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Thunder boomed and lightning cracked as Monique Vicknair gunned the car down the drive to enter the notable sugar plantation that she’d called home for the majority of her life. Granted, it wasn’t nearly as impressive as it had been before Katrina mercilessly bore down on Louisiana, but even with the dingy porch columns leaning and the blue tarp roof, it still commanded attention. It definitely commanded Monique’s attention right now, because she had to get to the house, specifically to the second floor sitting room, and open her grandmother’s letter.
Big, fat drops of rain fell between overlapping magnolia branches to plunk on her head and cause her blond——or rather, sand——bangs to fall limp into her eyes. Sand. Had Pierre really thought that was a compliment that would turn her on? No matter, Monique realized, since Grandma Adeline hadn’t given any regard to whether Monique was in the process of being turned on, or off, at the time of her summons.
The rain grew harder, and she sped forward. Monique wished that she’d had the wherewithal to raise the convertible’s top at the last stop sign. Now her leather seats were soaked, and tomorrow, the whole interior would have to be babied to the max to keep it from smelling like mildew. Just great. Not to mention the fact that tomorrow, or more accurately, tonight, she’d deal with a ghost, a ghost that had evidently been waiting for her arrival and was probably pissed. Nothing like an enraged specter to make an already lousy night complete.
She blinked through the water making small wet paths down her face and saw two shadows darting from the nearest cane field to the house. Dax and Jenee, she wagered, out snatching sugar cane for an evening snack. And she’d also wager that the shadow leaning against the porch post with folded arms, a cascade of pitch-black hair down her back and her shoulders held stern, was Nanette. And a none-too-happy Nanette at that. Well, fine. Monique never asked for this job, and she sure wasn’t going to take any flack from Nanette for her almost-orgasm at Pierre’s place.
After parking the car, she heard another sound, a ripping noise, mingling with the thunder. A determined gust of wind brutally whipped at the big turquoise plastic piece currently sheltering their roof. Lord, she hoped the thing held. She wasn’t in the mood for climbing ladders and trying, once again, to make sure their dilapidated mansion stood yet another test of time. When were those historical folks going to give them the money they needed to keep the place standing?
Nanette stepped out into the rain and turned her attention from Monique to the noisy tarp.
Monique climbed out of the car and quickly worked to get the top up and cover her leather, while Dax and Jenee joined in her effort.
“The tarp will hold, Nanette!” Dax yelled, gritting his teeth as he fought to clamp down one side of the Mustang’s top. “Get on the porch and out of the rain,” he directed Nan. Then he turned toward Monique and Jenee, and in a tone that belied that he was the youngest one here and clarified that he’d just declared the role of man in charge, he continued, “Go on. I’ve got this.”
Monique’s brows drew together, but she was hurting too bad, burning too much, to argue. She did need to get inside, and get to that letter. When this hard of a rain actually felt good on her sizzling skin, she was high past the time the summons had been delivered. Obviously, from the scowl on Nan’s face, she was way past time.
“I know you felt it,” Nan spouted, raising her voice to be heard over the rain, pattering against the tarp-covered roof and splatting loudly on the stone steps leading to the house. Tiny channels in the grass-deprived yard were already sending streams of watery mud toward the edge of the house. “Why didn’t you come when she called you?” Nan asked, frowning at Monique and then at the muddy ground.
Monique glared at her and silently dared her oldest cousin to distribute any more accusatory remarks. “I was on the verge of great sex,” she said, her skin burning more fiercely with every step. Even the thin fabric from her dress, rubbing against her rain-dampened skin, stung like a hot iron. She needed to get to that letter. Now.
“You can’t ignore it anymore. You have to come when she calls,” Nan said, as Monique struggled to cross the deep width of the porch. Breathing was difficult when her flesh burned so fiercely.
Jenee quickly moved to open the door for her, but Monique stopped walking.
“Don’t,” Monique managed, swallowing through her parchment dry mouth. “Don’t you dare start with me tonight, Nan. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Nan blinked, then her jaw softened, and she frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s the roof, and the house, and the mud, and the Roussel brothers. Everything got me worked up, and then you didn’t come.”
“But,” Monique continued, “I’m here now, and I really have to get inside. I don’t like this, Nan. You know I don’t.” She licked the rain from her lips to gather what moisture she could. “But I’m here.”
“Yes,” Nan agreed. “You are.” She gave Monique a soft, apologetic smile, and Monique nodded her acceptance, then let Jenee guide her into the house, past the big sheets of plastic that closed off most of the first floor and up the stairs toward the sitting room. It was the only room in the house that had maintained the same lush appearance that the entire home had prior to the hurricane. While the remainder of the house had suffered the full brunt of the storm, this room remained unscathed, evidently protected by Adeline Vicknair, or some other powerful spirits.
Seeing the familiar lavender envelope, Monique entered the room, stumbled onto the red velvet settee and lifted her grandmother’s summons from the shiny silver tray. Immediately, an icy waterfall of coolness quenched her sweltering flesh, washing over her like a blanket of comfort. The fiery burn was over——this time.
She lifted the envelope, marked with her name, then held it to her nose and inhaled her grandmother’s favorite scent, magnolias. She wished this part of the whole spirit-helping business didn’t excite her, but it did. Not that she’d ever admit that to Nan. She’d told Nanette the truth; she didn’t like the way her medium status controlled her life. It was a pain——literally——when she had to stop what she was doing and heed the summons that caused her skin to burn. Still, she’d be lying if she said this part of her family duty didn’t excite her, wondering whose information was on the pages within and how she would influence their passage to the other side. However, Monique also knew that she was better off not caring too much about the individual. She’d complete her task then she’d move on. Getting attached to spirits wasn’t part of her plan. Too much opportunity to get hurt, and Monique didn’t plan on getting burned by a spirit. Burned by a spirit——a funny way of looking at it, given she burned every time one called.
Now that the burning had stopped and she had the letter in hand, she was all set to take on this assignment, help some ghost find his or her way home, then return to her life in progress. And if she was lucky, return to Pierre Comeaux sometime in the not too distant future.
She ran her finger beneath the edge of the envelope and listened to the soft crack of the paper giving way as it opened. Then she withdrew the three pages from inside. The first was her grandmother’s letter on her usual pale purple stationery. Placing the plain white sheets in her lap, Monique unfolded Adeline’s request. A cut lace border created a scalloped edge around the page and instantly reminded Monique that this piece of paper had somehow traversed the boundary between the living and the dead and, in the process, provided her another chance to communicate with her feisty grandmother. Taking a deep breath, she read the information at the top of the page.
Name of Deceased——Ryan Chappelle.
Monique had a female customer at her salon whose name was Ryan; she also had two male customers with the same name, one a bald elderly gentleman and the other a seventeen-year-old senior at the high school where Nan taught. She wondered whether this ghost was male, as she suspected earlier. Not that it mattered. She’d do her job, either way, and hopefully wouldn’t be summoned for, oh, a good year. In her dreams. She’d never been more than three weeks without Grandma Adeline “doing her thing.” Monique let her eyes roam to the remaining information, written in her grandmother’s swirling script, at the bottom of the page.
Requirement for Passage——Learning to Love.
Monique blinked, squinted at the words, then frowned. Learning to love? What did that mean? Her previous assignments had all been basically the same. Though they were all relationship problems, they typically involved the same directive. Forgive spouse. Hug mother. Tell a child that he or she was loved. Tell a parent that he or she was loved. Something along those lines. But learning to love? And did that mean that the ghost Monique was about to meet, to be sidled with for what usually spanned a couple of days, or however long it took for her to sort their problem out, was some kind of non-loving, uncaring weirdo?
“Come on, Granny, what were you thinking?” she asked, as a loose shutter flapped smartly against the side of the house. Monique turned to stare at the window generating the noise and wondered if her grandmother was able to do that from up there.
Probably.
“Okay,” Monique said with a sigh, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I’m just a little surprised you sent this one my way.”
Twisting back around on the settee, she flipped the purple page over, placed it on the armrest, then moved to the second sheet. As usual, it listed rules for dealing with the spirits. Monique could recite them by heart, but since she was required to read the pages in their entirety before her assignment officially began, she read them again.
She paused when she got to the “no touching” rule. When had it been added? The first few lines seemed extremely professional, then the last one appeared to have been tacked on at some point over the years. She wondered which of her ancestors attempted to test the rules and caused the modification. Whoever it was, she’d bet that she inherited a good portion of those genes.
“I bet I’m not the first rebel Vicknair.”
A loud clatter caused her to jerk her head toward the window once more. That loose shutter had to be fixed, and soon. The thing was going to drive her over the edge. It was bad enough that she was wet and cold, not to mention starving, since she never got to taste the first bite of Pierre’s crawfish etouffee, but now she had to get her nerves frazzled too, courtesy of a rattling shutter.
When the thing finally banged its way back into place, she scanned the room once more and determined that her ghost was evidently taking his or her sweet time. If she had known, she’d have gotten in at least one encounter with Pierre. Then again, if she had waited any longer, her body would have flat out burst into flames, no doubt about it. Nope, she’d returned home, like Adeline Vicknair wanted, so that damn ghost had better show up and let her get started.
She placed the sheet of rules on top of Grandma Adeline’s letter so she could view the final page, the official document directing her grandmother to assign Ryan Chappelle to one of her grandchildren. It amazed Monique that the powers that be, or PTB, on the other side distributed their assignments as though sending a modern email.
TO: Adeline Vicknair, Grand Matriarch of Vicknair Mediums
FROM: Lionelle Dewberry, Gatekeeper First Class
CC: Board of Directors, Realm Entrance Governing Squadron
SUBJECT: Case # 19-01-6418 – Ryan Chappelle
Current Status – Access Denied.
Required Rectification – Proof that claimant can achieve emotional love.
Time Allotted for Rectification – Nine days.
Monique’s jaw dropped. Nine days? No way was she hanging out with a ghost for over a week. The longest assignment she’d ever had was three days. Nine. Days.
No way. Wasn’t happening.
She’d simply waste no time taking care of business, which, in Ryan Chappelle’s case, was teaching him how to love, as if Monique knew the first thing about it.
“Damnation,” she said, shaking her head at the irony. She’d never been in love, and she’d been pretty pleased at making it to twenty-four without having it happen. She knew lust aplenty, but she didn’t know the first thing about love. Sure, lots of Vicknairs before her had managed to handle the emotion and their family obligations. But Monique had never quite figured out how to get close enough to a guy to tell him that she happened to spend a large portion of her life communing with the dead. Somehow, it never entered the conversation.
Go figure.
Today was Friday, so nine days would have this ghost’s deadline...a week from Sunday. Why so long? Was this spirit that big of a challenge? Evidently so.
Super.
She bit her lower lip and concentrated on the task at hand. She could do it; she had to, because she was not going to live with a ghost in her shadow for nine days. She wasn’t. She couldn’t. Because that would obviously mean that she’d have to go another week without sex, and dammit, she’d been long enough.
Speaking of which, she’d forgotten to buy a supply of batteries today at Wal-Mart, and from the look of the storm brewing outside her window, she wouldn’t be able to swipe any from the flashlights without them being missed.
“Where are you, ghost? The quicker you get here, the quicker you leave.” She squinted at the remaining information, the standard this-is-why-we-won’t-let-them-in spiel, and recited aloud, “Regarding Case 19-01-6418, aka Ryan Chappelle, based on the unanimous recommendation of the Board of Directors, the aforementioned has been denied access beyond the realm due to his inability to achieve love throughout twenty-eight years of earth inhabitation.”
Monique glared at the page, swallowed hard, and then continued, “While claimant has experienced his share (and then some) of physical bonding, he refused to open his heart to love. Thereby, the Board sees no reason to grant access to a spirit who cannot love. The Board has generously provided an adequate span of time for claimant to attempt to rectify the reason for denial. We believe this period, nine days, to be sufficient; however, if the assigned medium feels this calculation to be in error, a standard Form 489-074320-78X, Request for Modification of Rectification Period, may be submitted to the Medium Grievance Counsel for review. As with all assignments, should the claimant refuse or be unable to complete the assigned task within the rectification period, that individual’s ability to gain access beyond the realm will be irrevocably denied.”
Monique groaned toward the ceiling. “Granny, this would have been a great time to fill out one of those modification forms. Nine days is ridiculous.” Her eyes moved to the center of the paragraph and she repeated, “While claimant has experienced his share (and then some) of physical bonding, he refused to open his heart to love.”
His share. So, Ryan is male, and a male who has experienced a surplus of physical bonding. In other words, he likes sex. Well here’s a newsflash for the PTB——so does she. And to get this guy out of her life and conveniently placed on the other side, where he belongs, she has to teach him that there’s more to a relationship than sex?
“How am I, Monique Vicknair, the woman who has been craving an honest-to-goodness rock-my-world curl-my-toes orgasm from something other than a vibrator for a good six months, supposed to convince this guy that there’s more to life than just sex?” she spouted to the empty room.
Only the room wasn’t empty anymore.
“Funny, that’s exactly what I was going to ask,” the deep, raspy, and extremely Southern voice drawled from behind the settee.
Monique gasped, winced, then slowly——very, very slowly——turned to view the owner of the sexy voice. Mon dieu, he took her breath away. Definitely male. There was nothing at all feminine about this Ryan.
Nothing. At. All.
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