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

As I’m explaining what happened, sans the ghostly apparition that caused my downfall, TB slips back, looking sheepish and lost. He’s still reeling from our argument — hell, from our separation — and I can’t get those images of him living in our moldy, waterlogged house out of my head. I pause in my explanations, take his hand and lead him into the group. For tonight, at least, I vow to be civil and understanding, take my feelings about our marriage out of the equation. List or no list.

“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?”