A Ghost of a Chance, Cherie Claire [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .txt] 📗

“Come back.” I say this to ease my guilt as much as for his safety.

He sighs again. “Vi, I’m two hours away.”

I’m on the verge of tears, can’t believe being so immune to crying all these years I’m suddenly wearing my emotions on my sleeve. “But coming back to Eureka Springs has to be safer than driving to New Orleans.”

I hear what sounds like TB telling the waitress to keep the change and yes, another cup. “I’m fine. I’ll wait here for a little while until it clears up some more, heard the truckers say the weather’s better further south.”

The spa lady holding a clipboard waves to me; it’s my turn. I want to end this conversation, pretend the last few days never happened and disappear into spa heaven, but my heart drops between my knees. “I’m sorry,” I tell TB and I mean that on so many levels.

There’s a pause and I wonder if he’s heard me. “It’s okay,” he answers quietly. “I’ll be fine, Vi. You’ll be fine. We’ll get through this. We’ve weathered worse storms before.”

I know I want out but there are many times I doubt my feelings toward my husband. Sometimes, he can be so spot on, so understanding. Right now, I wish him here so I can hold him close and pretend all our problems never existed.

The lady with the clipboard looks annoyed — she gave me grief for having to change from a couples massage to a single because TB had split — so I say my goodbyes and TB assures me he will be careful on the road. Swallowing the emotions still choking me, I follow Ms. Clipboard down the long hallway that leads to the creepy morgue. Just before I fully digest what lies at the end of the corridor, we turn right into the massage rooms where soft lute music and lavender scents greet me at the door and a painting of a sublime owl above a waterfall hangs at the rear. A mousy woman with oversized eyes and braided hair awaits, instructing me to disrobe and slip on to the massage table underneath sheets that have been warmed for my arrival.

After she leaves, I take a deep breath and try to inhale the peaceful surroundings, shaking out the stress from my shoulders and neck, trying desperately to forget — or at least put aside for one hour — the weird happenings of the last few days. I do as I’m told and undress, then lie face down on the table, my arms dangling at my sides. When the mouse returns, she places my arms on the table, palms up, and rearranges the sheets for easy access to my body feeling as tight as the moment I heard the levees pop. Breathe, I tell myself, but instead realize I’m holding my breath because I can’t stop thinking of TB driving through the storm, my mom and her irritating ways, knowing that I must sit through her lectures and demands Friday night and Lori remaining in my room, hoping I will solve her mystery and set her free.

“Relax.” I feel Mouse kneading my shoulder. “You’re wound tight.”

“Sorry,” I murmur through the headrest.

She keeps plugging away and I keep attempting to breathe and relax but it’s not happening; I’m so incredibly tired but too exhausted to release. I attempt one long breath and exhale, feeling some semblance of tension remove when suddenly, that familiar buzz arrives. I ask my masseuse, since she’s so close to the morgue down the hall, if the massage rooms have ghosts. Mouse laughs and says she’s heard doors closing on their own but that could have been the wind. One therapist felt a cold spot, saw a shadow, but no, nothing out of the ordinary.

I wonder how cold spots and shadows are ordinary as the buzzing continues, only louder this time, and I sense a child’s voice whispering, “Listen.” I’m now so intent on focusing on whether Lillye is coming through that I ignore Mouse instructing me to “breathe and relax,” her petite hands working overtime. My poor masseuse continually struggles with my taut muscles but I’m not going to worry about her. Instead, like a child chasing a dog down a long hallway, I follow the ethereal source to whatever it hopes to tell me.

We’re still in the basement, in a tiny office filled with gardening tools and building materials. That creepy man I spotted in my dream where James and Blair organized their sexual assignation plot in the hotel lobby now sits behind a desk, his face darkened by the shadow of a cap and his hands folded across his dirty calico shirt and overalls. I was right, I realize, this man is involved in the upkeep or landscaping of the college.

James rests his back against the doorframe, one foot inside the office as if he’s too scared to venture forth or he’s hoping to spring a fast getaway.

“I know what you did.” James’ whisper elicits no response from the gardener, except a small, sly smile that causes me to shiver. Violently, if only for a moment. I hear Mouse on the other side of the world ask if I’m cold but I ignore her, wouldn’t know how to respond anyway.

“And I know what you’re not.” The gardener looks up at James and I can make out smoke-colored, beedy eyes that chill me to the core.

“I don’t care anymore,” James answers.

“Really?” The gardener leans back in his chair, that psycho smile still playing his lips. “Mr. Caballero from nowhere Ohio, son of an Italian immigrant, who never went to college, doesn’t have a degree.”

James closes his eyes and his hands draw up in fists. His words are filled with pain. “You killed those girls. You killed Blair.”

At this, the gardener rises, places his hands on his desk and leans forward. “And you made love to an underage student, you ignorant wop imposter.”

James runs his fingers through his hair nervously. He’s cornered and he knows it. If he rats on this man, his secret will be unveiled, his career ended and he’ll be hauled off to jail. If he doesn’t, more girls will die.

“Why?” he whispers. “Why Blair?”

The gardener laughs and again I shiver. “So only some rich spoiled brat from Dallas matters?”

“That’s not it and you know it.”

“You knew what I was doing.”

James steps backwards, stopped by the door’s threshold. “I only assumed about the orphans….”

The gardener moves from his place behind the desk and steps within inches of James, his face so close to his that James holds his breath to draw back as far as he can, his head touching the wood behind him. “You saw me with those two, and you knew what was going on. The only reason you never said anything and won’t now is because I know what and who you are.”

The two men stand facing each other for only seconds but it feels like minutes and I watch a tear drop down James’ face.

“I couldn’t afford college, I told you that.”

“Oh poor professor. My heart bleeds. I’m cleaning rich girl shit from toilets and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“But why Blair?”

The gardener leans so close to James their noses almost collide. “Because she was a spoiled brat and a tease and thought she owned the world. You people and all your education, what the hell do you know when someone throws a hammer on your skull? What’s your education going to do you then, huh? She deserved everything she got. Everything.”

James is now crying. He closes his eyes to escape the gardener’s stare and angry words so the creep finally backs up, returns to his desk and sits down.

“Tell you what,” the gardener says in that icy voice that makes my heart stop beating. “I’ll leave this place, tell the president my mother is dying and go far away. You won’t tell anyone about what happened to those orphans and little Miss Dallas Socialite and I’ll take your secrets to the grave, Mr. Leatherwood.”

Naturally, James is torn and I sense he wants to do the right thing. But I’m also doubtful that any teacher who has had sex with a student will make the right choice here. I’m correct for James nods, covers his mouth with a handkerchief and leaves the dark office. He practically runs down the hall.

I wonder why I’m watching only James in action here, consider that he may be haunting me as well, when I notice a shadow emerging from a corner of the basement, the same place where the spa lobby now exists, where I stood only minutes before talking to TB eating eggs in a Waffle House. Of course, it’s Lori, following her beloved teacher around, but how much has she heard?

Lori ascends the staircase, following James to his office and as soon as she’s inside, shuts the door behind her, which makes James literally jump in reaction. “Jesus, Lori, you scared me to death.” In that moment with his guard down, I detect an Italian accent lurking behind that false educated veneer.

Lori says nothing, doesn’t mention the meeting between him and the gardener or the fact that four girls have been murdered in their midst and James was party to letting it all happen. She silently walks toward her English teacher in their tight space of an office, slips a hand around his cheek and wipes the tears still lingering on his face, then kisses him soundly.

I’m as shocked as James, who pulls away and stares at his student bewilderedly.

“Don’t you like that?”

James holds Lori at arms’ length, gazing at her like the stern teacher he needed to be. “Go back to your room, Lori.”

“I can give you what she gave you.” Funny, for such an innocent, homely girl Lori stands before him confident and sensual, more powerful than anything Blair could have concocted. I gasp at this transformation and for a moment am convinced they have heard me.

They haven’t, of course, but James feels this new empowerment emanating from her too. This time, however, his commands lack enforcement. “Please, go back to your room.”