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

suit with semi-high heels and an apron, stirring a pot of something that smells heavenly.

“Gumbo?”

My mother never was much of a cook, relied on Sebastian’s culinary talents and the local take-outs for our sustenance. But she makes a damn good gumbo, now that the requisite roux comes in a jar and all one must do is add the trinity — onions, bell peppers and celery — and whatever meat you choose. My mother prefers chicken and Andouille sausage.

“Your sister went to get French bread and your brother’s due any minute. I didn’t have a problem reaching either of them.”

I steal a piece of lettuce from the salad bowl, realizing I’m starving. “That’s funny because my dear twin Sebastian never answers me.”

She turns at this point, roux spoon perched on her hip, and looks at me sternly. “You didn’t lose a tenured professorship at Tulane only to have to commute to a community college in Baton Rouge. I’m teaching English 101 now! At the community college! And the man who did my roof? There’s a leak in the hall bathroom.”

I’m too stunned to speak, don’t even know where to begin. But what did I expect? I love my family, I truly do, but their narcissism drives me insane and after the week I had… I grab a beer from the refrigerator and pop it open. “Sorry Mom,” I manage and head for the living room.

“That’s it? Sorry Mom?”

I fall into the couch and stare at the floor. “New carpeting?”

Thankfully, this derails her. “Of course. We had water damage from the roof.”

“In the game room.”

She stands over me like a sentinel. “It had to match.”

“Of course,” I repeat, taking a long sip of my beer and trying not to remember what my house looked like after the storm and the baby steps it’s taking to bring it to livable status, thanks to our slow moving insurance company. I say my house; it’s TB’s now.

My mom’s eyes narrow. She’s not used to me being this confident. Usually, I wallow at her feet and give her what she wants. “What happened?”

When I look up I find my mother staring at me as if she senses something’s wrong, that she actually cares. And truth be told, she really does, was constantly by my side when Lillye died. She just lets all that self-centeredness get in the way.

I’m debating whether to let down my guard and talk about my problems when Portia enters the house, her belly crossing the threshold before she does, followed by three-year-old Demetrius (it’s a girl, Demi for short; she’s continuing the Shakespeare tradition). When my greatly pregnant sister sees me sprawled on the couch, feet splayed on the coffee table, beer in my right hand, she gives me a stare worthy of our mother. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

I can’t help but laugh. And I’m the least intelligent member of this family?

Portia drops the bag containing French bread like it’s a sack of bricks, placing her hands at her lower back to stretch. She’s looking for help, sympathy, who knows what, and sitting between these two attention whores leaves me speechless, considering the horrid week I just had.

“I know you’ve been on vacation which must have been so tiring but do you think you can help out here?”

Ordinarily I would grind my teeth and pitch in, appease the family members while stewing over the experience for weeks. Not today. “You’re right Portia, I did have an exhausting week because I was working the whole time. Thanks for noticing.” I look up and give her a smug smile. “I’m sure you can handle one loaf of French bread.”

Mom smacks me on the arm with the roux spoon. “You should help your sister.”

Portia pulls the plastic bag carrying the bread on to her elbow, then picks up Demi — who’s quite happy climbing on the living room furniture and doesn’t need a lift — and sighs heavily as she follows mom into the kitchen. “Great,” I think, “back to being by myself.”

The two of them are mumbling in the kitchen, no doubt about me and my selfishness, so I down the rest of the beer. It’s then that I notice there’s a box on the floor by my feet with my name written on the side. I pull the top open and find a note and a set of Bentonville mugs.

“Mom, did TB come by?”

“Why don’t you come in here and help us, maybe we’d tell you,” Portia yells back.

I open the note and TB has written:

Vi,

Got home okay but you’ve probably figured that out by now. Ha, ha. Here are those things that you wanted me to bring home for you. Hope you don’t mind but the hotel manager insisted I pick out a polo shirt for you too. It’s on the bottom. I swear he insisted!”

I pull out a gorgeous blue shirt with the hotel’s logo on it, glance around to make sure no one’s looking and pull it on so I no longer smell like I’ve been on the road for a week. It’s a lovely shirt, fits me perfectly and I wish I had been kinder to TB about accepting the graft. The rest of the note adds to the guilt.

I miss you, Vi. Always will. I know you have to do what you have to do but please always remember how much I love you. We are connected through a love and a grief that people will never be able to understand. For that alone, we need each other. No matter what you decide going forward, I am and always will be your friend. TB

I look at the ceiling to fight off the tears. Damn that man.

PS, that cop you think is so cute called me. (He’s a bit of an ass if you ask me.) He lost your card and he somehow remembered my name. Anyway, he said to tell you that the groundskeeper moved to Pennsylvania after the murders, then showed up in Washington two months later, so there was two months in between where they can’t place him and it was about the time of Annabelle’s murder. Does that make sense to you? Call me if you want me to explain more.

I sit up and that familiar buzzing returns, although I’m hundreds of miles from Lori and the Crescent Hotel. Did Gene Tanner return to Eureka Springs and kill Lori? Why? I’m raking my brain trying to make sense of this when who should waltz in the door but my brat twin brother. “Hey girl!” he announces as if he hasn’t been away for months and ignoring me.

I can’t help myself. I smugly say, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

He plants a kiss on the top of my head and heads toward the kitchen. “That’s original. Is there more of that beer?”

I hear my mom and sister greet him with delight and the old jealousy emerges. Always the odd person out in this family. “I’m not going there,” I command myself, although it’s harder this time to believe it. I gaze into the box to see if I missed anything and there on the bottom lies another envelope with TB’s handwriting exclaiming, “Look what I found!” I gingerly open the envelope and find a baby blue stone inside, my angelite from the cave in Alabama.

“Oh my god,” I whisper as I close my fingers around it tight and feel it humming within my grip.

“What’s that?” Sebastian joins me in the living room, stretching out in the easy chair opposite me, sipping a beer.

“Where the hell have you been?”

He looks injured and confused. “Working in Atlanta.”

“You never answer my texts or emails.”

He shrugs and smiles like I’m saying something ridiculous and I want to slap him. “I’m a chef, Vi. We work all the time.”

For years Sebastian was my best friend, my confidant, the jester who made me laugh when Mom gave me a hard time, when Dad left. We shared a womb, then a childhood together, followed by weathering a bitter divorce. But now that he’s been on The Food Network and named one of the city’s Top Chefs by Big Easy magazine, I rarely see the man. And it hurts deeply.

“Know what I did this week?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. “I cooked for the CEO of Delta Airlines on his private jet.”

“That’s great,” I say half-heartedly. This is the new Sebastian, the one that talks non-stop about his cool jobs and the famous people he meets.

“Half the plane were celebrities,” Sebastian says and starts naming them. Yep, there it is.

“I started my new career as a travel writer,” I say, leaving out the part of it crashing and burning. “Went to northwest Arkansas on my first trip.”

“Arkansas?” Sebastian says with a sneer. “Wow. How exciting.”

“Actually it was.” Snob.

“Oh,” Sebastian says, pulling something from his breast pocket, “as a tip, the CEO gave me a voucher for a roundtrip plane ticket anywhere in the U.S. On Delta, of course. I was thinking of Hawaii but I have a couple of friends throwing a party this weekend in Key West. Can’t decide.”

“You’re leaving already?”

He completely ignores the meaning behind that question, that I miss him and want him to stay and spend time with me. “I have to check flights and see. If I can’t get out in the morning, I’ll probably stay a couple of days and go to Hawaii.” He finishes the beer and rises,