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

time I let it slide. People are always mispronouncing my crazy name, but Winnie feels like a friend and I figure she won’t take offense.

She doesn’t. “Sorry,” she says with a laugh. “I never know how to say that name. I always got it wrong when I was studying Twelfth Night in high school.”

“My mom teaches Shakespeare at Tulane,” I say with a shrug. “She prefers the tragedies but I have a twin.”

Winnie laughs and I know my first impression was right on. She’s going to be fun. “Don’t tell me you’re a cross dresser too.”

Irene appears lost in this conversation so I explain how Viola and her twin Sebastian become shipwrecked in Twelfth Night and Viola wears men’s clothing to protect herself while she searches for Sebastian. It’s a great play, one of my favorites with Viola assisting Duke Arsenio to woo Olivia while Olivia falls for Viola, who’s really a girl in love with Duke. My mother, on the other hand, thinks Shakespeare’s comedies are like religion, something to keep the ignorant entertained.

Henry arrives and we all pile in the van. Since Richard was the last stop on the way in, he’s the first to be picked up. So, naturally, he’s in the front seat. Irene hangs back and whispers to us under her breath. “That man will find every excuse to be in the front. You just watch.”

Winnie laughs, and when Irene makes no attempt to enter the rear of the van, opens the side door and crawls into the back seat. I wonder if sitting in the second row, which takes little effort in and out of the van, will be Irene’s MO as well. Just for fun — or possibly because I’m feeling desperately out of place and in need of a friend — I join Winnie in the back.

Of course, I stumble once more, snagging my purse on the second-row armrest, which sprays the belongings all over the back floor. I ungracefully swing my butt to the seat and pull my shirt down which has risen above my waist exposing my lovely white interior. I would laugh if this happened once and a while, but unfortunately it’s my MO.

Winnie helps me gather the contents of my purse and is about to remark on the incident — or ask just why the hell I’m in the back to begin with — when I interrupt, asking, “So, where are you from?”

“No place Mississippi.” She laughs heartedly. “Some place I’m sure you’ve never heard of.”

She’s probably right but I pride myself on knowing the South. It’s my travel writing specialty, although mostly because I can’t afford to go too far afield. “Try me.”

“Duck Hill.” She pulls it out long and slow for emphasis, so it emerges like several syllables instead of two. I don’t know if she’s doing that on purpose or it’s her accent hanging thick. She pauses, watches my face, a smirk lingering a few seconds away.

“Okay,” I finally answer. “You got me.”

Winnie laughs and it feels good to hear it. I suddenly realize how starved I am for female friendship, the kind where you meet up for margarita specials, talk for hours and laugh in ridiculous ways, margarita salt coming out your nose.

“It’s tiny.” She leans in close and whispers, “Our claim to fame is we instigated the anti-lynching bill in Congress.”

I winch. “Not exactly a tourist destination, I guess.”

“Hard-ly,” she replies in a singsong fashion. “But I live outside of Oxford now. I met my husband at Ole Miss and he got a job as the planetarium director at the local science museum. I write and raise kids — both the human kind and the ones that bleat — and he plays geek to other people’s kids.”

“Sounds cool.”

She shrugs. “Can be. You have any kids?”

I shake my head, wondering if Lillye would be the age of one of hers if she were still alive. Pushing that thought deep inside — I’m weary of being depressed and the thought of having fun with another human being is too enticing — I keep the mood light.

“Just me. I got rid of my husband.”

Winnie bends her head to one side, studying me. “I hope that was a good move.”

“Oh yeah,” I say with the same slow Southern style, which makes us both laugh. Yep, we’re definitely on the same wavelength.

“What are you girls talking about back there?” Richard calls out from the front.

“You, of course,” Winnie answers.

“We want in on the jokes,” Richard demands.

She turns to me and rolls her eyes.

“Have you traveled with him before?” I whisper.

“Twice.” Winnie’s eyes widen as she shakes her head. “If they would have told me he was on this trip, I wouldn’t have come.”

“Really, what are you two talking about?” Richard asks again.

“How much we love traveling with you, Richard,” Winnie yells out, and I can’t help laughing. “Where are you going next? I want to make sure I go too.”

Richard completely misses the sarcasm and spends the rest of the trip to downtown Bentonville relating his travel writing itinerary for the next few months, a full schedule of hiking in Sedona, Civil War history in Virginia, a quick trip through Washington, D.C. to do a piece on a Smithsonian building being refurbished and then on to China. He pauses when he gets to the last destination, waiting for us to ooh and ahh. When we fail to give him the right reaction, he explains how he nabbed this impressive trip overseas and the big-name publication he’s selling the article to. I giggle watching Winnie mentally log this information, nodding her head back and forth like those dogs you place on windshields.

“Oh goodie, we’re at the Walmart Museum,” she interrupts when Henry pulls next to the five and dime that Sam Walton owned almost fifty years prior, the launching point for the international phenomenon which made Sam and his offspring billionaires.

Henry pauses outside the building that is now closed and gives us a history of Sam Walton, how he started working in retail with J.C. Penney, then owning a Ben Franklin Store franchise known as Walton’s 5 & 10. Inspired by the success of discount chains, he offered a similar business practice to the folks at Franklin, who turned him down. Walton then went on to start his own chain of discount stores in the neighboring town of Rogers and, as they say, the rest is history.

“I’ll bet those Franklin guys are shooting themselves in the head,” Richard says with a laugh, and Winnie rolls her eyes again. Irene never looks up, her head bent on her Blackberry.

What’s cool about this story is that the Waltons (I keep hearing John Boy saying good-night) have remained in Bentonville, as has the main operation of Walmart. Sam encouraged his business partners to open sites in Bentonville as well, so the sleepy little northwest Arkansas town became a booming entrepreneurial hub.

I never liked Walmart, mainly because the aisles are too crowded and you have to fight the hoards of humanity looking to save money and live better. But Walmart arrived on the Gulf Coast way before the feds did and ended up donating eighteen million dollars in relief supplies. After Henry mentions Sam driving a beat-up pickup truck because a fancier car would be impractical for hauling his hunting dogs, and the new green initiatives Walmart has begun, I have a new appreciation for the conglomerate. However, I still don’t want to shop there, prefer the ole mom and pops.

We tour the rest of the quaint town with its central square, old homes and biking trails, then get a glimpse into Compton Gardens which, Henry assures us, we will be able to tour on the last day. Sam’s daughter Alice Walton (“Goodnight Alice”) collects art and is planning a world-class art museum in the upcoming years. We’ll get a sneak peak of that as well, right before catching our planes home.

When we arrive at the restaurant the rest of the party is waiting inside, including Carrie and Alicia, two young and painfully thin PR women working for the Wallace Group, and a bespectacled couple from Wisconsin consisting of a newsletter journalist named Stephanie Pennington and her photographer husband, Joe.

“Yeah, right he’s a photographer,” Winnie whispers to me when the husband is introduced.

We make seven journalists, if you count the faux photographer, and three PR professionals. Everyone looks practiced and at ease and I wonder if they smell newbie emanating from my pores. I pat my clothes to make sure everything is in place and take a deep breath. I so want this to work out.

Jack Wendell, the owner of the restaurant greets us enthusiastically at the door, leading us to the back room and a massive table set aside for the travel writers. I don’t know who is gladder to see whom, Jack meeting us or me meeting a free meal. Although I do wonder why we are eating seafood in northwest Arkansas. Irene has no hesitation bringing that up.

“Why a seafood restaurant? I always bypass seafood if I’m more than six hours from the sea.”

The frank question takes the wind out of Jack’s sails, but like a good promoter he steadies himself. “Good question. But because of our great new airport, we fly everything fresh in from the Gulf. I guarantee you it will be as fresh as anything within hours of a port.”

“Will see,” says Irene with a know-it-all smile.

We all grab seats and I feel like the new kid on the first day of school, awkward and self-conscious. I wonder if I’m out of my league. I keep an eye out for Winnie but she’s busy hugging Carmine.

“How the hell are you?” she asks him.

He gives her that “Girl, you just don’t know!” look that gay men do. “I need a stiff drink is how I am.” Carmine pulls out a chair for Winnie. “Let’s talk later.”

Winnie glances at me and says to Carmine before sitting down, “Have you met Viola?”