The man starts fussing louder and another agent walks over to help. The two try to talk him down, work over the keyboard some more, and I hear the agents acquiescing, giving Mr. Prep Star the priority aisle seat for no extra money. They print out a new boarding pass and hand it over. As the man passes me by, he catches me staring again.
“And that’s how it’s done,” he says smugly.
“Asshole,” I think to myself.
It’s a quick flight to Memphis and I catch the shuttle to the hotel, an older property on the south side, a quarter-mile down the street from Graceland. It’s too early to check in so I drop off my suitcase and head over to Elvis’s old home to enjoy the tacky décor that everyone loves so much.
I tour the house which is surprisingly interesting, do a couple of the extras across the street, museums and exhibits designed to pull more money out of tourists’ wallets, then enjoy an Elvis-inspired lunch. When four p.m. rolls around, I walk to my hotel and check in discreetly the way I was told, gather my keys and head to the room.
As I’m turning the corner to the elevators, who should walk in but Asshole himself.
“Well, hey there, girlie,” he says when he spots me.
I’m dumbfounded so all I can mutter is “Hey.”
“Don’t be too nice,” he instructs me.
He heads to the hotel counter where he starts complaining about something, but I don’t want to stay and find out. I head up to my room and do an immediate search. Was the bed neatly made, the air conditioning cool, and the lights on upon arrival? Is the bathroom neat with adequate towels? Are the carpets clean with no vacuum streaks?
I’ve been to numerous hotel rooms in my travels so I know what to look for. I make notes of the patched-up water stain in the shower, the lack of a pen and notepad in the desk, and how the mini fridge makes too much noise. All of this will go into a form on the hotel’s website, but first I must check out the property. There’s a pool here, so I slip on my bathing suit and convince myself the only way to truly find out if the pool is up to snuff is to take a plunge. Besides, I’m sweaty as hell from the walk from Graceland.
Before I’m out the door, my cell phone rings. I recognize the New Orleans number and answer a bit too brusquely. “Hey sis.”
“Hey yourself. When can you come home?”
I sigh and hold the phone away from my ear to compose myself. “I’m not moving home. Can we change that tune?”
“Did I say anything about moving?”
“What do you mean, then?”
“How about when are you coming home? I did just say that, didn’t I?”
I throw down the towel, thinking this might take a while. “I’m in Memphis on a job.”
“I thought you were out of work.”
“It’s a temporary position reviewing hotels until my magazine work picks up.”
“Sounds like fun. Wish I could lounge around hotels for a living.”
“I’m not lounging around hotels.” I glance at myself in the mirror and cringe.
“Mom wants us together for Sunday dinner.”
This is news and it gets my hopes up that Sebastian might finally be heading back to Louisiana. My bratty twin works as a chef and was taken in by colleagues in the restaurant world after Katrina washed away his business. He picked up some impressive work in Atlanta, then got in good with the Delta folks and a few other corporate executives so now he’s jet-setting around the country.
“Will Sebastian be there?”
“I think so. Are you coming?”
“I fly in Saturday night. What time is dinner on Sunday?”
“Noon. See ya.”
And just like that, Portia hangs up.
“Love you, too,” I say to a dial tone.
I grab my towel but the phone rings once more.
“Did you forget to say you love me?”
“You know I do.”
It’s my faithful dog, and although I should be taking Carmine’s advice, I really want to get to that pool. “What’s up, TB?”
He hesitates and I realize my tone has derailed him. “I, uh, wanted to see if you got there okay.”
I kick myself for being terse. “I’m fine, in the hotel in Memphis.”
“Wow, Memphis. Are you going to Beale Street?”
“Maybe.” Right now, I can’t even get out the door.
“When are you coming back?”
I throw the towel back on the bed and sit down while TB launches into a discourse of his day, the problem he’s having on the construction site, and how it looks like it might take longer than necessary to finish the job.
“So, you’re saying you need to stay longer at my place?” I ask rubbing my eyes.
“More money for you. Gives me a chance to prove that we belong together.”
I try not to moan out loud. I know he’s fired up from the blue moon, thinking that fate has a role in our relationship, but we’ve been separated for two years. If it wasn’t for the health insurance and the fact that divorces cost money, I’d be legal by now.
But I bite my tongue and ride along, tell him to stay as long as he likes, accompany me to family dinner on Sunday, and to please feed Stinky for me.
“We’re old friends now.”
“Great.” There’s sarcasm there but it flies over TB’s head.
By the time TB finishes detailing everything that’s happened between yesterday morning and today, he announces that a coworker has arrived and he needs to give him a ride home. I hang up and feel less like a swim but I rally my courage anyway. I reach over to retrieve my towel and spot the massive folder Jacob had given us during training. I flip it open to make sure I know what to do and realize there are pages and pages that need filling out. I need to check out every inch of this property.
“Crap,” I mutter, knowing that I have hours of work ahead of me.
I change back into clothes and head to the lobby to grab a bite, lugging the fat folder with me. I figure I will peruse the papers over dinner — something cheap because I must pay for meals myself and get reimbursed later — and plot a course of action. Before I can ask for a table, I spot Asshole in the back of the restaurant, fussing at the waitress who looks like she’s about to cry. I immediately turn to leave, but he sees me and calls out.
“Hey Girlie.”
I reluctantly turn around and he waves me over. The last thing I want is company with this jerk but I’m not sure how to get out of it. When I reach his table, he motions for me to sit down.
“I’ve got work to do,” I say, holding up the file.
“Lots of work by the look of things.”
When he’s not yelling at people, the man owns a nice smile. His chocolate brown eyes and cute dimple on his left cheek almost make me forget his bad behavior.
“Yeah, so, nice meeting you.”
I turn to leave and he stands, which causes his thick hair to fall seductively over one eye. He pulls out a chair.
“I’ll bet I can help you with all that.”
I try to smile like I mean it, but his good looks have disarmed me. “Doubtful.”
He leans in close and says softly, “There’s a trick to reviewing these places. Buy me a drink and I’ll show you.”
I don’t know how he knows why I’m here but I take the seat he’s offering.
“Eric J. Faust.” He offers his hand and I shake it.
“Viola Valentine.”
At this, he chuckles. “Seriously? That’s your name?”
I’m not laughing, especially since only yesterday I defended it as something awesome, and I’m about ready to leave when the waitress comes back and asks for my drink order. I’m almost positive she’s been crying.
“I’ll have another bourbon on the rocks,” Eric tells her. “Make it Woodford this time since my friend here is paying. And she’ll have the same.”
Panic fills me because I don’t have much money left in my checking account and my credit card is close to being maxed out but before I can protest, E
ric pulls my folder from my hands and looks it over. “Yep, the standard Courtyard bullshit.”
“How do you know…?”
He throws the packet on the table. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Eric J. Faust.”
He gives me a smug look. “I mean within the company.”
He can’t be a manager at this place. I can’t imagine someone so ornery in charge. When I don’t answer, he leans in closer.
“You’re here to quietly observe and report back to Courtyard, correct?”
I nod.
“Of course you are. You’re a woman.” When I frown at this comment, he adds, “No offense but all the angels are women.”
“The what?”
That smug smile returns. “They didn’t tell you about us, did they?”
The waitress arrives with our drinks and Eric waits until she’s finished. “Thanks Doll,” he says and sends her a wink that clearly makes her uncomfortable but she says nothing, hurries away.
“She should have smiled. When you work in food and alcohol you have to suck it up.”
I’ve had enough of this guy and I grab my folder. “She didn’t smile because you’re an asshole.”
Eric laughs and places a hand on the folder. “Now, you understand.”
I pull at the folder but he’s holding tight. “Understand what?”
“You’re the angel and I’m the asshole.”
I stop my struggle and study him. He’s serious. “You’re a reviewer.”
He leans back in his chair and downs his drink, then signals to the waitress for another. “Now, you got it.”
“So, I do it quietly and you do it as a bad customer. Is that it?”
He holds up a finger. “Not a bad customer but one who’s not having his needs met and he’s letting the one’s responsible know about them.”
“In an asshole way.”
He smirks at this, as if I’m a child who doesn’t understand.
“Did you know they pay us more? The assholes? We’re all men, by the way. And guess what? The angels are all women.”
Figures, I think to myself, although that tidbit of information rubs me hard.
“And here’s some free advice since you’re buying drinks. Ask them for more money because they’re cheap bastards and they will pay you crap until you do.”
“Not free advice if I’m buying.”
For the first time, Asshole appears impressed by me. “You’ve got some mettle. Maybe you’ll learn something after all.”
I cross my hands in front of me and lean across the table. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to learn from you?”
The waitress places the second drink in front of him and he takes a long sip, all the while staring intently at me as if summing up what I’m capable of.
“First of all, the list is insane. If you walked around this hotel checking out every corner it would take you hours and everyone would be on to you because you’d look like Inspector Hound. Walk around like you’re bored, find a few things that need work and mark those on the list. Click okay to all the rest.”
Makes sense. “Noted.”
“Second, they throw out your forms if you don’t write in complete sentences so you can’t cut corners.”
This insults me a bit. “I’m a writer so no worries there.”
He smiles and nods his head in approval, although not for what I imagine. “Let me guess, this is a pay-the-rent job?”
I don’t answer so he continues.
“Third, and this is the most important.” He downs the rest of his expensive bourbon that has me raking my brain for where the money will come from to pay for. “Don’t be too nice. They suspect you’re not doing your job if everything’s fine. Even if you must exaggerate on how bad something is, like this glass, for instance, which could have been cleaner.”
I look at the glass he’s holding and don’t notice anything unusual. He places it on the table and I attempt a better look but he’s already standing.
“Like I said, don’t be too nice.”
When I don’t answer, just stare up at him silently, he sighs and looks heavenward.
“This is where you say, wait, asshole, I never agreed to buy you those drinks so pay up.”
I sit there, mouth agape, not sure what to do, when he turns to the waitress. “This is on me. Charge it to my room and include the lady’s dinner.”
And with that, Eric J. Faust winks and leaves me alone with my thoughts. My first one is, maybe he’s right. Time to stop being so nice.
Chapter Five
Thank goodness for Louisiana swamps I think as we drive across the LaBranche Wetlands west of New Orleans. The sleepy bald cypress and tupelo trees covered in Spanish moss, along with the summer sunlight reflecting off the green shine atop the water, give me something to focus on as TB continues his lengthy tale about some guy named Lanky Thibodeaux who’s inept with framing and it’s costing them several days’ work. This after an hour of explaining the ins and outs of pouring concrete foundations.
“How long are you going to be in Lafayette?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t detect the meaning behind my question.
“They’re short-handed since most construction is in New Orleans these days. I could make some good money if I hang out in town for a while.”
“What about the house?”
When we married, TB’s parents gifted us with a home in the Mid-City district of New Orleans, one of those cheaply made houses built after World War II when housing needs were met by quick construction. Katrina did a number on the place, filling it with water from the break in the Seventeenth Street Canal. The linoleum floor buckled along with the plywood walls, and mold covered everything for months. But, that’s not why I never want to see the place again.
“The house is coming along nicely.” TB brightens because he’s hoping against hope that I will return to New Orleans and live with him there. “Want to stop by and see.”
“Nope.”
I hate to extinguish his expectations but two days on that house’s roof, surrounded by water while my government ignored us has ruined the place for me. Wonder why. Plus it’s where we spent five years with our darling girl. I managed to save her photos from that bitch’s floodwaters so I’m good.
“The kitchen’s almost done.”
“It’s been two years and you’ve poured everything into that house, TB. You could have bought something new, somewhere else.”
TB pouts and I’m reminded of Carmine’s simile about the dog. “That’s our home, Vi.”
I don’t say anything, trying to take the high road to those who love me unconditionally, and TB thankfully doesn’t pursue it. He goes back to relating his experiences in Lafayette over the past week, this time extolling the virtues of the Cajun plate lunches he enjoyed. I must admit, the smothered fried pork chops at the Creole Lunch House sure sounds good and I make a mental note to visit.
We arrive at my mom’s house and I spot Portia’s SUV and some cute little sports car that looks vintage.
“Wow, a Karmann Ghia,” TB announces.
We grab the bottle of wine I had lying around the apartment and head inside and are greeted with a variety of voices, each one trying to be heard over the other. My family consists of several big personalities, all vying for attention. Speaking your mind — and what you say — in this family means constantly being on your best game. It’s exhausting, and most of the time I retreat somewhere quiet with a glass of wine and count the hours before I get to leave.
Sebastian greets me and my heart lifts. I have missed my twin immensely.
“Hey Brat.” I wrap him in a tight hug, then lean back and take in his outfit, something nouveau Southern gentleman, a plaid jacket with leather at the elbows and a Polo shirt over jeans. “You look like something out of Guns & Grits.”
“Funny you should mention that, twin sister.”
Guns & Grits started publication the year before and I’ve been dying to get an assignment with the high-
end Southern magazine with a name everyone outside of the South thinks ridiculous. It’s a bit high-brow for me, something people dressed like Sebastian is right now would enjoy, but I’m convinced they pay better than my regional mags and I want to tap into that revenue source.
“I’m their new chef,” Sebastian tells me proudly.
“What?”
I’m dying to hear more but Portia flits in and asks, “You only brought wine?”
TB, bless his heart, pipes in before I get defensive.
“We weren’t sure what to bring so we figured we could pick up whatever you need once we got here.”
This disarms Portia so I send my puppy a grateful smile. Still, Portia has the last word, gazing at the cheap wine in TB’s hand.
“What did you spend on that? Three bucks?”
“It’s all the rage in Breaux Bridge,” TB answers without a beat, smiling sweetly, and I picture Carmine’s smug face as he says, “I told you so.”
“We have all we need, Portia. Go watch those unruly kids of yours,” Sebastian inserts.
Portia turns her long sharp nose his way. “So sous chef with the fancy car thinks he’s a big shot now, huh?”
The arrow hits its mark, those strikes that siblings inflict so perfectly. Before the storm, the only jobs Sebastian could nab were sous chef positions. Now, because he’s a celebrity of sorts in exile, he’s risen in the ranks.
“Better than pushing papers in a law firm whose only talents are helping corporations evade taxes and ruin our coastline.”
Portia bristles. She’s one of Jackson, Weiss and LeBlanc’s top lawyers but she rarely goes to court, instead settles for oil companies accused of environmental destruction and the erosion of the Louisiana coast, which disappears more each year, including making New Orleans more susceptible to storms. She and Sebastian argue over preservation of the earth versus rights of businesses every time they get together.
“Well, excuse me for having a real job.” Portia makes a point to look at both of us. “Some of us have to make a living and support the family.”
She heads to the kitchen in a huff and Sebastian and I laugh in her wake.
“What a drama queen,” he says.
Ghost Town Page 7
