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

I’m cradling my coffee outside Merrill’s shop, waiting for ten a.m. to roll around. By the time I had reached the New Orleans airport and caught the first flight to Atlanta, it had been close to five o’clock so I ended up in Bentonville as they shut down the airport. I stayed the night in a cheap motel in Rogers, amazed at the irony of me escaping the very scenario only to return and do it anyway. At least I didn’t have to face Richard this time.

I rented a car, determined not to care that I was driving up the credit card I worked so hard to clean out, and drove over to Eureka Springs first thing in the morning. I paused along the way at a mountainside diner and enjoyed a huge breakfast of eggs, country ham, biscuits and grits while I watched hummingbirds flit about the patio feeders and fog drift lazily across the Ozarks.

I had purposely ignored my phone the whole trip but over breakfast decided to check my messages. And there were plenty: Sebastian furious that I stole his voucher, Mom “disappointed and hurt” that I didn’t stay for supper and Portia fusing because she didn’t want to be excluded and oh, by the way, could I babysit Demi next week? I texted the three of them, “I love you too” and threw the phone in my purse, grinning, which made the waitress smile while she poured me another cup of coffee.

“Having a great day?” she asked.

I smiled back. “Yes, ma’am.”

She gave me a lovely coffee to go and here I now sit in the still damp Crescent Hotel Polo I managed to wash out last night. I’m waiting for Merrill to arrive, staring at that damn Hanged Man gracing her window.

I flip him the bird.

A light comes on inside the store but it’s only nine-thirty so I hesitate to knock. I peer inside, though, and see an elderly woman in a flowing rose kimono over jeans who’s opening up the cash register. She notices me before I’m able to pull back and she heads for the door, sticking her head out slightly. “We don’t open until ten.”

“I know. I was waiting for Merrill.”

The lady opens the door wider. “Can I help you with something?”

Suddenly, I see the resemblance and my instincts prove me right. Of course, why hadn’t I put these clues together before?

“You’re Merrill’s mom.”

Now the door opens wide and the woman studies me intently. “Do I know you?”

I shake my head and hold out my hand. “No ma’am. I’m Viola Valentine, one of the travel writers who was here this past week.”

She takes my hand in her right, then cradles our greeting with her left. She’s genuine, this Southern lady, all etiquette and warmth. “Annie Seligman. I heard all about you. You’re the one who saw those poor girls.”

“Yep, that’s me.”

Annie releases my hand and heads into the store, motioning for me to follow. “There’s a big story about those poor girls in the paper today. Come on in. I have a copy.”

I follow and spot that row of angelite on the center display case, like I had witnessed in my vision with Lillye, and goosebumps run up my spine.

“Are you cold?” Annie asks, as she flips through some papers on the counter. “I can turn up the heat. It looks like warm weather hasn’t arrived after all.”

“No thank you ma’am, I have a sweater.” I’m loving the crisp spring air, knowing that my oppressive Louisiana summer is right around the bend.

Annie finds the newspaper and holds it up proudly. The article states that a decades-old mystery involving the disappearance of three young coeds has been solved, accented by the manly face of Madman Maddox speaking at a podium. Of course, he gets all the credit, but then what would I have added to the story? Mentioning ghosts was something we had all avoided.

“Cool.” I take the newspaper from Annie’s outstretched hands and pretend to read. I really don’t care at this point. When I feel her gaze staring at me, I look up and find she’s studying me intently.

“Did you really see those girls? Merrill said you can see ghosts.”

Annie doesn’t appear distrustful or defiant so I assume I’m on safe ground. But then what would you expect from the mother of rock-loving, New Age following, anti-establishment Merrill Seligman, aka Cassiopeia? “Yes ma’am, I did see them. But I don’t see all ghosts, just those who have died by water.”

“That’s incredible.” Again, she’s genuinely impressed and for once I’m glad to be a SCANC. Sort of.

“I’m hoping so. It’s been rather crazy so far.”

With that thought, I hand her back the newspaper and take a long drink from my coffee, gathering up courage. Standing before me is the woman holding answers to the bigger mystery of Eureka Springs. I venture forth, “By any chance are you adopted?”

The blood drains from Annie’s face and that affable demeanor disappears. Either I hit a nerve or said an inappropriate thing for Annie stares at me like a zombie and the papers in her hands begin to rattle. I’m about to apologize and explain when the door swings open and Merrill strides through, wearing a loose-fitting dress made of some organic material like hemp and a bright pink scarf tossed about her aka Grace Kelly. The apple didn’t fall far.

“I thought you left,” Merrill says when she spies me in the center of her store. “They said you checked out.”

“I did. I came back.” Why is everything I’m saying this morning sounding so incredibly bizarre?

Merrill looks at me puzzled, then spots the confused look on her mother’s face and grows concerned. “What’s going on?”

“Um.” I start to explain but Annie raises her left hand and stops me.

“Merrill, sweetie, we need to talk.”

Now, Merrill’s face pales. “Did something happen? What’s going on?”

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Annie suggests and she motions for us to take seats in the comfy chairs by the store’s bay window, making sure the front door is locked on her way over. Annie gets comfortable and takes Merrill’s hand in hers and places both in her lap. “Remember that letter your grandfather wrote to that girl named Annabelle? The one you borrowed to show this nice young lady?”

Merrill glances at me briefly, then back at her mom. “Yeah.”

“Well, it got me to thinking. When you mentioned the name of Caballero, well I was sure I had seen that name somewhere in your grandfather’s things.”

I’ll bet you have, I think to myself, but keep quiet.

“There were some letters from Ohio to a James Caballero but they were written in Italian so I never gave them much thought, assumed they were a constituent of my dad’s when he was mayor — or something like it. Still, it got my curiosity up so I kept looking.”

“Did you find out who he was?” Merrill asks, looking over at me and no doubt remembering what I had told her about James.

Annie places both hands over Merrill’s, like she did mine at our greeting. “I’m afraid, my dear, that Caballero was my real father. I’m adopted, you see.”

Merrill exhales the tension she’s been holding since we first sat down and leans back in her chair. “Oh Mom, I don’t think you understand.”

Annie continues as if she hadn’t heard what Merrill has said. “Caballero and his wife must have been immigrants fresh off the boat and not able to care for me, possible a friend or family member of your grandfather’s. Or perhaps it was something worse. Neither of my parents said a word about this my whole life. I never for a moment thought I wasn’t theirs.”

Merrill and I both know who James Caballero really is, and what he did, but Merrill doesn’t want to rush her mother into the truth. She sighs again, gazing over at me for support. “Why do you think this Caballero guy is your dad?”

Annie releases her daughter’s hand and crosses her arms about her as if chilled. “I found a birth certificate hidden deep inside my grandfather’s desk that had me born to different parents. It had all the same