Mississippi River
. If another hurricane like Katrina hit, she might regret it. But she decided she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Her house was located one street over from Bourbon, which would come in handy when she’d finished all the repairs and opened her B&B; it would be within walking distance for partiers.
The house had been in relatively good repair, despite the fact it had set empty for almost ten years. It had escaped the worst of Katrina’s wrath, and the last owners had obviously planned to do what she was doing: running a B&B. Their work had been extensive, and she wondered once again why they’d given it up. The realtor practically salivated over Tempest’s interest in the property, and when she’d named the asking price of a little more than $150,000 for the six bedroom, three-bath house, Tempest had been amazed. She’d also been very suspicious.
She’d once again questioned the former owner’s motives, but the realtor would only tell her they’d moved back East.
The realtor assured Tempest that there was nothing structurally wrong with the building, and the inspection had confirmed that information. She’d decided the deficiency must be that there was a ghost attached to the building, but that idea had quickly vanished. Having a resident ghost would be a definite plus in a
New Orleans
hotel. People would run to book rooms if they thought there was a chance of meeting up with a spirit. She could probably double the price she would be asking for rooms.
Plus, she’d been in the house for more than two months now and had not seen an inkling of a ghost. All that had happened was her recurring sexual dreams that left her more depleted of energy as the days passed.
She needed coffee. Now. She took one last, lingering look at the street, waving to Mrs. Baker, who had lived in this neighborhood since the 1940s. When she’d first moved in, Tempest had tried to guess the woman’s age, but there was no one around to tell her whether she was right or not. Her neighbor, Dex, had only said, “She’s been here forever.” Going up to the woman and saying, “So, did you enjoy the 1920s?” didn’t seem like the proper thing to do, so Tempest had just let it slide.
The older woman, a to-go cup of coffee in one hand and a white pastry bag in the other, wiggled the sack to return the greeting. Then she hurried down the block and darted inside her gate. Mrs. Baker would stop to talk to Tempest when Tempest was on the street, but she would never come near the front door, and when Tempest greeted her from the balcony as she’d just done, the woman never kept her gaze fastened on the house for long.
As Tempest studied the spot where Mrs. Baker had just been, she wondered why she avoided the house. All the other neighbors had come by to welcome her to the area two months ago when she’d moved in. All of them except for the one who had lived here the longest. Strange.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then centered on her to-do list for the day. The plumber would be here at one, to change out the fittings in one of the downstairs bathrooms. Before that, though, the gardener was going to finish putting in the fountain she’d selected--a large, wonderfully carved block of stone with a marble sphere on top of it. The water would move the sphere, giving it, she hoped, a sort of otherworldly feel.
The garden behind the house was huge; another thing she hoped would be a great draw to potential customers. One of the previous owners had torn down the slave quarters that once sat behind the house, extending the area for plantings. The gardener had already set up three stone benches at various places, two of them tucked behind bushes that would give young newlyweds a place to go and neck when they booked a room.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she whispered. “You have to get things done first. One day at a time, and it’s just the two things today.”
She stretched her arms above her
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