A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (book series to read .txt) đź“–
- Author: Cherie Claire
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“Hey,” she says with an adorable tilt of her head. She’s wearing tight jeans, leather boots and a cute top that accentuates her bosom. Her makeup highlights her oversized blue eyes and sensuous lips — think Angelina Jolie — and her hair curls gracefully about her shoulders. I immediately hate her. “Viola?”
I don’t know this woman so I’m stumped, but unlike Madman I know how to pretend. “Yes, that’s me.”
She pulls her rolling suitcase to a halt and extends her hand, fingers exquisitely manicured. “I’m Kelly Talbot, the one who got stuck in Atlanta.”
I offer my collection of fingers my mother dubs “steak fries.” “We thought you weren’t going to make it in tonight.”
“Managed a stand-by and rented a car,” she says with a sugary sweet Southern accent. Georgia, perhaps?
Maddox clears his throat and I realize I have forgotten my manners. “Kelly, this is Maddox Bertrand of the Eureka Springs Police Department. I had a bit of a mishap today and he’s here to haul me off to jail.”
Neither one retorts to the joke, both appearing incredibly happy at what they are staring at. She extends her hand and gives her name again, but this time tilts her head coquettishly, which sends long, silky hair cascading over her shoulder. She and TB could be romance novel covers. I’m thinking maybe I should introduce them and mention it.
Maddox eats it up, of course. Men become silly putty at times like these. “Are you a travel writer on this trip, too? Will we be seeing more of you?”
“I’m an editor,” Kelly clarifies. “With Southern Gardens magazine.”
Now, I really hate this woman. Southern Gardens was my dream job and I applied for three positions with them before giving up, couldn’t get a foot in the door. TB used to say I was crazy for applying since I lived in the world’s most interesting city while the magazine was in Athens, Georgia. But Southern Gardens vs. covering the police beat in St. Bernard Parish? Hell, I could have always visited New Orleans, not to mention that Athens is a pretty cool place, a town where REM and the B-52s got their start.
“I love that magazine,” Maddox says with a stupid grin and I look at him puzzled. I can’t imagine him reading anything but Guns & Ammo.
“Well, I’m going to get some shut eye,” Miss Georgia announces with that sweet tea accent, placing her key in the lock.
“So nice to meet you,” Maddox says with more enthusiasm than he ever showed me tonight, and Miss Georgia disappears. Maddox finally turns back to me and our conversation but the handsome smile he bestowed upon my neighbor is long gone. He pulls out a card from his shirt pocket and his authoritative Po-Po voice returns as he hands it my way. “If you think of anything or have anything else to add, you’ve got my number.”
My heart leaps, although my logical brain is telling me not to read anything into this gesture. Still, I wonder like the naïve fool that I am, is he hitting on me? I gratefully take his card and find myself smiling silly. “Great. And if you have any more information on the case, I’d love to hear it. Not as a journalist,” I quickly add. “I mean I am still a journalist but I’m a travel writer now. No more awful police beat.”
Why did I say that?
“Not that police business is awful,” I quickly add. “Just that I’ve got a really great job now as a travel writer. Get to visit cool places like this.” I move my hand in the air to indicate that I’m now way up in the world, staying at posh hotels like the Crescent.
Maddox smiles politely, his forehead slightly wrinkled in a frown and I wonder if I shot myself in the foot. “Talk to you later,” is all he says and saunters off. But I take this as encouraging, hoping that he giving me his card means we will hook up sometimes in the future.
When I wonder back in the room TB has crashed on the bed, TV remote in his hand, thumb on a channel while he snores loudly. I turn off the TV, pull the blankets up to his chin and roll him over like I have for the past eight years, minus the last few months.
I change into my nightgown, one of the few things I have not purchased at Goodwill, and for the first time in a very long while feeling sexy, even though my logical brain is trying to rewind the scenes with Maddox and point out his disinterest. I refuse to admit that the man was way more interested in Kelly, convince myself he was just being polite with the garden editor, then I wash my face, apply the hotel’s mint and rosemary body lotion and brush my teeth. My headache has disappeared, I realize, and glance down at the Eureka Springs Police Department business card and smile.
I’m headed to bed with visions of hunky detectives dancing in my head when I spot her. She’s waiting for me in the corner of the room, dressed in schoolgirl attire like in the photo. No longer hazy, I can make out the Crescent College and Conservatory for Young Women logo on her breast pocket, the mauve ribbon carelessly tied in her hair, even the color of her eyes — bayou mud brown. I detect nothing of the sadness from before, no longing or heartache. Tonight, she’s anxious, as if her patience has been exhausted and it’s time for something to happen.
“What?” I ask, not thinking that I’m speaking to a ghost. “What do you want me to know?”
Before I can comprehend what is happening, the girl rushes toward me, her spirit pulsing through my body in a sensation I can only describe as being touched by a million lightning bugs. As the electricity pours through my being, I feel my eyes rolling back in my head and I lose myself.
I’m standing in the meeting room that I visited earlier, the one that held the photo of the girl and other hotel memorabilia next to the Baker Bar, but it’s a different time. I sense I still belong to myself, still existing within my own body, but I also feel part of the ether and those around me. As the room comes into focus, I make out several schoolgirls and a teacher, all of whom are excited about some good news.
“I couldn’t be more proud of you all,” says the teacher whose name is James Cabellero. I don’t know how but his name appears clear in my head as the figure before me, a slender man in his late twenties with premature salt and pepper hair and deep brown eyes, more homely than handsome but there’s something attractive about him, that old college professor appeal I suppose? Could also be his enthusiasm, as if he had just left college and entered the teaching profession.
“A national literary award,” James says. “Think of what this means to not only the school but to your parents. Not to mention for some of you who want to become writers.”
James looks over my shoulder with a loving smile and I imagine he’s sending me that warm, affectionate gesture. Instinctively, I smile back, glowing in the recognition of my work that my family routinely fails to offer.
“We owe it all to you.”
His gaze passes right through me and I know he can’t be admiring me at this point. I turn to find the schoolgirl of my room — her name is Lauralei Thorne, Lori for short — sending the teacher a doe-eyed smile. As I glance back and forth between two people we might call geeks in the modern world, I wonder what’s going on between them.
James breaks the connection and turns to the other girls, about seven pimpled-faced coeds in identical uniforms, ranging in age between what I imagined to be seventeen and twenty. They’ve gathered around his desk, all smiles, one playing with his pencil sharpener, another bouncing up and down with glee.
“It was a concerted effort created by the unbelievable talents of my outstanding class,” James continues.
He sends Lori another smile but only briefly this time, as if he senses someone might catch on. I look back at my roommate and find her awkwardly smoothing out her skirt, the same outfit the blond wore in the cave, I suddenly notice.
As this scene continues to unfold before me, I’m not only viewing this gathering but picking up emotions from everyone as well. The rest of the girls come through as a ball of energy, unfocused with erratic thoughts consuming most girls that age. Will my dad be proud? Is my hair combed right? Will anyone notice my skirt is not the required three inches below the knee? But James and Lori emit messages through the fog, and it’s clear these two have more than a teacher-student relationship, although I’m doubtful anything physical has happened yet.
In the same flash of a second the vision appeared, I’m back on the floor of my room, gazing up at the ceiling, my head splitting for the second time that day.
“Did you say something?” TB asks from the bed, above my line of sight.
I sit up and gaze around the Victorian room with its deep reds, heavy furniture and an oversized plush chair, none of which belonged to my dead roommate — at least I sure hope she’s dead. I sense, now, this room was used by students during the college era, although the configuration has been changed over the years.
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