
“For what?” I ask, moving back a step, glancing down at the doorstop that is this man’s foot.
“We’re having a problem with ghosts,” the man says, then removes his foot.
Both look up at me anxiously and I have no idea how to respond.
“Why don’t you let us come in and we’ll explain,” the woman says.
I’m still dumbfounded, so the man reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a card.
“My name is Elijah Fontenot and I’m the librarian and mayor of Fontus Springs, a little town that skirts the lake. This is Sirona Harmon and she helps out with city matters.”
I look at one and then the other and figure they’re harmless. I open the door wider and the two saunter in.
“Excuse my place,” I tell them. “It’s only a mother-in-law unit. I do have two chairs by the dining room table.”
They don’t laugh at the reference to dining room so I give them kudos for that. They make themselves comfortable and I grab my robe.
“And excuse me for not being presentable. I was up late.”
That’s only partly true. Since I work from home I sometimes spend all day in my pajamas.
Elijah waves his hand. “Of course, we should have called first but we thought this
might not be the kind of conversation to have over the phone.”
I grab a wooden box I use to haul groceries from my car to the apartment, turn it over and sit down. Elijah immediately rises, like the Southern gentleman he is, but I wave him off.
“What’s this about ghosts?” I ask to keep him from insisting on giving me his chair.
Sirona leans forward, her hands tightly folded across the table. She bites her lip and glances at Elijah.
“Go on,” Elijah encourages her. “Tell her.”
Her eyes narrow when her gaze moves to me, but there’s kindness lingering behind them. “First, there’s something we heard through the grapevine and I need to know if it’s true.”
“Shoot.”
“Is it true you can see ghosts?”
This is a new one for me. Until now, the only people privy to my weird ability was TB, my Aunt Mimi, a few people I’ve helped with apparitions in their midst, and a couple of friends, mainly Winnie Calder in Mississippi and Carmine Kelsey in Dallas, other travel writers and dear friends. Carmine is also my mentor in SCANC life, explaining to me phenomenon when I’m confused, and walking me through the scary stuff.
I decide to be elusive. “Depends on who’s asking.”
Elijah smiles and leans back in his chair. “We’re friends of Winnie Brown, although she’s a Calder now. She’s a cousin once removed through marriage. Plus, we went to Ole Miss together.”
We’re all related in the South, and tying up people is like handing someone a resume. These two pass muster.
“I do sometimes see apparitions,” I admit.
The two look at each other and smile, and suddenly knowing other people own my secret makes me uncomfortable so I quickly add, “But I’m not broadcasting this so keep it to yourselves.”
The smiles fade and Elijah turns so that he’s facing me directly. “We have a problem in our town.”
“We’ve been seeing ghosts,” Sirona inserts.
“More than usual.”
“Lots more than usual.”
“And we’re really unhappy about it.”
Believe it or not, most people I’ve met with ghosts in their midst don’t mind the lights flickering or the radio turning on in the middle of the night. They laugh off the weird noises or the cabinet doors opening and tell their invisible guests to behave. And the ghosts usually do.
Take Annie Breaux in Blue Moon, for instance. Several folks have refused to check out of her Mortuary B&B and she doesn’t hesitate to let her guests know of these wandering spirits. Most of her guests are thrilled to be able to experience the supernatural, although a few have run screaming from the building.
Something in Sirona’s countenance makes me wonder if something else is at work here.
“Why are you unhappy?” I ask, dreading the answer. I’ve never experienced anything evil or demonic and I hope to never do so. I’m on the fence about whether something that horrific exists, but until I know for sure, I don’t want to travel down that road.
Sirona swallows and her eyes enlarge. She leans across the table so that we’re only inches away and whispers, “They’re too many of them.”
Cajuns call it the frissons. My Aunt Mimi in Alabama relates it to a skunk running over your grave, although how anyone would know that is beyond me. But the feeling overtakes me, violent shivers traveling up from my toes to the back of my neck and it takes me several moments to shake it off.
“Shall we start from the beginning?” Elijah asks.
I nod but offer coffee first — all Southerners must make sure their guests are comfortable and without want — and once we have our cups of java with milk, sugar, and what my friend Winnie calls pink packets of cancer powder, Sirona begins the tale.
“It began last spring, right before the state showed up to check out the old resort site.”
“Fontus Springs used to be quite the place years ago,” Elijah inserts. “People came from all over to soak in the hot springs besides the lake. Was said to cure a number of ailments, especially arthritis.”
Sirona touches Elijah’s hand and for a second I wonder if these two are a couple. “We’re not supposed to make those medical claims, remember Stan?”
“Right. Delete that,” he tells me with a grin. “But the town was something to see in its heyday.”
“Now, it’s just a blip on the map although we still attract visitors to the lake,” Sirona says. “And because we have enough residents year-round — barely — we have a mayor and city council and a nice-sized library we’re especially proud of.”
“Kids go off to Boyce for school, though,” Elijah adds.
“And the ghosts…?” I insert, hoping to get them back to the point.
Sirona inhales and lets out the air in a rush. “They began showing up around Easter.”
“It was one or two incidents at first,” Elijah says. “Mostly locals complaining about weird noises and seeing things out of the corners of their eyes. By Memorial Day several people at the lake houses were calling the police claiming that intruders were in the house. When the police arrived, there was no one there and no signs of intruders inside or outside the homes.”
“How do you know they’re ghosts?” I ask. “Maybe it’s kids playing around.”
Sirona pales and looks away.
“We’ve seen them,” Elijah says. “More than one.”
“More than once or more than one ghost?” I ask.
At this Sirona looks back and I notice tears on her lashes. “Too many,” she whispers.
Now it’s Elijah’s turn to take her hand. “They’ve taken over the town,” he softly says to no one.
I’ve heard of more than one ghost per household but an entire town?
“I’m confused. What do you mean by taken over?”
Elijah lets go of Sirona’s hand while Sirona looks out the window at my dying plants, wiping the tears from her cheeks in the process. “I think you need to come visit.”
Now it’s my turn to exhale. “I would love to help, Mr. Fontenot….”
“Elijah, please.”
“Elijah. I would love to help but….”
Sirona turns back to me with a rush of emotions. “You have to help us,” she says as more tears emerge. “We can’t live like this.”
Now, there are two pleading gazes my way.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “I only see ghosts that have died by water.”
Elijah shakes his head as if that comment never happened. “You’re the only one we’ve found who can help us. And Winnie was certain you can.”
“I’m also broke,” I add. “I have to find a job right away or I’m going to be a ghost in this tiny apartment after starving to death.”
“We can pay,” Elijah says. “Of course, we will pay you for your time.”
No accidents.
I’m still confused but I nod my head in agreement anyway. We discuss payment, Elijah insists on writing me a check right there and then for our consultation, enough to pay my monthly electric bill, and I’m given directions on how to find the former hot springs resort on a lake in the epicenter of Louisiana. We agree to meet the following morning at Hi Ho’s general store and bait shop that apparently serves coffee and breakfast in the back and the couple leaves me to wonder what the hell I have gotten myself into.
As they cross my threshold and turn to follow the brick walkway to their car, Stinky arrives and pauses a few feet away, staring at the couple intently. Sirona pauses and leans over, offering a hand to the stray cat.
“That’s my bud Stink,” I tell them. “He’s harmless.”
Sirona leans closer. “Hey, cutie pie.”
Stinky suddenly hisses and growls and the orange hairs on his back reach sky high. Sirona jerks her hand back and rises.
“Stinky!” I admonish him, wondering what the hell got into my sweet cat, but he continues to hiss, then darts away like a cat out of hell.
Sirona appears wounded and I’m afraid she’s going to cry again.
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“I’m so sorry about that,” I tell her. “I’ve never seen him act that way.”
She doesn’t say anything and hurries down the pathway, while Elijah offers me a grim smile, then catches up with her and places an arm about her shoulders. I watch them get in the car and hurry off, then turn back toward my fuzzy feline.
Stinky hides in the bushes off the patio, still hissing at the spot where Sirona once stood, and looking as if he witnessed the devil on his doorstep.
Chapter Three
I’m driving north up Interstate 49 listening to NPR’s Michelle Norris interview Wall Street experts, trying to decipher who is responsible for this economic downturn, when my cell phone rings. I had put a call into Jacob Yarbrough the day before, leaving him a long message about my background as a travel writer and how I had heard he had job openings in the hotel review department.
“Viola Valentine,” I answer because I’m hoping the Los Angeles number is Yarbrough.
“Ms. Valentine,” a friendly voice replies. “Jacob Yarbrough from Courtyard Hotels.”
We begin with silly small talk, him asking if Louisiana is really that hot in summer and me assuring him it is, but the climate goes well with our spicy food, ha, ha. Then we get down to business. Since I got the Fontus Springs gig and the money situation isn’t as bleak as the day before, I’m feeling cocky and that confidence wins him over. We have a long conversation about my views on what makes a good hotel and, since he’s read my travel stories from the links I sent him, is confident I’m a good fit. He agrees to a trial run as opposed to an interview. I’ll meet him in Dallas on Thursday where he’ll train me, then let me loose over the weekend and evaluate me after the first review.
I hang up optimistic, a feeling I haven’t felt in months. This could be the answer to my problems. The pay’s not great but it’s enough to keep me afloat. I’ll send the lake ghosts packing, catch a plane to Dallas, and by next week I’ll have new brakes on my ailing Toyota.
Ghost Town Page 3
