A Ghost of a Chance Page 8

  “Y’all, this is TB. He’s going to be having dinner with us tonight.”

  “Are you the one who got stuck in Atlanta?” Irene asks. “We thought you were coming tomorrow.”

  Puzzled, TB looks at me as if he’s afraid to speak at all.

  “No, he’s my husband.”

  I hadn’t meant to say that, but introducing him as “soon-to-be-ex-husband” sounded tactless, not to mention cruel for one of us.

  Stephanie lightens up. “I didn’t know your husband was coming.”

  Again, TB looks at me for direction. He’s so much like a child, waiting for Mom to say it’s okay. It’s one of the things that always drove me crazy. When the world tilted and I needed a strong shoulder, he fell apart. But in all fairness, who wouldn’t have?

  “TB has been working on our house in New Orleans and he really needed some time away. He’s staying in my room, but Henry invited him to join us tonight.”

  Stephanie sends me a questioning look. “New Orleans? I thought you were from Cajun Country.”

  “Cajun Country’s where we evacuated.” TB has found his voice.

  The cat’s out of the bag now. Richard, who’s been lounging in an armchair with a cold Bud in his hand, rises on this revelation and saunters over. I’m expecting empathy like the rest of the stares I’m now receiving but Richard surprises me.

  “You all are from New Orleans? What on earth makes anyone want to live there? It’s below sea level, for God’s sakes.”

  I instantly feel a surge of hot energy emanating from TB, no doubt matching my own, but I grab his arm when I see him about to retort. I change the course of the conversation before one of us gets into trouble and an obnoxious journalist receives a black eye.

  “Let me introduce everyone,” I say. “Stephanie and Joe Pennington from Wisconsin. Irene Fisher from New York. And this is Richard Cambry from Arizona.”

  I realize Carmine is missing, but as that thought crosses my mind, I hear his voice from behind me.

  “Who’s this?”

  I nearly laugh at the insinuation. As I turn, sure enough Carmine is giving TB the once-over. It’s always been like that; gay men love my boyish husband. As soon as they spot me, however, they shake their heads, no doubt thinking, “What a waste of a man on the female persuasion.” And one of the things I always loved about TB was how he took it all in stride.

  “TB, this is Carmine. I forget where he’s from.”

  Carmine raises an eyebrow. “TB?” With an afterthought, he adds, “I’m from Texas.”

  Finally, TB relaxes. “It’s short for T-Bubba.”

  I try not to groan. I’ve told this man a million times that no one will ever get this, but does he listen? Sure enough, everyone stares at him, waiting for an explanation.

  “His dad was Bubba,” I say. “And he’s Bubba junior.”

  “Actually, my real name is Thibault, named for my grandfather from LaRose.”

  “That’s in Louisiana.” He also never remembers that no one knows where LaRose is, a tiny town at the bottom of Louisiana, at the ends of the earth, a place people in New Orleans have never heard of.

  “And when you have a name like Thibault, Bubba is a good alternative,” he adds.

  Debatable.

  “My mom is Cajun and Cajuns like to name their kids after their dads and call them petite Joe or petite Bubba,” TB continues. “Which then becomes T-Joe and T-Bubba for short.”

  Stephanie’s eyes are glazed but she tries to be polite. “So, you’re T-Bubba?”

  TB beams. “That’s right.”

  Richard shakes his head as if jolting grey matter will help this make sense. “So you call yourself TB on purpose? That’s crazy.”

  I always thought the same thing and my parents used it as a weapon on why I married beneath me and what was I thinking? I’m feeling like I used to when my parents would make fun of my husband, as if I’m allowed to put this man down but no one else can.

  “It’s a form of endearment in Louisiana,” I offer defensively, which makes TB look at me with a puzzled frown. “Leave it alone,” I tell him telepathically.

  Thankfully before he has a chance to speak, Henry and Alicia arrive with the manager of the hotel, the tourism director and the mayor of Eureka Springs. We do introductions all around and this time I introduce TB as Thibault and leave it at that.

  We begin our tour in the bar, with each of the three offering different slices of history on the hotel and the town. The “Grand Old Lady of the Ozarks,” as the Crescent Hotel was known, was carved from Ozark stone by Irish stonemasons after town founders realized building with wood was a fire hazard. The Crescent quickly became a favorite among the elite, attracting rich patrons. Victorians came to take the waters of the town, dance in the hotel’s ballroom and enjoy the hotel’s giant stable, which was rumored to house seventy-five horses. After the turn of the century, the Crescent College and Conservatory for Young Women operated here during the hotel’s off-season, attracting women from throughout the region. In 1937, a quack named Dr. Norman Baker — the doctor part is debatable — purchased the then empty hotel-college and opened the Baker Hospital, which promised a cure for cancer until Baker was arrested for mail fraud.

  “That’s why you’re in the Dr. Baker’s Bistro & Sky Bar,” Henry adds.

  Winnie saunters up, trying to slip in quietly to the back.

  “How’s the head?” she whispers, and it’s then I realize that the headache is gone.

  “The martini helped.”

  She nods towards TB. “New journalist?”

  I grimace. “No.”

  Before I explain, Winnie whispers, “The ex-man cometh?”

  I love men, I really do, but I honestly believe women have evolved and moved ahead. I look at the all-knowing Winnie and nod, thankful that I don’t have to explain and thankful for the comforting look she returns.

  Our guides lead us across the hall to a meeting space that used to be the office for the Crescent College. Along one wall is a picture gallery of the hotel’s history. We peer into the glass and find Victorians in carriages and visitors lounging on the hotel’s massive porch. Next are young schoolgirls enjoying the bowling alley or playing volleyball when the hotel converted to a girl’s school in the winter. There are advertisements for the hotel, napkins from years past and a variety of memorabilia, including Baker’s pamphlets claiming a cure for cancer.

  We’re about to head back to the Baker Bar for a drink — can I get an “Amen!” — when I spot something interesting in the case. A teacher of about thirty years of age with glasses stands proudly at his desk holding an award of some kind, surrounded by eight girls, all dressed in uniforms with their hair tied back in ribbons. A jolt of energy passes up my spine and I shiver. The blond isn’t here, but the girl from my bathroom is, and I suddenly realize they were both wearing the same outfit.

  I try to shake off the goosebumps, to find out what this means, when the mayor appears in the doorway, a woman wearing a stark business suit that’s out of place for a casual evening, like she just arrived from a deposition. Her hair is frozen in place, every strand, reminding me of my grandmother who visited a beauty parlor every week for that teased effect. Even the mayor’s bright red lipstick, despite that I spied her drinking on the balcony, remains perfectly intact. I hate impeccably dressed women like this, can’t for the life of me figure out how they do it.

  “Great photos, aren’t they?” She holds her martini high in one hand. “I never get tired of looking at these wonderful old historic pictures.”

  “Who is this?” I point to the group.

  The mayor’s a tall drink of water, graceful and thin even without her high heels, so she has no problem glancing over my shoulder and viewing everything in the case. “That’s the English teacher on the day the school won a literary award. It was a big deal, a national title for composition. He went on to become a professor of English and later the mayor of Eureka Springs.”

  The mayor says this with
pride and I wonder if she knew the man.

  “And this girl?” I point to my bathroom friend.

  The mayor suddenly straightens, the blood draining from her face. “No idea, why?”

  The goosebumps return. Something in her voice makes me think she’s lying. “She looks familiar.” I make a point to gaze into her eyes that have now narrowed and are staring at me suspiciously.

  “Are you really with the group?” she demands, a distinct tone in her voice. “Did Merrill put you up to this?”

  “Who’s Merrill?”

  The mayor is suddenly in my face. She grabs my upper arm and squeezes, a bit too hard.

  “Uh, that hurts.”

  She leans in so her lipsticked mouth is inches from my ear. “You tell my bitch of a cousin that I’m done with her games. I don’t want to see you or anyone else associated with that ridiculous group anywhere near me or my travel writers. Do we understand each other?”

  Maybe I hit my head harder than I realized, or that martini sent my concussion into action, but the room starts spinning and I feel light-headed. If I had some semblance of control, I might push this woman away and demand answers, but I’m too stunned and feeble to act. Thankfully, Henry sticks his head inside the room and looks startled at us both. “Vi?”

  The mayor blanches, releases my arm and turns. “She’s one of your group?” she utters, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  “I thought we had introductions,” Henry says, still gazing puzzled at us both. “Mayor Sterling, this is Viola Valentine. She’s a journalist from South Louisiana.”

  The tourism director sticks her head into the room. “Y’all ready? We’re heading out to the balcony before the sun fully sets.”

  The mayor says nothing, refuses to look my way and quickly exits the room. Henry sends me a questioning look and I shrug. I have no idea what transpired, and I beg Henry to please get me another martini and he heads to the bar while I try to restore my equilibrium.

  What on earth just happened?

  Before I join the others on the balcony, I can’t help looking back one last time at Plain Jane. She’s so happy in the photo, beaming as if it’s her wedding day. Nothing like the feelings I picked up in the bathroom.

  And just why was I seeing a sad schoolgirl in my bath anyway?

  My headache returns in a rush and I rub my forehead. Too much mystery for one day and it’s exhausting, not to mention an unexpected ex-husband and the idea that I may be seeing apparitions everywhere I go. Now I have a rabid mayor on my case and my upper arm throbs from the meeting.

  My first press trip and I so wanted to escape the insanity of New Orleans and enjoy my new career, embrace the exciting new life that I valiantly created for myself. Those pesky tears lurk at the back of my eyes and I fight hard to keep them at bay.

  “Are you okay?” the tourism director asks. “You’re the one who hit your head, aren’t you?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. I’m anything but.

  There’s something about this woman that makes me say this, something that makes me feel safe, although I can’t place it, the complete opposite of the imposing mayor and her sculptured nails; she’s left marks on my upper arm. Or perhaps it’s because I don’t want to be crazy, want an explanation for the weird things happening to me lately. I blurt it out, pointing to the girl I saw in my bathroom because now I must know. “Who is this woman? Do you know?”

  Surprisingly, the director doesn’t question me as to why I would want to know a woman from a girl’s school in the 1920s.

  “How do you feel about ghosts?” is all she says.

  I sigh, ready to admit the inevitable.

  Chapter Eight

  The table conversation at dinner is lively and fun, no doubt from all those specialty cocktails served in the Baker Bar while the earth tilted and the sun disappeared, mirroring the sensations in my head. Despite the sunset’s beauty, I’m still focusing on the fact that the Crescent Hotel is one of the most haunted inns in America, according to Nanette Wells, the friendly tourism director. Not to mention the other bomb she dropped while we lingered in the history room.

  “Eureka Springs is probably one of the most haunted cities in the country,” she had said with a laugh. “We have ghosts everywhere.”

  Nanette didn’t get a chance to explain for Henry arrived with my martini and ushered us to the balcony where thankfully the mayor was nowhere to be seen. When we made it to dinner, I made sure to sit at Nanette’s table, grabbing a seat to her right. I needed Nanette to explain more about this haunted city — and inquire where the mayor rushed off to — but TB is dominating the conversation with his adventures in alligator season. The man has a horrid desire to murder gators in the wild.

  Winnie sits to my right, also keeping me occupied with her one hundred questions about the cave. I answer with short answers; I don’t want to talk about it.

  “Okay,” she says placing her napkin firmly in her lap. “If you don’t want to tell me what happened in that cave, at least explain him.”

  She nods her head in the direction of my ex-husband who’s busy stuffing bread into his mouth as if he will never eat again. “He was always like that. Eats anything he wants and never gains a pound.”

  Now, Winnie’s royally pissed. “Fine,” is all she manages.

  I take a deep breath and touch her hand. I lean in close so no one else will hear. “He’s my ex. Or soon to be ex. He showed up this afternoon thinking he could hang around with me. I wanted to send him on his way — and hopefully he will tomorrow — but he started talking about us and Katrina and Henry felt sorry for him.”

  I hope that will be the end to it but Nanette overhears and blurts out to TB, “You were in Katrina?”

  TB pauses with a mouth full of bread. “Huh?”

  Everyone at the table stops talking and turns toward my ex-husband, looking for an explanation. All except Carmine, who studies me from behind a wine glass. I set my own glass down, defeated, waiting for TB to start telling stories I have heard way too often.

  “Of course we were,” TB says. “Didn’t Vi tell you?

  “Vi leaves out a lot.” Carmine raises that damn eyebrow again. How does he do that?

  “We were there because of Vi,” TB adds, which makes me cringe. “We couldn’t evacuate because she worked for the newspaper. And yet she never wants to talk about it.”

  I don’t know, guilt maybe?

  TB then describes the long night of wind and rain, the lights flickering and dying around midnight, both of us falling asleep on the couch only to wake to the sound we still can’t place. Was it our imagination or did we actually hear the levees breaching? So many experts I have talked to said we shouldn’t have heard a thing where we lived in Mid City but then we were told by the same people those levees would hold.

  “Vi and I both woke up at the same time and we never figured out what we heard,” TB continues. “But we saw the water slipping underneath the door and knew at least our street was flooding.”

  “Why would you think that?” Stephanie asks, incredulously. “Does your street flood through your door all the time?”

  “If the pumps stop working, sure. But the most that has ever happened is the water goes to the top step of our porch.”

  Folks at the table fail to comprehend so I quickly interject that New Orleans has an elaborate system of pumps to quickly move falling rainwater into canals, bayous and Lake Pontchartrain. The system is so immense, if all pumps are working it’s the equivalent of the Ohio River flow.

  “If the pumps stop working on your street, and rain falls like it normally does in New Orleans, sometimes several inches in an afternoon, your street floods,” I tell them.

  “It’s kinda cool,” TB offers. “We get out our canoes and boats and take the kids for a ride.”

  We did that for Lillye one year and the memory makes us both pause and take a sip of wine, neither of us looking at each other.

  “So what happened after the water started comi
ng in?” Joe asks.

  “We put towels by the front door but they instantly soaked,” TB continues, “so I opened the door with my flashlight to see what was happening.”

  The memory gets to TB; I can see the old fear in his eyes. The darkness of the night with the wind pushing so hard I had to help prop the front door open. The tree that suddenly floated by and took out the corner of the porch. A neighbor screaming off in the distance, asking for help we couldn’t deliver. Why must we go down this road when people ask?

  “The water was on our porch and we could see it rising,” I add. “Literally, see it rising as we stood there.”

  TB recovers and takes over. “I grabbed Vi and we headed for the attic and the rest is history.”

  I glance at my soon-to-be-ex and find he is now visiting my dark place, the home of denial or whatever you want to name it but a safe haven where I hope I don’t have to relive this horrific event over and over again. For once I wish he wasn’t on the other side of the table for I want to touch his hand and welcome him in.

  “But what happened in the attic?” Stephanie asks, and I realize that everyone continues staring, dying to know more.

  “In New Orleans, you keep an ax in the attic just in case,” I explain softly. “We never ever expected the levees to break but we always knew there was a possibility.”

  Nanette shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “What did you do with the ax?”

  “They use it to break holes in the roof,” Carmine interjects. “Since New Orleans is mostly below sea level, if the levees break water will pour into the city and it’s good to have a failsafe.”

  A heavy lull descends on the table and where once was laughing, drinking and discussions about beautiful Eureka Springs, suddenly we’re plunged back into flooded New Orleans. You didn’t have to be there to feel that pain. I learned that as soon as I arrived in Lafayette, greeted by residents with tear-streaked faces as we exited the bus, people who could barely look us in the eyes because they watched the horror on TV and somehow blamed themselves for the inability to do something.