A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (book series to read .txt) 📖

My ex-husband stands in the doorway, clueless as usual. He thinks I’m happy to see him when I’m ready to strangle him until his tongue turns purple.

“What are you doing here?” I practically shout.

“I thought it would be a nice surprise.” He pulls open the door wide. “Wait until you see the room. It’s really cool.”

TB grabs my polka dot suitcase and throws it on the bed, wrinkling the bedspread in the process. Now that I get a good look at it, the bed’s totally disturbed as if someone has been stretched out on it all afternoon. Seeing that the TV is on some basketball game, I know who the culprit is.

I look around and he’s obviously enjoyed a nice meal via room service. The tray containing an empty plate, utensils and those tiny little condiments I love to bring home is spread out across the bureau and two beer bottles are lying on the floor by the nightstand. His backpack has vomited clothes all over the floor. I peek into the old-fashioned bathroom with its giant tub and pedestal sink and see bath products open and scattered about.

It’s everything I can do not to scream. “Damn it, TB. I have to shoot this room.”

Again, lights on, no one’s there. “Huh?”

“This isn’t a vacation, you idiot. I’m here doing a story for the magazine. And these people who pay for all this do it for me, not you!”

TB tilts his head like a puppy, his oversized brown eyes glazed with confusion. “It’s a hotel room, Vi. How does me being here cost them anything?”

I shake my head in amazement. “Who paid for the room service?”

He gazes at the mess he’s made, mouth open. “Isn’t that part of the free room?”

All I can utter at this point is some loud animalistic noise, which, coupled with the head injury, causes me to see white spots floating across the ceiling.

“I thought this would be a nice romantic chance for us to reconnect,” TB insists.

I turn, mouth agape, staring at him as if he’s lost his mind. I speak softly as much to contain my anger as to make this child understand. “We’re separated, remember? That means you and me, different places. No more marriage.”

TB looks away dejected, digging his hands deep within his torn and worn Levys. “So says you.”

“So says the court,” I remind him. “It’s official. I left you. We’re divorcing. End of story.”

I look around at the mess he’s made, realizing that a photo is now impossible. I’ll have to wait until he leaves and the maid cleans up the room, which means I must move all my stuff into the closet and not be able to spread out like TB has already done. I rub my eyes and groan, not because it’s that big of a deal that I haven’t shot a ready-made room and gotten it out of the way, but because I so wanted to slip into this delicious Victorian room, enjoy a bath and be alone for two hours. The last person I wanted to see was my ex-husband.

“You’re mad at me?”

Can this day get any worse? “Ya think?”

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” he says defensively, as if I’m being the jerk.

“Yeah, great surprise.”

“What’s the big deal? You get all this for free.”

At this, I’m now incensed beyond any rational limits and I know that if the conversation continues I will murder this man. I get right up into his face to make sure he understands every word I’m about to say.

“This is a press trip,” I say through clenched teeth slowly and succinctly so he doesn’t miss a thing. “They pay for everything for me so that I will write about it. It’s not a vacation. Why would they pay for you to eat their food when you’re not writing about it? What did you think you would do all day and night while I’m out running around covering Eureka Springs? Because I’m here doing a story!”

At this point my voice has reached shouting level and I’m suddenly reminded of my headache, which has increased tenfold and rising. I touch the back of my head where the dried blood clot remains. “I need a bath,” is all I can manage.

TB starts to speak but I throw up an angry finger in his face. He attempts it again, but I give him the evil eye. “Don’t,” I manage to whisper. Anything louder coming out of my mouth and my head will blow for sure.

I try to exhale, to resume a steady breath so I won’t pass out on the floor, and it’s then that TB notices my injury. “Vi, what happened?” he says, sounding genuinely concerned, which brings back the guilt that’s been my companion for the past three years. I know this man loves me, and I’m sorry for it, but this marriage is not to be. Died a long time ago, buried the day Lillye was laid to rest. If he had any sense in that pea brain of his he would have figured it out and moved on. Or better yet, admit that he doesn’t love me either.

I can’t go there now. The room begins to spin and I desperately need to crawl into a dark hole and find my balance.

“Where is my suitcase?” I mutter and like a puppy dog TB retrieves it, holding it in front of us as I’m supposed to gratefully take it from his arms. And do what I wonder. When did I find this man attractive, I think before I haul the heavy suitcase into my arms, throwing it back on the bed.

“I got this,” I mutter, pulling out my ditty bag and heading for the bathroom.

I’m not two steps from heaven when there’s a knock on the door.

“If it’s maid service, tell them to come back,” I say.

“It’s probably your tour guide.”

This stops me cold. “Who?”

“Henry something.”

I spin around, the fuze lit and the spark speeding along the cord, ready to blow my brains apart. “Henry knows you’re here?”