The thought that this cat is doing that on purpose runs through my mind, but that’s ridiculous. Still, I lean over and pick up the item, a postcard from the turn of the twentieth century boasting of the new resort known as Fontus Springs. I turn over and find nothing on the back, so I flip it back to study the photo. There are several people dressed in suits, long dresses, and hats in front of a modest building sporting a sign that reads, “Medicinal Fontus Springs, Youth Lives Again.”
“Gotta get me some of that spring water,” I mutter to Stinky, who answers with a cry, only this time more like a normal cat would.
Those thick woods exist in the photo’s background and there’s a dirt road in front of the establishment. A horse and buggy linger out front of the building, but there’s nothing else to provide me with clues.
Just as I’m about to place the card back into the box, my gaze settles on a woman standing at the back of the crowd. There’s something about this face that rings a bell, but it’s difficult to make out. I reach into my night stand and pull out a magnifying glass, one I found at the local thrift shop and took home because the handle was carved out of mahogany and I thought it an elegant addition to my potting shed.
Plus, it was only two dollars.
I use it to examine the postcard and the face comes into view more clearly. Stinky lets out a howl and shivers rush through my body.
It’s Sirona Harmon, the woman who accompanied Elijah to my apartment the day before. The one who tried to pet Stinky. Only this time, Sirona’s skin color is decidedly lighter, and she’s wearing something out of the Titanic era.
I glance down at my adopted cat and he winks.
Chapter Four
“How’s that cute husband of yours?” Carmine asks me as soon as we sit down.
We’re having brunch at the Grand Hyatt of the Dallas Airport, an arrangement I made with my new employer. Courtyard has flown me into town for training before my first assignment, but I managed to have an hour before my ride picks me up, so I could visit with Carmine.
“Things are a bit strained at present.”
TB did return that night and we ate the meal he so lovingly prepared, although it had turned cold and neither of us moved to reheat anything. We ate the dinner that I destroyed in silence, then watched TV and headed to bed. TB left early in the morning for his construction job and I worked to finish a magazine piece on fall foliage, dreaming of cool nights that seem so far away. Everything repeated the following day, although a few more words were spoken. TB found the information on Fontus Springs fascinating while I finished up work, and we quietly went our separate ways this morning, TB to work and me to reviewing hotels.
“What did you do?”
Like I said, Carmine knows me so well.
“There’s this legend near my home, where the first person you’ll see on the rising of a blue moon is the one you’ll be in love with forever,” I explain. “TB showed up at the festival, looked at me and now he’s convinced we’ll get back together.”
Carmine’s eyes light up. “Cool legend. Anyone written about that yet?”
I smile. We travel writers are always looking for that next unexplored story. “Many times, although maybe not for those gay magazines you write for.”
The waitress arrives and I hesitate to order much, considering the lack of funds in my checking account, but Carmine, bless his heart, senses my situation and makes a big fuss over paying. I’m grateful but those screams of worthlessness are at it again.
The waitress pours us both cups of coffee and I raise mine to my lips, inhaling that delicious aroma. “I wonder if it’s in the DNA of writers that we love coffee so much.”
“Pinot noir is my drink of choice.”
Carmine grabs two pink packets and dumps it into his coffee, which makes me cringe. I hate seeing good coffee ruined by saccharin.
“He’s a good man, you know?”
I place my coffee back on the table; it’s too hot to drink. “I know.”
“But what?”
“We got married because I was pregnant.”
“I’ve heard this story.”
I lean back in my chair and sigh. “It’s not to be, Carmine.”
Carmine takes my hand and I know a lecture’s coming. I roll my eyes and he gives me that “Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady” look. He’s fifteen years my senior and he’s good at it.
“I’ve got two pets, a dog and a cat,” he begins. “The cat takes little effort, comes and offers love here and there, takes care of herself. We have this deep connection, Eva and me. The dog is needy, has to be walked, and pouts if I don’t pay attention to him.”
“Sounds like someone I know….”
“The dog is loyal and offers unconditional love.” Carmine squeezes my hand. “And he would die for me if it came to that. The cat, most likely not.”
I know what he’s getting at but I choose sarcasm instead. “So, I need to get a dog?”
He looks at me sternly. “Vi, get your intellectual stimulation elsewhere.” At this, Carmine drops my hand and swishes his hands in front of him to indicate he’s one of that group. “And keep those who love you close at hand.”
I know he’s right but it reminds me of my other problems, those who love me but could stay miles away as far as I’m concerned.
“Something’s up with my mother,” I add. “She refused to give me money unless I move back home and my sister has been unusually horrible.”
“You’re a big girl, Vi.” That fatherly tone returns.
“I’m a freelance writer in a recession, Carmine.”
“Like I said, brunch is on me.”
I close my eyes and cringe. This is not where I wanted this conversation to go.
“I don’t want your money. I want to pay my bills.”
“What you really want is your family’s approval.”
Years ago, there was this ridiculous TV program called The Gong Show. My aunt and uncle found old tapes at the library and made me watch it when I visited them in Alabama. There was a panel of judges who watched contestants perform some silly act and if it was too horrible they banged the gong, and the contestant was out of the running.
As soon as Carmine’s comment leaves his lips, I hear that gong ring. And, of course, I deny it, then immediately change the subject regarding my family’s approval. Carmine, to his credit, lets my family debacle go and listens to me describe my experience with Elijah and the ghosts of Fontus Springs.
“But, you haven’t seen any of these ghosts.”
The waitress arrives and places a veggie omelet with breakfast potatoes in front of me and I realize I’m extremely hungry. Nothing like a six a.m. flight with only coffee to tide you over.
“I was there Tuesday during the day so no, I didn’t see anything.”
“Did you feel anything?”
I have a mouthful of eggs so I shake my head.
Carmine doesn’t touch his eggs Benedict, thinks about my conundrum while holding his coffee.
“Hate to say this, but it could be like the state guy said, one person saw a ghost and now everyone thinks they have.”
I place my fork down and swallow, then lean across the table.
“Just because you bat for the other side doesn’t excuse you from my male scorn when necessary. Margie Branford is scared to death to sleep in her bedroom and she’s not making this up.”
Carmine holds up both hands. “Sorry. If you believe them, I believe it.”
“Hysterical women, my ass.”
“I didn’t mean to insinuate….”
“If it was a group of men saying these things, no one would question anything.”
I feel more than see a hand touch mine. I exhale my anger and look across the table at my good friend, who’s not the enemy.
“I’m sorry,” Carmine says. “I didn’t mean anything by it, but you’re right, it was insensitive and chauvinistic.”
I feel like someone unplugged me as I was experiencing an ener
gy surge.
“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper. “I’m tired of everything these days.”
And with those words and the flow of adrenaline leaving my body, the tears begin to fall. I feel more than see that hand squeeze mine again, hear Carmine’s words of comfort flow across the table. I quickly regain my composure but I feel like I did after Hurricane Katrina took away everything I owned, like a stick of dynamite resting too close to a fire.
I ruined brunch with my emotional outburst; the conversation seemed strained afterwards or maybe it was me feeling embarrassed, not to mention guilty about not being able to pay my way. We discussed the springs while we finished breakfast, Carmine paid the bill, and we headed for the baggage claim area where my ride would meet me.
“I forgot about Sirona,” I tell Carmine as we ride the elevator to the bottom floor. I pull out the postcard of Fontus Springs in the early 1900s and point to the woman lingering behind the crowd.
“What about this woman?”
“She came to my apartment the other day.”
Carmine looks at me sideways. “You need to explain that one.”
I give him a synopsis of Sirona and Elijah imploring me to clean their town of ghosts, and how Stinky hissed at her when she left. I throw in that Stinky showed me the postcard, waiting for Carmine to call the authorities to take me to the loony bill, but he only grins at this piece of information.
“What? My cat’s my intellectual stimulation?”
But all he says is, “Cats are amazing creatures. Don’t underestimate them.”
I’m not sure what this means.
“What about Sirona? Did I mention that she’s African American? In the postcard, she’s amazingly pale.”
“Maybe her grandmother was white.”
I look down at the postcard and shake my head. “The resemblance is striking.”
Carmine shakes his head as we exit the elevator and spot a man getting out of a minivan with a sign that reads “Viola Valentine.”
“Why didn’t you take your husband’s name, again?” he asks.
“His last name’s Boudreaux.”
Carmine looks at me questioningly.
“Viola Boudreaux?” I ask. “Viola Valentine rolls of the tongue. Besides, I had made a name for myself selling stories to local magazines while at LSU, thought it best to keep my original byline.”
Carmine kisses me on the cheek, holds my face in his hands, and stares at me hard. “Keep your chin up, mon amie. Don’t let your family get to you and have faith that all recessions come to an end.”
I don’t quite believe this but I nod anyway.
“And keep me abreast of this ghost town.”
With those final words, my friend and mentor heads toward the parking lot. I look over at the man holding a sign and wave, and I’m off to my new adventure.
Turns out Courtyard Hotels is in Grapevine, Texas, a quaint historic town adjacent to the airport. It’s ground zero for the Texas Wine and Grape Growers Association, although you won’t find vineyards here, my driver explains. There are several tasting rooms and an urban wine trail to enjoy, and every year the town celebrates GrapeFest, the largest wine festival in the southwest. But, actual grapes are located elsewhere.
“Do you like ghosts?” my driver asks and for a moment I think he’s on to me.
“Why?” I ask hesitantly.
He pulls off the main highway and passes what looks like a home from the 1800s with an ancient oak tree and massive barn out back.
“Cross Timbers Winery,” my driver explains. “Great wines, and a few ghosts thrown in. Apparently, the former owner of the home, Patti Weatherman, died of pneumonia in the house and she never left. I’ve also heard there are twelve spirits in the barn, but no one knows who they are.”
I don’t see anyone looking back so either the daylight has scared them off or no one’s died by water. Still, a shiver runs through me. I sense there was a murder by the barn, but that’s all I’m getting. This gives me pause, because I never sensed anything at Fontus Springs.
My driver glances back at me with a hopeful smile and seems disappointed that I’m not as excited as he is. If only he knew.
“Guess you don’t like ghost stories,” he says with a shrug and off we go. I think to explain but I don’t bother.
We pull into a lovely Courtyard Hotel situated next to an office building. Ghost lover drops me off at the latter and sends me and my polka dot suitcase, the one I nabbed at Goodwill after Katrina, to Suite B on the third floor. Jacob greets me at the door.
“Viola,” he says the wrong way, meaning the instrument and not the Shakespeare heroine, but I let it slide.
We do our obligatory greetings and I follow him down a hallway to a conference room where two other women wait. This is where we’ll all learn about our new jobs, Jacob explains, then turns on a video and leaves the room. The film is dreadfully boring, a puff piece about the hotels and their wonderful attributes, and in turn we all twitch in our seats. I’d love to joke to these two about this horrid piece of PR and I sense they feel the same, but like dutiful new employees we all remained fixated on the video, although my eyelids grow heavier by the minute — that six a.m. flight, mind you.
Just before I’m ready to give in to sleep the film ends, Jacob arrives and turns on the lights. The woman to my right did fall asleep but she awakens right before Jacob looks her way. I send her a “Good going, girlfriend” nod and she smiles.
“How about that video?” Jacob announces way too cheerfully. “We had that made last year, right after we reached our one millionth customer. Great things happening here at Courtyard.”
We’re then given packets that outline the company’s amenities, the number of hotels and where they are located (in forty-seven states, Canada and two territories), the rewards program (now in its fourth year and bigger than ever), the company’s starred ratings on TripAdvisor — even how many linens are placed on each hotel room’s bed (three sheets, a comforter, a bedspread and a throw).
“And for our rewards guests we offer two free bottles of Aquafina water.”
The woman next to me rolls her eyes and whispers sarcastically, “Wow.”
“Did you have a question?” Jacob asks her.
She immediately rebounds, all smiles. “No, sir.”
Jacob then asks us to study our guidebooks after which we will take a multiple-choice test, basically all the elements of a well-tended hotel room and the responsibilities of the staff. Of course, we all pass. After a nice secretary brings us bottles of — you guessed it — Aquafina water and some tasteless muffins, we head over to human resources to fill out paperwork.
“What do you do?” I ask the eye roller as we fill out our W2s.
“You mean what did I do?”
I nod sympathetically.
“Retirement manager at Goldman Sachs.”
I look over at the other woman, the one who fell asleep. “Me too. And you?”
“Travel writer.”
They both smile at this. “That sounds like a dream job,” the first one says.
Yeah, when Wall Street doesn’t put your clients out of business, I think, but I say nothing.
By mid-afternoon we’re all done with training and paperwork and hungry, so Jacob sends us toward town where there are restaurants. It’s a good walk and no one offers us a ride so I’m wondering if Carmine’s right about them being cheap. We grab an inexpensive lunch, then split up as we shop the town’s boutiques — which is fine with me since the two women talked banking and IRAs the entire lunch. I stop at the Messina Hof Winery tasting room and try out a few vinos, then purchase a lovely port to bring back to my room. The hike back to Courtyard seems longer this time, probably because the early morning flight is catching up to me. I retrieve my bag from the office and check in next door. I turn on the TV and study my huge list of items I am to look for at every hotel I visit but leave the giant packet to later. By eight o’clock and two glasses of port, I fall asleep.
&nbs
p; The phone rings at five a.m., the hotel desk clerk waking me for my flight to Memphis. I shower and dress and head down to the lobby for some god-awful coffee, the weak kind where you can almost see the bottom of the cup, with only powdered creamer to assist me. If this is the Courtyard way, it’s first on my list of negatives.
The other women arrive and we all head to the airport, but move in different directions once we travel through security. I make it to my gate, but not after stopping at Starbucks and nabbing a café latte. I fall into my seat at the gate, relishing in a decent cup of java this time.
A man in a tight pair of jeans that appear to be ironed and creased — do people do that to jeans? — waltzes by and I can’t help but stare and enjoy the view. He’s wearing a buttoned-down shirt that’s also well ironed and, although I’m usually not attracted to preppy types, this guy’s wearing it well. Just as I’m about to fully take in the sight and start imagining things, he opens his mouth.
“My ticket says I’m in a middle seat but I specifically asked for an aisle,” he tells the ticket agent in an aggravated voice.
“I’m sorry, sir, but seat assignments are made at the time of the purchase. We don’t assign seats.”
“I asked for an aisle seat when my company booked this flight. I was told I would have an aisle seat.”
“We’re a full flight, sir. I doubt there is anything I can do.”
The two go round and round, the preppy’s voice getting more and more aggravated, and people begin to stare. Finally, the exasperated ticket agent grabs the man’s ticket and starts typing away on her keyboard. The man looks around and spots me glaring at him, then winks. I frown, wondering if this is some game he’s playing to get his way.
“There’s a seat in the emergency aisle,” the agent says.
“Hate the emergency aisle. If I’m paying for a flight on your airlines, I don’t think it’s up to me to save everybody.”
The woman looks back at her screen and types away. “There’s a seat in priority, but it’s an additional forty-five dollars.”
Ghost Town Page 6
