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

had to stop the jealousy rising in my chest. As much as I love my new freedom and finally realizing my dream, I’m scared as hell at the lack of financial security and I’m trying hard not to remember that fact.

“You did what?” Mary Jo asks me, which surprises me as much as TB’s reaction.

“I don’t understand why this is such a surprise.”

“Viola, you’re upset because of the disaster,” she says, patting my hand. “The loss of your house, “It’s a mother-in-law unit,” I answer way too defensively.

My mother calls my home in the neighboring town of Lafayette a potting shed because of its ruggedness — okay, it’s a bit frayed at the edges — and refuses to set foot inside. Which turned out to be a good thing; my parents never visit.

“Deliah said it was a dump.”

“You talked to my mother?”

“I can find you a really nice place in New Orleans....”

“Can’t afford it now that I’ve gone freelance. You talked to my mother?”

Mary Jo takes my hand and squeezes. “We’re worried about you.”

I pull my hand back and offer up my best “life is good, what hurricane?” smile. Nothing is taking me down today. “My landlord is letting me live there free in exchange for keeping an eye on the big house,” I say, trying to eliminate the defensive edge from my voice. It could have been a closet and I would have eagerly agreed. Well, it kinda is.

“It’s part of the freedom package that’s allowing me to work as a travel writer and not go back to that horrid newsroom,” I continue. “You know how miserable I was.”

Mary Jo tilts her head as if to start a “Yes, but....”

“Did I tell you that Reece, my Cajun landlord, isn’t hard on the eyes?”

Wrong thing to say when you’re fresh into a separation.

“This is all too soon to be thinking of dating your landlord, Vi.”

“Who said dating? He’s married.”

Mary Jo winces. “Maybe you and TB should get counseling.”

“You never liked TB,” I add. “Since when are you taking his side?”

TB stands for T-Bubba. My ex loves to joke about his name, calling himself half Cajun, half redneck since the Cajun “T” stands for “petite,” or “Petite (Little) Bubba.” His father, the redneck half, was Bubba Senior. My mom calls TB a disease.

Mary Jo huffs while shaking a packet of Sweet-n-Low before ripping off the side and pouring the cancerous substance into her coffee. Just watching her sip that pink stuff leaves an awful aftertaste in my mind and I swallow hard.

“A divorce is a pretty big step,” she says. “And you just went through a traumatic experience. You don’t need to pile more stress on your life.”

What’s a little more stress after axing your way through an attic when lake waters rushed through your home, to sit on a rooftop for two days while your government ignored you? Not knowing where your twin brother was for more than a week. In fact, now that Sebastian is working as a temp in the restaurant industry and moving around the Deep South, I still don’t know.

Brat.

“I’ll be fine.” Weirdly enough, I actually believe that, feel infinitely better. The future is unstable but the possibilities are endless.

Mary Jo doesn’t share in my excitement. The light behind her eyes disappear, replaced by a comatose stare she once exhibited when she thought Lampton “Scoop” Mallard over at the KA house was having an affair. Goosebumps run up my arm and panic fills my chest.

“Is this about Lillye?” she asks quietly.

Time to leave. I check my watch. “I need to go. My plane leaves at ten.”

“Viola.” Mary Jo grabs my hand as I rise. “This is all so horrible. You lost everything and now you’re getting a divorce and living in someone’s potting shed.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek, knowing she means well. I have my photos. Really, what else matters?

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

Mary Jo grins through the tears; she really is a good friend. I give her a tight hug and roll my pink and white polka dot luggage I nabbed at Goodwill to the Honda that TB had insisted I keep (he’s spending his share of the FEMA money on a pickup). I have to stop by the house and give TB the mail, since mail service in New Orleans is spotty at best. Our insurance check finally arrived, so I need to hand it off to TB before I fly out so he can continue renovations.

I drive through the tourist-infested French Quarter amazed at how the lure of Bourbon Street keeps them coming no matter what. Good thing our founding fathers settled the heart of the city above sea level. You’d never know a disaster happened gazing out at the crowds strolling through the ancient quarter, giant drinks shaped like bombs in their hands, those tacky beads around their necks making the Whitakers rich, and silly grins produced when alcohol mixes with the freedom to be whoever you wish to be.

The closer I get to Rampart, however, the more damage I spot, blue tarps on the roofs to keep the rain out, piles of mildewed sheetrock by the curb. I turn and head over to Canal and move toward the lakeside of town, an area called Mid-City where TB and I lived. The waterline is evident here, like a child extended his hand with a pen between his fingers, letting it mark up the sides of houses. The further west I travel, the higher the mark, like I’m slowly descending under water and into hell.

In fact, I am. All that euphoria of staying at the elegant, historic Monteleone Hotel in the heart of the romantic French Quarter disappears and the horror of Katrina stares back at me everywhere. I swallow hard, fighting down the bile and panic as I gaze at the blocks upon blocks of water-logged homes and the empty shopping centers and dead traffic lights. One corner still sports an abandoned boat from the rescue days. A pack of dogs runs wild down Iberville Street. A billboard blown free of its tethers has landed in a housetop and I see a smiling woman enjoying coffee peeking out by the chimney.

This is what Mary Jo and my mother want me to live in. I vow to hand TB his mail and haul ass to the airport.

He must have heard me drive up for TB is halfway to the curb by the time I turn off the engine. I’m not happy to see him and that old guilt comes back with a rush. I could write a dissertation on why my marriage failed, but sum it up with one sentence: The man aggravates the hell out of me. For years I tried to hide it, put “a nice face on” as my mother would say, but the nastiness in my voice bubbles to the surface and pours out, sometimes in turrets.

Before I’m able to grab the mail and lock up the car, TB’s staring at me over the hood. “Mary Jo called in tears, said she’s worried about you.”

I groan, pushing the lock button on the door; I wasn’t able to afford one of those push-button kind you carry on a key chain. I even roll down my windows the old-fashioned way. “What could possibly be wrong?” I ask TB sarcastically, laughing.

“She said you’re on your way somewhere.”

I don’t feel like explaining to the world where I am and what I’m doing because family and friends keep trying to talk me out of it. And get counseling. Both of which I don’t intend to do. Even though TB’s motivation is to get me back into the marriage, I keep it simple. “I’m going on a press trip.”

“Oh yeah, what for?”

Here come the twenty questions. TB’s idea of a conversation is asking mundane questions, like a three-year-old following a parent around the house. “What are you doing?” “What’s your plans for today?” “What do you want to do for dinner?” “Was that the mail?”

“I got invited to go somewhere, to do a travel story,” I tell him.

“Where are you going?”

I shouldn’t have blurted it out but my multi-tasking brain is busy focusing on getting to the sidewalk and not on the elderly man across the street staring. A shiver runs up my spine as I feel those cold black eyes upon me. “I’m heading to Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”

“What for?”

I pull TB through our front gate and head up toward the house, glancing back to see if the old man is still there. He is. And his gaze still bores holes into my back.

“Who is that?” I whisper to TB.

“Who is what?”

A normal person would have had trouble comprehending how TB could have missed this intense weirdo across the street, but TB is regularly clueless. I turn toward the house but pause at the porch and hand TB the mail.  

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“Uh, no.” I had seen all I had wanted of our house about a month after Katrina, when they finally let residents into the parish to view what was left — if anything — of their homes. Weeks under water can do amazing things to a person’s belongings, like a stick of butter in the microwave left on high too long. I don’t want to step foot in that house again.

TB marches up the steps. “Want to see what I’ve done with the kitchen? I painted the cabinets and found some nice granite pieces half price.”

I’m not following. “Really? I need to get to the airport.”

He nods but I can tell he wants to talk, try to convince me a legal separation isn’t the best route. Thankfully my trip to the courthouse last week