Once Haunted, Twice Shy (The Peyton Clark Series Book 2)

  “The building is as it was in my day!” Drake exclaimed as I studied it for him. “But the color! Mon Dieu! The color!”

  “What color was it before?” I prodded, finding the conversation interesting, given my fascination with everything historical. I’d studied history in college, even though I hadn’t earned my degree. Unfortunately, I’d put my dreams on hold and gotten married instead. It was a mistake I tried not to focus on. Instead, I attempted to live my life with no regrets.

  When I noticed Ryan stepping down from his seat, I followed suit, jumping down from the truck as the New Orleans air engulfed me with a warm, moist hug. Ryan beeped the truck locked behind us and I was surprised that Drake didn’t mention the noise. Apparently, he was still too taken with Commander’s to observe much else.

  “Last I saw this place, it was painted beige or brown, perhaps,” Drake responded before chuckling. I could just imagine him shaking his head in wonder. “I never expected to step foot into Commander’s again.”

  “Well, technically, you aren’t. I’m stepping foot . . .”

  As I felt Ryan taking my hand, I glanced over at him and he beamed down at me. “Turtle soup for you again, Pey?” he asked with a chuckle.

  I shook my head, but couldn’t hide my smirk. He had to coax me into trying the turtle soup the last time we were there and it wasn’t an easy sell. As it was, I only had a tiny spoonful of the creamy stuff before deciding I preferred having turtles in their natural environment or in a tank. “Thanks, but I’m going to pass.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “You can take the girl out of California, but you can’t take California out of the girl . . .”

  I laughed. “Something like that.” Then I cleared my throat and thought about what I was in the mood for. “I’m thinking maybe some comfort food.”

  “As in Southern Comfort?” Ryan continued with a chuckle, pulling me into his hard body as he wrapped his arms around me and kissed the side of my neck. I immediately leaned into him, relishing his smell—something between the scent of clean skin and the spiciness of deodorant. And there was also a factor I never could put my finger on—whatever it was, though, it was uniquely Ryan.

  “La souffrance!” Drake chimed in, which I took to mean: the suffering!

  I immediately pulled away from Ryan as soon as I remembered my bodily guest. Then, feeling a twinge of anger flow through me, I decided to scold him. “If you keep that up, I’m going to permanently shut you out of seeing or hearing or tasting anything!” I yelled at him. I reached down and gripped Ryan’s hand, not wanting to alert him by pulling away. There were times that I definitely wasn’t comfortable with Drake’s persistent eavesdropping.

  “Very well, ma minette, I will behave,” he immediately answered before going silent as Ryan opened the door for me and I entered the stately building. The main dining room of Commander’s featured tables with white linen tablecloths. White napkins were folded into fans and stood proudly on top of the circular, white plates. The white theme continued with the floral arrangements standing in the middle of each table—eight white roses amid plentiful greenery. The ceiling was dominated by golden chandeliers bedecked with strings of pearls that hung from their boughs. The chandeliers paled, though, in comparison to the light streaming through the multiple windows on every wall. Some windows were partially obscured by grayish-purple shades featuring gold-scroll designs, which matched the hue of the darker purple carpeting. It too featured the same gold-scroll design as the shades.

  “This looks nothing similar to what it did in my time,” Drake piped up.

  “Well, did you really expect it to?” I inquired.

  “J’espère que non!” Drake chuckled. “I should hope not! I am not certain of its reputation now, but it was certainly known for its ill repute in my day.”

  “Ill repute? What do you mean?”

  “Comment dois-je dire . . .” His voice trailed off. “How do I say . . . I do not want to offend your delicate feminine sensibilities, ma minette . . .”

  “Oh please!” I guffawed. “You’ve already offended my delicate feminine sensibilities more times than I can count!”

  “Very well,” he responded, sounding much more uptight. It was previously run as a brothel of sorts. “Many a lonely ship captain found himself entranced by a beautiful woman in the upstairs lounge, ma minette.”

  “Wow,” I said, surprised as I tried to imagine Commander’s as a house of prostitution. I looked around myself, observing the blatant tourists, clad in their faded jeans, college football T-shirts, and grimy baseball caps as they tried to read through the menu. A few shrieking kids completed the picture, which didn’t exactly lend itself to being a house of ill repute.

  “Shall I describe for you the acts that took place here?” Drake continued, his tone becoming carnal and suggestive.

  “That’s okay,” I responded. “I have a good imagination so please spare me the details.”

  “Two for lunch?” the hostess, a short, but lean and pretty girl, asked as soon as we walked into the reception area.

  “Yes, please,” Ryan answered. “We prefer to sit in the garden.”

  “Of course,” the girl answered.

  For as lovely as the inside of Commander’s was, we never ate inside. Instead, Ryan and I liked the garden seating outside, which was, in one word . . . enchanting. The hostess grabbed two lunch menus and led us outside into the warmth of the New Orleans day. The hunter-green wrought-iron tables and matching green umbrellas perfectly blended with the lushness of the dense canopy and foliage above. The sun’s rays filtered through the natural arbor with pockets of dappled light.

  “How about that one over there?” Ryan asked, pointing to a single table surrounded by the fronds of a palm tree. The woman nodded and led us to the table, and Ryan pulled out my chair for me. She handed each of us a menu.

  “Your server will be with you shortly,” she announced with a sweet voice before disappearing into the greenery.

  I waited for Ryan to seat himself before flipping up my menu and scanning through the various mouthwatering dishes. It was difficult to decide what to gorge myself on. It was not an easy task choosing from a cornucopia of entrées, complete with Creole Gumbo, Seared Gulf Fish, Honey Lacquered Quail, Hickory Grilled Pork, and a whole slew of desserts (dessert being my favorite meal of the day).

  “I would like to try one of each, please,” Drake said.

  “What?” I scoffed back at him. “I’m not ordering one of every entrée! Choose one and be happy with it.”

  “Très bien,” he grumbled in response. “Very well. I am most eager to revel in the taste of the beef, ma minette, if you would so oblige me.”

  “Okay . . .” I started.

  “And, perhaps a slice of pecan pie for our second course? I have so missed the taste of Southern pecans, ma minette. Of course, that bread pudding soufflé looks quite appealing and . . . ah! Grits! Bien sûr! We must sample the grits, ma minette!”

  “Ugh, I don’t like grits, they taste like Cream of Wheat,” I ground out even though it was more than obvious that Drake didn’t care.

  “Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, suddenly appearing from around the grove of trees, and obscuring us from the rest of the outdoor area. He was maybe in his thirties, with a boyish face. A stray lock of blond hair intersected his forehead, which, when paired with his large, dark eyes, button nose, and smallish mouth, gave him the look of a Kewpie doll.

  “Pey?” Ryan asked, deferring to me to order first.

  “I’d like the Tournedos of Black Angus Beef,” I started, handing my menu back to the waiter. “And a side of grits, please.”

  “Ah, merci, ma minette!”

  I frowned inwardly and cleared my throat, facing the waiter again. “I’d also like the pecan pie for dessert and, uh, some bread pudding.”

  “Is that all?” Ryan as
ked, chuckling as he studied me with an amused expression.

  “No,” I answered with a sigh. “I also need three of the twenty-five-cent martinis.” And, yes, I definitely “needed” them—they’d make dealing with Drake a lot easier.

  “Three?” Ryan scoffed at me, his eyebrows reaching for the sky as the waiter chuckled.

  “They’re twenty-five cents each, Ryan! I’d try for four, but the cap is three,” I said with a pouty face at the waiter. He just shrugged as if to say there wasn’t anything he could do about the policy.

  “Okay,” Ryan continued. “Why not wait ’til you’ve finished one before orderin’ another?” he asked with a grin.

  “A couple of reasons,” I answered nonchalantly. I flipped up my index finger to let it be known reason number one was about to be delivered. “They might change their mind and start charging full price for each drink.” Ryan laughed but I tried not to smile as I flicked up finger number two. “And secondly, if I don’t order all three at once, that means I have to wait in between drinks and I’ve never been any good at being patient.”

  Ryan laughed and shook his head as he faced the waiter. “You heard the lady . . .”

  The waiter responded with a chuckle. “And for you, sir?”

  “I’d like the Gumbo, the Heirloom Tomato Salad, an’ a sweet tea.”

  “And a dessert for you, sir?” the waiter asked.

  Ryan glanced at me with a smile. “I think I’ll sample the smorgasbord my lovely girlfriend ordered.”

  I couldn’t help blushing at his term of endearment. Although I was not yet completely accustomed to being Ryan’s girlfriend, I had to admit that I liked the idea . . . a lot.

  “Do you plan on updating your barbarian about my existence during our luncheon?” Drake, the voice of doom, suddenly sounded from inside me.

  “Yes!” I yelled at him. “Stop pushing me about it! It will take care of itself.”

  “I am afraid that is what you always say, ma minette,” Drake answered with a practiced sigh.

  “Pey?” Ryan asked and I glanced up at him from where I’d been zoning out on my place setting while arguing with Drake.

  “Yep?”

  He cleared his throat and studied me for a few moments. “Would you be interested in comin’ over tonight?” he started before clearing his throat again. “And, uh, spendin’ the night?”

  Butterflies immediately swarmed my stomach as my heartbeat sped up. Even though it wasn’t exactly phrased as an open invitation to have sex, it was an open invitation to have sex. The reason for my sudden wave of anxiety was that Ryan and I had never had sex before. Yes, we’d come close, but never sealed the figurative deal. To say I was sexually frustrated would be an understatement.

  I wanted to scream, cry, and yell “Yes!” but instantly remembered the little issue still plaguing me by the name of Drake Montague.

  “I mean, you don’t have to spend the night,” Ryan started, obviously sensing my reservation, “if you don’t want to . . .”

  “No, I do want to,” I interrupted him. He had no idea how badly I wanted to, but I certainly didn’t want Drake eavesdropping. True, I could disallow him to see or hear anything, but that wasn’t good enough . . . not when I felt I owed Ryan the truth and had to tell him that Drake was possessing me. I could never feel comfortable having sex with Ryan if he didn’t know the truth about Drake.

  “You want to but . . .”

  “Um,” I said, my tongue suddenly seeming to swell up and choke me.

  “Peyton,” Ryan started as he leaned forward, gripping my hand in his, “I know it’s got to be tough for you . . . to be with another man since divorcin’ your husband.”

  That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. I was sooooo completely over my ex, Jonathon. In fact, he had become only a distant memory that hadn’t resurfaced since meeting Ryan . . . until now.

  “It has nothing to do with my ex-husband,” I started, then swallowed hard, wishing I could summon up the nerve to just spit the words out.

  I had to tell Ryan about Drake. And I had to do it now because the opportunity had definitely presented itself.

  “We can go slowly,” Ryan continued. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not it,” I said, sounding frustrated.

  “Come out with it, ma minette!” Drake demanded.

  “Mind your own business!” I railed back at him.

  “I don’t want to rush you into anythin’,” Ryan continued, leaning forward and looking at me with compassion in his eyes. “I just have to be honest with you, Peyton. Seein’ you just . . . does somethin’ to me.” My nerves started up again and I felt that telltale stinging in the pit of my belly. It was proof that Ryan caused the same reaction on my libido as I apparently did to his. “I don’t know how much longer I can go without feelin’ your body, without knowin’ you . . . more intimately,” he finished as I about melted into my chair.

  I took a deep breath and forced my knee to stop bouncing up and down. I had to tell him about Drake, and I intended to tell him right then and there.

  “Oh. My. Gawd! I couldn’t believe it!” A heavy New York accent belonging to a woman exclaimed from right behind me. I turned around to find a very handsome African American waiter leading two women to a table opposite ours. One of the women, heavyset with flame-red hair, was probably in her forties, and the other woman was shorter and could’ve been in her seventies. Her hair looked as if it were striving for red, but got lost somewhere along the way and was now relegated to pastel pink. “I swear we musta gotten forty orbs in this one picture,” the woman continued.

  “Yes, Mabel, I think it was when you held the camera over the fence at the Beauregard-Keyes House,” the older woman said, her accent just as heavily Brooklynese as the younger woman’s. She glanced up at the waiter who seemed interested in their story, or maybe he was just interested in a good tip . . . it was hard to tell.

  “Yeah, that’s right, Mama,” Mabel answered, glancing back at the waiter again as he pulled her seat out for her, only after seating her mother. “But every photo we took had at least ten orbs in it! The guide on our ghost tour said she’d never seen this much activity before an’ she’s been doin’ these ghost tours for ten yee-ars.”

  “Oh. My. Gawd. Ten yee-ars? Is that what she said?” Mabel’s mom double-checked.

  Mabel nodded emphatically. “I know. I couldn’t believe it!”

  The waiter nodded as he handed each of them a menu. “That’s interestin’ yer guide said that ’cause one ah my coworkers tole me Emile has been at it agin for the last two nights, and no one heard a peep outta him in ova a year or somethin’.”

  “Emile?” Mabel repeated curiously.

  The waiter turned toward her and nodded insistently, obviously intent on telling the story. “Emile Commander was the o-riginal proprietah of Commander’s Palace back in 1880.”

  “And he haunts it now?” Mabel Senior asked as the waiter nodded repeatedly.

  “He sho’nuff does,” the waiter responded.

  “Oh. My. Gawd,” Mabel commented.

  Ryan leaned in toward me, gripping my thigh under the table in a lame attempt to scare me. All it did was turn me on.

  I faced him with a smile, placing my hand on top of his. “I was totally eavesdropping,” I admitted, concerned that I still hadn’t come out with the whole Drake thing. But I also couldn’t deny my interest in this new subject matter.

  “Hard not to eavesdrop when their table is so close,” Ryan said with a laugh as we both faced our neighbors again.

  “Stories go back ta 1970 when Commander’s interior was redesigned,” the waiter continued. “I guess that’s when ghost stories about Emile first started poppin’ up.”

  “What did he do?” Mabel Senior asked just as our waiter appeared with Ryan’s salad.
After he delicately placed the salad in front of Ryan, he offered to sprinkle some freshly ground pepper on it, but Ryan refused.

  “Hey, Harry,” the other waiter called over as Harry, aka Kewpie Doll, turned to face him. “What d’ya know ’bout Emile the ghost?”

  Harry chuckled and took a few steps toward the other table, but kept facing us, as if including us in the conversation. Maybe it was that obvious we were already listening. “I dunno all the stories offhan’, but I do know that lotsa our staff has noticed silverware an’ dishes goin’ missin’. Other times, stuff’ll show up in different places than where someone left it.”

  The other waiter nodded before facing his guests again. “Lights turn off an’ on fer no reason an’ there’ve been lotsa reports o’ footsteps upstairs when we’re closin’ up fer the night an’ no one should be up there.”

  “Oh. My. Gawd,” Mabel said as she inhaled for a few seconds.

  “But jist recently, Emile has been lots more active,” Harry continued. “Landon said that jist yesterday he had ta refill a guest’s drink three times ’cause the wine kept disappearin’ right outta his glass!”

  “That’s a good way to get free refills,” Ryan said with a laugh and everyone followed suit.

  “F’sho it’s true!” Harry said. “Emile is known for his love o’ wine and it’s not uncommon for lots o’ wine bottles to jist go missin’. There were ’bout four bottles that disappeared last night an’ dey still ain’t accounted fer.”

  “Sounds like Emile needs to check in to Alcoholics Anonymous,” Ryan continued, shaking his head as he laughed.

  I laughed too, but there was something about that story and the women’s story that bothered me. “So you were saying that Emile has only recently started up his antics again?” I asked Harry.

  He nodded. “Yeah, it’s sorta strange actually, but all o’ the sudden both staff an’ guests have noticed things goin’ on that don’t make no sense . . . So we just say it’s Emile.”