“There’s plenty of opportunities to enjoy the park before dinner,” Shelby says. “There are hiking trails and disc golf, volley ball courts — lots more.”
“And deer?” Pepper asks quietly, afraid, no doubt, of scorn from the rest of us.
“Yes, lots of wildlife here,” Shelby says with a kind smile, making me like her all the more. “Especially around dusk.”
“The wildlife will most likely be in her cabin,” Winnie says with a grin, nodding toward Kelly.
“Just make sure you are in the lodge for six p.m.,” Shelby announces. “For dinner.”
“Where’s the lodge and will someone pick us up?” our Prima Donna asks.
At this point, I stop listening. Journalists can be so needy and Kelly Talbot lets forth a stream of questions all demanding Shelby’s attention. I look out the van window and enjoy the scenery as we make our way to the cabins, all located next to Bear Creek. As we pull closer, I spot a pickup truck that looks like TB’s. On closer inspection, it has a Louisiana license plate and a similar dent in the right fender.
“That’s odd,” I say.
“This is where we pick up our new fellow traveler,” Shelby announces and looks at me. “Viola’s husband will be joining us to Natchez.”
Before I can digest this piece of information or say “Boo,” the driver opens the van door and TB struts inside.
“Hey baby,” he says.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Five
“I don’t know why you’re angry.”
TB throws his suitcase on the bed and it causes the bedspread to pull toward the middle, upsetting any chance I would have for a photo. If I had my camera, that is. Regardless, TB follows my line of sight and realizes what he has done. It’s always an unspoken rule when we travel together. Don’t mess up the hotel room until I’ve taken my photos!
“Sorry.”
I shake my head and throw my suitcase on the bed. Might as well. “What are you doing here?”
“Shelly said I could come.”
“Shelby.”
“Whatever. She said it was fine.”
I run a nervous hand through my hair. Press trips are for working travel writers — not a vacation, not for husbands or wives, not to be taken lightly. Public relations firms, city convention and business bureaus, and tourism agencies pay for everything and they don’t want to spend money on people who won’t give them results. I stand by the rules religiously because this is my dream job and it took me years to get here. When I got pregnant close to graduating LSU, TB and I married and immediately got jobs, he as a carpenter working construction for his dad’s company and me covering cops and school board meetings in St. Bernard Parish. I always wrote travel on the side, whenever we managed to go anywhere, but it was hit and miss at best. Now that I’m living the dream as a freelancer, I’m not doing anything to ruin my chances at getting invited on press trips.
TB senses my agitation and puts up two palms. “Look, Vi, I know what you’re thinking but I was invited.”
“Invited?”
“She was real nice about it, said she would make it a surprise.”
I huff. “Surprise all right.”
At this TB straightens to his full six-foot height, more man at this point than boy, which has been happening a lot more lately. Usually my husband, who’s adorable and sweet mind you, routinely acts inappropriately, says the wrong things, stares at me like a puppy dog. Loyal to a T but aggravating as hell. But, lately….
“You don’t want me here, is that it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He grabs his coat and pulls the suitcase off the bed. “You didn’t have to.”
I catch up with him at the door, touch his forearm, and squeeze. “Please, wait.”
He pauses, but doesn’t drop the suitcase. I watch the torment behind those gentle blue eyes, witness the tension in that adorable face framed by a head of blond curls. He’s really the greatest guy, was the best father any child could hope for. We just married too young, and later, when Lillye left us and Katrina washed away everything else, I wanted more. What I want now, I’m not sure, but I am glad he’s here.
“Please,” I add.
TB turns toward me, serious as a heart attack, which isn’t like him. “I love you, Vi. You must know that.”
This takes me back. “Of course.”
“But I don’t know how long I can wait until you love me the same way.”
This is so unlike TB. I used the puppy dog analogy for a reason. He’s always unconditional love and attention. In all fairness, he has every right to stand up for himself, to make me accountable. Ever since Katrina, when I demanded a divorce and moved to Lafayette and started my new career, TB’s been trying to get us back together. I changed course and dropped the separation papers when I realized I could keep his health insurance if we stayed married — how considerate is that? I cringe, thinking of my insensitivity.
“It’s that bad, isn’t it?” he asks sarcastically, when he notices my reaction. He opens the door and is about to head out but I’m there first, quickly slamming it shut.
“I was thinking about how you’re right. I’m stringing you along and that’s not fair.”
This isn’t what he’s expecting. TB drops the suitcase but he’s still looking at me hesitantly. Once again, I’m tongue-tied. I know what he wants me to say, gush my love and fall into his arms and we’ll be the happy couple for life. I’m just not there yet. If I’ll ever be. I’m a journalist who reads voraciously and he builds houses, watches LSU football. Are we truly a match? Can we sustain a life together for the rest of our lives?
TB smiles sadly, because he senses my conflict. “Right.”
My hand’s still on the door and I’m not letting go. “I do love you.” That much is true.
TB looks down at his feet and smiles grimly. “You’re just not in love with me, is that it?”
“Yes,” I think, but then, “No!” I’m so conflicted.
Instead, I slip between him and the door and run my hands up the front of his flannel shirt. That strong chest and shoulders from years of working construction incites parts of my body — he can arouse me like no other man. As for being good in bed, the man should win an Oscar. I look up into those baby blues and sigh.
“You really are the most adorable man and I’m the most insufferable person.”
TB looks away but he’s wrapping those enormous hands around me and I revel in that protective embrace, glad he’s relenting.
“I’m sorry for being non-committal.” I’m reminded that TB never finished LSU and doesn’t own the best vocabulary so I add, “for always being on the fence about our marriage.”
TB sighs. “It’s okay, Vi. I know you wanted to start over after….” He’s thinking about Lillye and my heart stills waiting for her name to be spoken; we hardly discuss her because it hurts too much. “…after Katrina.”
I relax because we’re not traveling down that enormously painful road and that he gets it, that following my dream and leaving everything behind needed to happen for me. I rise on my toes and kiss him and he returns the affection, then we break apart, smile at each other and wrap ourselves into a bear hug, that warmness of his touch emanating through me. It’s always been like that, no matter the lack of intelligent conversation or familiar interests, we meld well together.
If only love could be about…well, love.
I feel TB tense again and pull back.
“What is it?” I ask.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
I look out the window and spot Dwayne waltzing past the front window of the cabin. He gives us a nod but doesn’t add his usual charming smile. For a second, and I’m not sure why, I think to pull out of TB’s embrace. But that’s ridiculous, I think. I’m not attracted to this man. I do relax from TB’s hug but it’s more to think.
“Dwayne Garrett,” I tell TB. “He’s one of the journalists.”
“The guy from the SCANC conv
ention?”
“Yeah, and I need to tell you what Carmine said about him. It’s a weird story and I still haven’t gotten the whole tale from Carmine.”
TB pulls me close, continuing to stare out the window as Dwayne stops to talk to Shelby, who’s carrying two baskets. She hands him one and I notice how her body language changes, her head tilts, one hand straightens her blouse, even her foot starts twirling in the dirt. Weird, how this man affects people.
“Something’s not right about him,” TB says, which is unusual for my husband, who tends to like everyone. I hate to use another dog analogy but TB’s like those overly friendly pups who love the world and lick you to death so if they growl at something, you know it’s bad.
“Again, you should hear Carmine. He likens the man to the devil.”
TB looks down at me and the gaze from those puppy dog eyes turns serious. “Devil?”
The word gives me the shivers but I shake off the feeling. “You know, Carmine. He’s always dramatic. But here’s the rub. Carmine said that man was one of the teenagers who beat him up in high school.”
TB looks out the window at Dwayne, who’s now heading toward his own cabin. Dwayne turns at one point and winks at me, which sends a shiver down my back. TB, on the other hand, doesn’t move a muscle, tightens his hold around my shoulders.
Shelby suddenly appears on our porch and we both jump.
“Sorry,” she says through the window and holds up a basket. “I brought you refreshments.”
TB and I both exhale the breath we didn’t know we’d been holding and open the door and Shelby saunters in. She holds up the basket, which has a variety of goodies in it, namely cheese, crackers, some chocolate, a bottle of wine, and two glasses.
“You’re not supposed to drink in state parks so keep this quiet,” she says with a smile.
TB accepts the basket but he glances over at me, waiting for approval. He’s worried to accept too much from this trip, which might cause problems for me.
“Thanks Shelby. That’s so sweet of you,” I say.
She motions to the basket, sporting that same smile she wore on the van when TB arrived. “There’s two glasses.”
TB’s still acting nervous, like a kid found in an area of the playground that’s off-limits.
“Shelby,” I begin, “would it be okay if TB joins us to Natchez. He’s so helpful with my research and he can stay in my accommodations. We’ll be happy to pay for the meals.”
Shelby waves a hand at the both of us. “Are you kidding? I invited him here.”
TB sends me a “I told you so” look.
“When Carmine told me y’all never have a chance to be together because one of you is fixing up the house in New Orleans and the other is living in a potting shed in Lafayette, I just had to make this work.”
I cringe, because I don’t live in a potting shed. It’s a mother-in-law unit behind a larger house in the Saint Streets District of Lafayette, a city two hours west of New Orleans. We evacuated there after being pulled from our roof and I discovered this apartment on a whim. When I inquired about moving in, the owner, Reece Cormier, began crying. Yes, crying. He nodded, handed me the keys, insisted I live there rent free, and thus began my travel writing career because for the first time I had nothing to stop me and could afford to work freelance. I also had nothing to sit on but that happened, too. The word got out that a Katrina refugee — I hated that title — was living within the historic district and things began appearing every night at my doorstep. I would wake up and head out to retrieve my newspaper and there would be a table and two chairs, a bureau, a tea pot, a bicycle.
My ADHD brain suddenly comes back to the conversation. “Wait, did you say Carmine told you?”
Shelby smiles proudly. “Your husband called when we were having breakfast, said you forgot your camera and that he would drive up to deliver it since he’s off work for a few days.”
I look over at TB. It’s one of those times when he would appear sheepish and shrug but he sends me a glance that says, “You need to trust me sometimes.”
“Carmine overheard me talking to him on my cell phone and mentioned your situation,” Shelby continues. “I was more than happy to get you two together.”
TB wraps an arm about my shoulders and again, this assertiveness is so unlike him. I have to admit, it’s pretty damn sexy.
“We cannot thank you enough,” he says.
Shelby waves us off. “No worries. We had several cancellations so this worked out perfectly.”
“Are you sure we can’t pay for the meals?” I ask.
Shelby’s eyes tear up and I know what’s coming. Katrina pity. I’ve seen it time and again and honestly, after three years, it’s become annoying, but also gratifying to know America still cares.
“No worries about anything,” Shelby says, waving those manicured nails. “Just have fun.”
“Thank you,” TB says.
She waves again, the KP emotions still present, and heads off. As we watch her through the window, we see Shelby wiping her eyes.
“Amazing how people react to something they didn’t experience,” TB says.
“I guess that’s it. In a way, they did experience it.”
“Just not on their roofs.”
I look up at him thinking he’s joking; that’s his usual MO. TB’s hardly found without a grin and a funny anecdote. But TB’s not smiling. Trauma runs deep, and that bitch of a storm laid a good one on us. Unless, he’s still smarting about my capriciousness.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
He looks at me as if he’s come out of a trance. He shakes off whatever he was contemplating and smiles. “Sure. Just been a busy week.”
Something’s off here. I feel it and this sensation is starting to be a regular occurrence on this trip. Before I’m able to inquire further, TB’s off to unpack his suitcase, talking about his latest house job that’s been put on hold until December, enough time to follow us to Natchez and then drive me back to New Orleans. I open the wine and pour us two glasses, then suddenly remember something.
“Who’s taking care of Stinky?”
TB doesn’t turn around but I can sense his smirk. “Check out the bathroom.”
He couldn’t have possibly brought my cat on this trip, I think, but when I open the door my tabby cat is spread out inside the cool porcelain bathtub. He looks up at me and winks, then closes his eyes and resumes sleeping.
“There’s something not normal about this cat.”
I feel TB’s hand on mine pulling me back into the bedroom.
“Let’s let the baby sleep and enjoy that wine,” he says seductively. “And maybe something else.”
I really am glad he’s here, I think, as we start something else, forgoing that wine and the rest of the world with its fallen angels, antebellum Kentucky girls, and the Katrina mess we left behind.
By the time Carmine and Winnie knock on our doors, we’ve messed up the bed right and good. Thankfully, our friends can’t see us through the front window since a large fireplace and half of a wall exists between the sitting area and the bedroom.
I slip off the bed, grab the clothes TB ripped off me earlier, and head to the bathroom while TB pulls on his jeans and calls out to our friends that he’s coming. I know damn well Winnie and Carmine will not let us live this down. As I throw on my clothes in the bathroom, Stinky has awakened and is rubbing against my bare legs.
“Hey bud.” I’ve missed this cat so much that I pause in my dressing and pick him up — which he hates and I don’t care — and deliver a couple of annoying hugs. He’s fighting it but he’s also purring so I know he’s secretly happy. Must be a cat rule that you can’t enjoy too much affection from your owners.
Truth be told, no one owns this cat. He owns us. He’s got TB and me wrapped around his paws.
“Are you hiding in there?” I hear Winnie shout.
I put Stinky down and pull on my shirt, then my cardigan sweater since it’s starting to get nippy at
night. Stinky’s still making love to my ankles and when I look down I notice he’s unusually happy.
“You love Mississippi?” I ask, and within a heartbeat he glances up at me as if I’ve lost my mind, then shoots out the bathroom.
“Oh my goodness,” I hear Winnie say. “There’s a cat in here.”
“You brought Stinky?” Carmine exclaims.
I run fingers through my hair and emerge from the bathroom as if I’ve showered and changed for the evening activities. Which is crazy since my hair is now kinkier than usual and I’m wearing the same clothes. Not to mention that my friends aren’t stupid.
“Having fun?” Winnie asks seriously, and I pinch her upper arm.
“I know you two had some exercise but anyone up for a hike?” Carmine asks.
There are thirteen miles of nature trails within the park and we decide on a less vigorous one that’s short and sweet since dinner at the lodge begins in forty-five minutes. The Saddleback Ridge is advertised as having large outcropping of rocks, so I vote for it right away. Apparently, the Chickasaw used this trail to visit an area called the Freedom Hills and we’ve been told there are small caves along the way. So far, we’ve discovered two and when we’ve found a nice spot with a rock overhang, we all decide to pause and enjoy the wooded view.
“This ends at the dam,” Winnie says, reading the brochure. “Well, damn.”
“Puny,” Carmine says. “We should head back soon. It’s getting dark.”
Winnie pulls a flask from her jacket pocket. “Apple Jack first?”
“You brought apple cider?” TB asks. “I love apple cider.”
Winnie laughs and TB glances at us to find out what’s funny. “What did I say?”
I take the flask from her hands and knock back a sip, wincing as I do. “It’s moonshine, sweetheart. With some apple flavoring.”
We pass around what tastes akin to rubbing alcohol that’s been sitting in an apple barrel, talking and laughing like old times. When the shadows lengthen and we realize we’ve been gone longer than we should, we hightail it back to the lodge, following the markings on the trees, giggling all the way.
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