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

Mr. Fancy Pants suddenly turns courteous and pulls out a chair for me as well, next to Winnie. “We met on the van, coming in from the airport,” he says briefly, sitting on my left side and beginning a conversation with Henry.

“I take it you know him?” I whisper to Winnie.

“Yes, I do,” she whispers back and we both laugh.

“Sorry, it’s just that he was kinda rude on the ride in.”

Winnie pulls her napkin into her lap. “That’s just Carmine. He’s really a lot of fun.”

I look back at fun Carmine and wonder if now is a good time to ask about the wet opera singer but Jack instructs his waitresses to hand out menus and take our drink orders. On our press trip invitation it’s clear we’re responsible for our own alcohol but I watch the other journalists ask for wine lists and order cocktails.

“Alcohol isn’t included, right?” I whisper to Winnie, hoping I’m wrong because I can’t afford to pay for anything these days. I mean anything. And I would so love a beer.

“If they offer, it usually is, and he just did. Knock yourself out.”

I hesitantly order a Blue Moon, thinking I can always use my credit card if Winnie’s wrong. I hate doing that since TB and I agreed to use some of the insurance money to pay off debts and both vowed to keep it that way. TB thought it would help in the house’s renovations and refinance, but my thinking was it makes a divorce that much easier.

He can have the damn house.

“Where are you from?” Stephanie asks from across the table.

I’m about to blurt out my hometown when I remember the van trip from the airport. “I live in Lafayette, Louisiana,” I tell Stephanie. “Cajun Country.”

“I know Lafayette well,” she answers. “I’ve done press trips there and loved it.”

I haven’t lived there long enough to know much about the place, but most of what I’ve seen I like. People are genuinely friendly, will feed you at a moment’s notice — especially if they know you’re a Katrina transplant from New Orleans — and the food is out-of-this-world amazing. When I have free time I plan to act the travel writer in my new home.

“It’s a wonderful town,” I remark, leaving out the part about me only living there a few months.

“You know Gerald Breaux, of course?” Faux Joe asks.

I offer up a blank stare. “Sounds familiar.”

Stephanie eyes me curiously and replies somewhat coarsely, “He’s the director of the Lafayette Convention and Visitors Commission.”

“Oh, of course,” I lie. “Sure, just wasn’t thinking.”

Stephanie sips the wine being placed in front of her and I pray that’s the end of that. She doesn’t pursue the topic and I hope she doesn’t see through me.

Winnie bites her lower lip glancing my way, as if she’s trying to sum me up as well. Then a smile begins while her eyes glisten mischievously. “This is Viola Valentine and it’s her first press trip.”

The energy shifts and everyone looks my way, some laughing, some making comments. I look for a hole to crawl into. Carmine elbows me in the ribs. “Virgin,” he says.

“Thanks Winnie.” I send her my best evil eye.

“I think she was afraid to order alcohol,” Winnie adds with a laugh.

Richard begins discussing how wine is necessary for proper digestion and that it should be de rigueur on press trips while Winnie raises her eyebrows in disgust.

“You started it,” I inform her.

She laughs. “I’m almost sorry. Almost.”

“Brat.”

Being the fabulous PR professional that he is, Henry comes to my rescue — and everyone else’s since it forces Richard to shut up. “Viola and I have done business together for a long time and now that she’s finally on her own, she can join our trips. She’s no stranger to travel writing though. She’s won some impressive awards.”

One award. But I look at Henry with puppy dog appreciation. If he were a date, we’d be making out by now.

Jack visits our table when the appetizers arrive, offering long descriptions of how fresh this seafood is, the delicate preparations made by his renowned chef (award-winning as well!) and how no one in this part of Arkansas has anything as delicious. Irene purses her lips and Richard huffs.

“I’m a food writer from New York,” Irene tells me after Jack leaves. “I doubt this seafood is fresh.”

I smile and nod, while thinking unpleasant thoughts about Yankees. In all fairness, I love New York and I’ve met some great residents of that wonderful city, and I hate when the shoe is on the other foot and people assume Southerners are stupid and lazy. Still, know-it-all New Yorkers can rub my butt raw.

Instead, I focus on Winnie throughout the meal and her tales of raising three young children, chickens and goats and an herb garden on twenty Mississippi acres while working as a freelance writer and teaching part-time at the university’s continuing education department.

“I also run elections, mystery shop and fill in on my friend’s boutique when her employees don’t show,” Winnie says with a big snort.

“Careful, your wine may come out of your nose,” I say, which makes her laugh and snort even harder.

We giggle like idiots, until Jack returns with triple chocolate brownies topped with homemade vanilla ice cream, caramel cheesecake, fruit tarts and oh my God crème brûlée laced with raspberries, accompanied by cups of espresso. I so love my new career.

“How on earth do you do it all?” I ask Winnie savoring that cracking sound when you break the top of a crème brûlée.

She shrugs. “Writing pays so well, you know.”

Don’t I ever.

“You do what you have to, to do what you love.”

My dessert lodges in my throat and I feel half human. If only I had had that courage and perseverance years ago. But then I wouldn’t have had Lillye.

“How about you?” she asks. “Did you lose your job after Katrina?”

She says it so quietly, in between bites of her cheesecake, no one catches on. “How did you know?” I ask in a whisper.

She gives me what her children must label the “mom look.” “I gathered you’re new to freelancing because of what Henry said but have been doing travel writing for a while, so I’m assuming a staff newspaper woman? And from what you said to Stephanie, you’re new to Lafayette too, which means, since you said you’re from Louisiana, that you were uprooted not too long ago. And more than likely lost your job in the process.”

“Wow, you’re good.” I glance at my neighbors to make sure they haven’t heard.

“Plus you graduated from that horrid school, LSU.”

Now, I’m really puzzled.

She rolls her eyes. “You have a purple and gold tiger key chain.”

I had forgotten about the purse incident. For a moment, I feel I should apologize for the tacky tiger, but I’m a huge LSU fan and piss on Ole Miss. I start to say as much — and change the direction of the conversation — when Winnie asks, “Why the big secret?”

Good question. Every person — and I mean every person — I know from New Orleans cannot wait for an eager ear to bend. They want to describe their trips through hell, relay how high the water came through their house, where they lived for the past few months, their exile horror stories. I shrug and shake my head. “I just don’t want to relive it again.”

Truth is, I’ve been down pity lane, lived on that street for years. I don’t want to take that road no more.

Winnie pats my hand, but she’s careful, as if she senses my thoughts on empathy. She taps my fingers gently, then retreats her hands to her lap. “Just don’t keep too much inside, Sweet Pea. Grief is grief, no matter if it’s a human being, your house or your hometown.”

I’m done grieving, but I let her have this moment. Then I order an after-dinner drink since Richard pulled the waitress over and ordered a scotch.

“Good girl,” she says a lot more enthusiastically. “Now you’re getting the hang of things.”

It’s been a while since I’ve had alcohol, mostly because I can’t afford it. My freelancing career so far has consisted of a travel column in the local weekly, some home and garden features in a regional magazine and book reviews for an academic journal, all of which have kept me in mac and cheese for three months. Out of shape in that regard, two beers and a glass of port has me feeling rather good, although those wheat and hops are sitting on a load of good eating and I feel like the Mississippi River in April after a Midwest flood.

Irene dissects the meal on the ride home, and of course finds the seafood lacking in freshness and creativity while thankfully Richard falls quiet in the front seat. Winnie appears to listen to Irene but my eyelids grow heavier every mile closer to the hotel and I lean my head back and rest. Henry brings me back. When I jolt up in my seat, he laughs.

“Sorry, Viola, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I was up late,” I lie, trying my best not to slur my words. Sheesh, how drunk am I?

“I said, do you like caves?”

My earlier dream of Uncle Jake hits me in a rush. I can feel the coolness of the stone in my hand and again wonder where that crystal ended up. It certainly didn’t float away.

“Uh,