A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (fantasy novels to read .TXT) 📕

They say there are blessings from Katrina. Mine was I lost my job.

I gaze around at the lush breakfast area of The Monteleone Hotel in New Orleans, enjoying eggs Benedict, crisp bacon and the creamiest grits I’ve had in years and force myself not to laugh. Life is looking up, despite my lack of job security. All I have to do is get on a plane, make my assignment and my life will resemble this from now on.

“More coffee, ma’am?” I glance up from my newspaper I wasn’t really reading and there’s a red-headed man wearing a uniform more typical of the 1920s standing beside my table.

And he isn’t carrying a coffee pot.

Startled, I shake my head. I’ve had my caffeine quota for the day, promising my doctor I would stop at two cups in the morning. Of course, I never promised anything about afternoons.

After all, I am a journalist.

“Very good ma’am.” He bows and quietly saunters out the cafe door. I’d say float but that’s absurd.

“Who was that?” I ask the waitress when she arrives to refill my cup. Despite my promises, I let her.

“Who was what, dawlin?”

After months in Cajun Country, it feels great to hear a New Orleans accent again, people we label “Yats” because they usually begin a greeting with “Where y’at?” It’s more Brooklyn than Southern, slower and more friendly. Definitely not the Hollywood, Tennessee Williams drawl most people assume to find here sprouting from residents dressed in seersucker and white bucks.

The Yat sends me a puzzled grin with a hand on her hip, the kind siblings bestow on one another. This is New Orleans. We’re all related so why not just act like family.

“Are you all doing a costume brunch now?” I ask, adding, “I’m writing a story on the hotel.”

Dolores — it was written on her name tag right above “Ask About Our Rebirth Specials” — isn’t impressed with my assignment. She grabs one of her purple and gold hoop earrings and pulls, her snide expression unfaltering.

“Did Margaret put you up to this?”

“Who’s Margaret?”

Dolores huffs and walks away, leaving me to ponder what the hell that was all about.

I check my watch. Two hours. I’m meeting Mary Jo, my old roommate from college who is now the PR director of The Monteleone, and then I’m on my way. She’s late, as always, but this will be one of those times I’m not going to hang around, even though she set up my complimentary night at the historic hotel in the hopes I would write a glowing story to help attract tourists back to New Orleans; it’s been months since Katrina and many people still think we’re under water. But today my first press trip as a travel writer awaits and I have a plane to catch.

Finally, Mary Jo appears, wearing her usual navy blue A-skirt and matching button-up sweater, topped by a discreet strand of pearls and cream-colored headband. I almost laugh because she could have walked out of the LSU Delta Gamma house, but her coifed hair and perfect makeup make me feel self-conscious. She waves from the hostess desk and I attempt to straighten out my wrinkled blouse before she sits down.

“What’d you think?” she says before even pulling out a chair.

“Gorgeous as always.” I place a hand over my coffee cup as Dolores arrives, hovering her pot across the table like an alien spaceship and sending me a suspicious glance. “The customer service is exceptional, Mary Jo McConnell.”

Hearing the name, Dolores jerks to get a better look at my table companion. Mary Jo is clueless, but Dolores suddenly resorts back to her cheerful self. “Would you like some coffee, Miss Mary Jo?”

“No thanks, Dolores. I’m just here to see how my travel writer friend’s stay is going.”

Mary Jo pronounces my new profession like my family does, as if I’ve decided to become a ventriloquist or palm reader for an occupation. I’ve been writing travel stories for years, bringing in extra income to my well-paying newspaper job covering the school board and police beat in deep St. Bernard Parish for the New Orleans Post. The Post is the smaller city newspaper to the notable Times-Picayune. Note sarcasm here: the pay sucked, we were but a shadow to the Times-Pic and guess who’s up for a Pulitzer for their Katrina coverage? My twin Sebastian thought my day job would produce fodder for the Great American Novel I was to write and my dad called it “a decent job and I should be glad to have one.” I saw it as newspaper hell.

But I dismiss Mary Jo’s obvious doubting of me making a living at freelance travel writing, instead catching how Dolores is now doubly scared because she’s finally figured out I may write about her. She starts fussing over me and I wonder if, as a travel writer, I will have this power over people from now on.

Cool.

Mary Jo shushes her away and I explain how my suite overlooking Royal Street delighted every sense (all true), the rooftop pool was heavenly (too crowded and noisy but the drinks helped make that go away), my massage the night before couldn’t have been better (again, no lie, although that poor woman got her money’s worth working on me) and two small children kept me up all night running down the hall. I left that last part out.

Either the hotel’s haunted or there are parents here waking from a good night’s sleep that I want to throttle.

Once we get awkward business out of the way and I assure her a story is forthcoming in Mais Yeah!, the southwest Louisiana weekly I now write travel for, we catch up on girlfriend news. Mary Jo shows off her enormous diamond and grabs my day planner to circle the date of her upcoming wedding. Branford J. Whitaker the third, otherwise known as “Brick” — I don’t inquire — heads up his father’s Carnival store, the kind that sells all that China-made crap thrown at Mardi Gras parades, those lovely beads, doubloons, trinkets and the like that everyone kills each other over and then stuffs into attics like Christmas decorations.

“There’s so much money in Carnival,” Mary Jo informs me. “You wouldn’t believe how much those krewe members spend on throws.” She leans in close and whispers with a sly smile, “Thousands and thousands, which is great for the Whitaker family.”

I really shouldn’t have blurted it out, but I