A Ghost of a Chance Read online

  “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?”

  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, Viola?”

  Focus, I command myself. “Sure, why do you ask?”

  “We pass a cave on the way to Eureka Springs. One of the stops we were going to make on your track had to cancel so I thought we could substitute.”

  The alcohol makes me pause too long in answering and Winnie assumes I don’t understand. “We all chose tracks when we signed up. Maybe you don’t remember that.”

  Sure, I do. I chose the one with the spa treatment and shopping. When you’re invited to a formal press trip, they sometimes give you options. A round of tennis with instruction at the resort, for instance, or an hour-long massage? An afternoon of mountain biking or a few hours on your own to visit shops and cafes? Okay, really? You have to ask?

  “You and Winnie are with Carrie tomorrow,” Henry says. “But instead of the arts center in the morning, which hasn’t finished its renovations yet, we thought we could do the Sycamore Cave by Beaver Lake.”

  I honestly don’t know what to think of this. My twelve-year-old self would have jumped at the chance, but now I’m not so sure. Intense darkness near a water source doesn’t hold the same attraction as it once did. Can’t imagine why.

  “Sure,” I answer. “Whatever works best.”

  It’ll be fine, I tell myself, as Henry deposits us at the hotel, thinking of what Winnie had said earlier at dinner. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make this new career work.

  This time I boldly gaze into the pool area, daring that crazy woman to show herself. She doesn’t, so I stumble off to bed, Winnie chuckling behind me, muttering something about how LSU grads can’t hold their liquor.

  Chapter Four

  Say what you will about the South and its culture, but our food makes life more bearable. Nothing like cheese grits, over-easy eggs, large slabs of greasy bacon and biscuits and gravy to make a hangover disappear.

  I’m eating way too much and I know it. I feel like a hunger victim at a feast. Carmine raises an eyebrow when I reach for another biscuit but it’s been years since I’ve had white gravy.

  “You might want to pace yourself, Virgin,” Carmine says, raising that annoying eyebrow.

  The city’s tourism director arrives, a perky woman with a nice smile and an armful of swag. Everyone gets a press packet and an accompanying bag nicely adorned with a big ribbon on top. I can’t wait to see what’s inside.

  She gives her speech about northwest Arkansas and what’s in store for us during the next few days, talking mostly about her area of expertise, which is the Bentonville-Rogers area, but I’m too busy focusing on the drum player in my head. I motion the waitress for another cup of coffee, but it’s suddenly time to go and we’re rushed out the door. I get my coffee to go and thankfully don’t spill it on my way to the back of the van.

  We’re headed to tour the Walmart Museum this time and I take the opportunity to peek inside my gift bag. It contains a Bentonville coffee mug and some assorted Arkansas state tourism do-dads such as a luggage tag sporting “Visit Arkansas State Parks,” a keychain from the Clinton Library and a wine opener announcing some festival. Cool. For a woman rebuilding her life after losing everything, I’m grateful.

  The rest of the van is moaning about having to lug things back on the plane, particularly breakables like mugs (I get the feeling mugs are a common occurrence and these folks want nothing of them).

  “I’ll take whatever you all don’t want,” I say, thinking a set of matching coffee mugs could be used for company when they come to tea. Okay, I’m kidding! Well, sort of. Much to my surprise, everyone — and I mean everyone — eagerly hands me their bags. I gather up what will become my Bentonville coffee set and feel thrilled. I’m sorry my mother with her uptown values and designer clothes isn’t here to witness my fall from grace.

  The Walmart Museum offers the story of Sam Walton, his dream that resulted in enormous wealth and possibly the death of small-town America, although I never say as much. After a quick overview, we head to the Bentonville tourism office around ten for coffee and bakery treats — yes, more food, and yes, I eat some, plus stick a scone in my purse in case I get hungry later — then pile into the vans for a driving tour of Bentonville that’s a mix between Arkansas historic and Made in China. We pause at the lovely Compton Gardens and I’m thankful for the fresh air and exercise, even if it’s no more than a short walk. Then we’re back on the road, heading to lunch, which makes me regret that extra biscuit, not to mention the sticky bun at the tourism office. This will be our final destination together before we reconvene in Eureka Springs for dinner and more food.

  Once again, the owner of the quaint restaurant brings out platters of appetizers, extolling the food’s quality, followed by a specialty soup, salads for those who need greens (I’m not one of them, although Miss Only-Seafood-Within-100-Miles insists upon it), entrees and a plethora of desserts. I think if someone pokes me I shall burst.

  We split up in the parking lot, Carrie taking me, Winnie and the couple from Wisconsin to Eureka Springs via Sycamore Cave. Alicia hails Richard and Irene to her van for a visit to Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge with no doubt Richard nabbing the front seat; I overhear him mentioning car sickness. Henry and Carmine will hit a round of golf somewhere.

  This time, Faux Joe gallantly opens the front door for me, which makes me feel guilty for labeling him that. I glance back at the others, offering my front row perch. Everyone politely declines and Joe smiles as he closes my door. Photographer or not, he's a good man in my book.

  Winnie takes the back row again and stretches out, leaving the middle aisle for the journalism duo. I turn and make small talk, learning that Stephanie and Joe have been publishing their travel newsletter for years, hailing back to the days when newsletters arrived in your mailbox. They now have a blog, podcasts and a local radio show, and I admire their tenacity.

  Alicia proves harder to dissect, fresh out of Florida State with a public relations degree, very sweet and polite but either told not to say much or is feeling self-conscious about doing so. She answers when spoken to and explains little bits of info on the area, but that’s about it.

  I spend most of the hour talking to the Wisconsin duo about the possible demise of the newspaper as we know it while Winnie takes a nap in the back.

  After twists and turns through the Ozarks we travel down a tree-shaded driveway to the cave’s entrance. On the right is a two-story stone house with charming gables and an oversized front porch, no doubt where the own
ers live. I immediately romance the lifestyle of living in the woods, operating a cave for a living, waking up to greenery and birds, maybe owning a cat or two. I tend to do that, drive down country roads and imagine the lives of people in the ranch house, the woodsy cottage, the sprawling farmhouse. Would I be happy chucking everything and living in the sticks? Doubtful, but then, anything looks better than a potting shed in the rear of an estate house that’s seen grander days. Not that I’m complaining. I wonder if my handsome landlord has looked at the busted pipe under my sink when I feel a set of gazes upon me; the hairs on my neck have come to attention.

  I turn and find I’m right. Everyone is exiting the van. “What did I miss?”

  “We’re starting in the gift shop,” Winnie says to me as she passes, rubbing her eyes. “Where did you go?”

  If I had been born ten years later, they would have put Adderall in my formula. No one called me ADHD in school. It was more like “space cadet” and “spaz.” I used to tell people I was working on my Nobel Peace Prize speech. Today, I tell people I’m working on my novel. That doesn’t fly either.

  We follow the owners into a building that’s not so charming, something built in the seventies no doubt to accommodate tourists but screaming in contrast to the sweet farmhouse up the road. Still, the windows let in tree-balanced sunshine and a cool breeze and we all turn ADHD as we gaze upon the gaudy trinkets, T-shirts, gardening accessories and a vast collection of rocks and minerals while the owners, Bud and Charlene Moseley, tell the history of the cave. Despite my lack of some brain chemical, I can listen to the story while perusing the shelves. In fact, moving around or holding items in my hands helps me focus.

  The cave was discovered in the mid-1800s by a couple exploring the lake. They picked up a hot fishing spot and followed it to a remote cove blanketed by sycamore trees. When they stopped to enjoy lunch, the wife stumbled upon the entrance to the cave.

  “She had to pee,” I mumbled, enjoying the smooth surface of a polished angelite.