I’m staring at rows and rows of polyester and can’t believe that on this day of all days, while my aunt and sister are out searching for my father through police reports, TB and I hunt for a dance-off costume.
“We really should be with them,” I tell him as I pull an amazingly tacky shirt John Travolta would have killed for off the rack.
“It doesn’t take four people to go through the files,” TB says, admiring a white suit. “That’s what Wanda said.”
He pulls said suit off the wall and displays it proudly.
“Yeah, sure, I guess so.”
“Did you find anything yet?”
I look around this vintage clothing store that Sarah recommended and I’m not sure I want to be dressed as a disco queen tonight or dance a number TB and I created years ago. Not to mention my muscles may not cooperate. I’m not a college coed anymore.
“Are you sure we can pull this off?”
TB removes a deep blue shirt off the rack and beams. “Sarah said we could use the garage at her sister’s condo and it’s just down the street.”
I spot a dress that might work, pull it out and check the size. “The big question is not where to rehearse but do we still know the steps.”
“I never forgot,” TB says as he heads toward the check-out counter. He motions toward my dress. “You getting that?”
It’s my size and it’s not horrid — actually, it’s kinda cute — so I nod my approval. “But I need shoes.”
Another thing I’m not too keen about, dancing in high heels again. I’m not into feet torture so I spend my life in flats and Converses. But I spot a cute black pair with a reasonable heel that’s my size. I grab them and some dangling earrings and meet TB at the counter.
While we’re waiting for the clerk to ring up our purchases, my phone rings. It’s Portia.
“We’ve got an address,” she says before I can say hello.
“Great.”
“Not really. The building has been torn down. Hurricane Ike took off the roof and the water damage was too much so they razed the place.”
“So, what do we do now?”
I hear Portia sigh and know she’s as tired of this pursuit as I am. “I don’t know, Vi. You and that research guru have any ideas?”
Did she just compliment my husband? I look over at TB and he’s beside himself gazing at a pair of platform shoes. When he notices me staring, his smile fades. “What?”
“They got nowhere. Any suggestions?”
TB takes my phone and offers Portia a few sources to check out at the local library, city directories, newspaper files and the like. When he hangs up, I ask, “Should we go help them?”
“I doubt they’ll find anything. People who want to stay hidden usually do. But it’ll make them feel productive.”
The man continues to amaze me. He’s absolutely right. Nothing would drive Portia crazy more than sitting in her room wondering what else to do.
We purchase our clothes and head down island to Sarah’s sister’s condo. Sarah insisted we’ll know where to turn once we spot the Kettle House. She didn’t explain, simply laughed and handed us the map. When the structure comes into view, we get it.
“What the hell?” I say.
The house is constructed completely of metal with rounded pieces welded together. Petite windows peek out near the roofline and a door sits at its base. It curves upward like a kettle but reminds me more of a tea cup with a roof.
“You need to write about that one,” TB says.
We turn on to the road before the weird house and it ends at Stewart Road. The name reminds me of my vision and I shiver.
“You cold?” TB asks.
I am, actually. I’ve been so thrilled that fall arrived after a brutally hot summer that I failed to pack enough warm clothing. “I’m okay,” I tell him.
TB reaches an arm over the seat and pulls his hoodie over. “I brought an extra one, just in case.”
The man has a few failings but being sweet and considerate was never one of them. I send him a grateful smile and pull the enormous hoodie over my head, its sleeves hanging below my wrists, which I pull up to my elbows.
“This will be fun to dance in.”
Just past Stewart Road is a complex of condominiums and we pause at the number Sarah gave us, parking outside the garage so we can utilize the space. I roll up my sleeves and we both change shoes, his platforms making him taller than usual which alarms me but when I add my own we’re back to normal, my chin barely above his shoulder line. We make our stance, start the music on my iPod, then smile and exhale, wondering if our youth has gotten away from us. There are plenty of slips, falls and stumbles, but for the most part, when we start dancing, it all comes back.
Once we make it through the routine without an error we decide to head upstairs to see what a condo rental looks like on Galveston Island.
“In case I need to write about one,” I say and we both laugh, because we know it’s more out of curiosity and the hope of bottled water lying about. I feel like a kid snooping in an abandoned building and I must admit, it’s pretty exciting.
The condo’s dressed in nautical blues and reds with beach items about and photos of good-looking male blonde surfers gracing the walls. It’s adorable, with one main bedroom and a second sporting bunkbeds. The bath smells heavenly and the kitchen offers an abundance of bottled water so TB and I share one.
We change our dancing shoes into sneakers and slip on to the balcony overlooking Como Lake, which is really an inlet from the back bay that services the marinas around us. Sarah said the complex abuts the Galveston Country Club and there are boats everywhere, including in the slip below us. Above us, a variety of seabirds fly about.
Lillye would have loved it here.
TB’s busy admiring the fancy boats when my phone sounds again. I look at the number and realize I never called my cousin back.
“Tabitha, what’s up?”
“You said you would call.”
“I know, but I’ve been very busy. You have no idea what we’ve been through….”
“I need to talk to you.”
I sigh because it’s likely more of her Carnival exploits. “Okay.”
“It’s about my tiara.”
Yep. Here we go. I’m having a good day for the first time in a week and the last thing I need is listening to a relative brag about themselves. I love my cousin, but not in the mood to listen to her today.
“Tabitha, I’m in the middle of something. I promise I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
“But, it’s important.”
“I’m sure your tiara can wait a day.”
“But….”
I say a hasty goodbye and hang up in the most polite way possible. TB asks what’s up but all I say is “Tabitha” and roll my eyes. And yet, I feel guilty. I don’t want to be rude but I also don’t want to spoil the moment.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” I say and wrap my arms about TB’s waist. He responds with a kiss that promises greater things later on and then we embrace, my chin resting on his shoulder.
It’s then I spot the old mansion.
“What’s that?” I say and pull away.
TB turns and follows my line of sight. “Some old house.”
Across the lake and down a long driveway lies a Spanish Mission-style house shrouded in trees and palms. I’m sure it’s abandoned but there’s something drawing me to this place. When I spot what looks like blue tile, I shiver. Violently.
“What is it?” TB says, examining me.
“I can’t explain it but I need to go there.”
My husband knows me enough not to question things so we head out, me now shivering constantly since the temperature has dropped and dark clouds are hovering over us, threatening rain. We drive back to Stewart Road and turn right, head a few yards up before we see the driveway entrance and a stone sign above announcing “Stewart Mansion” in faded letters.
“Well, now we know who Stewart was,” TB says.
We idle at the entrance for several moments, neither of us saying what we’re thinking, which is do we or do we not? I’m of the mind to head back to that luxurious hotel and see if the spa’s still open but the coincidence of this place to my vision haunts me. And if Mimi is right, that there are no coincidences, I need to see what’s inside.
“Let’s go,” I whisper, hearing the fear in my voice.
TB hears it too. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “I saw this place. I’m almost sure of it. It means something.”
TB moves the car into drive and we head down the long entranceway. The place must have been beautiful once for there are Spanish tiles on the roof, intricate windows clouded with either years of abuse or boards on the inside, and lovely Spanish arches.
“I’d bet this is turn-of-the-century or 1920s,” TB says.
He parks the car and we both get out, seeing nothing of importance in the front of the house so we snake around to the side where the house faces the lake. I can see our condo from here, peering above the marina that rests in between.
Along the side we find more arches, patios, and stone stairs leading to the second story. I spot a fireplace in the patio and what looks like a round fountain in its center, what must have been a lovely way to enjoy the outdoors, sipping drinks beneath the ancient live oak trees. But it’s the gorgeous royal blue tiles everywhere that catches my eye, with decorative tiles sporting images placed about. One tile reflects a Mexican artist in a sombrero painting a massive pot, another a man on a donkey. Many of the tiles are broken or chipped and the fountain smells from the nasty water within. Weeds grow everywhere and the concrete used to create this mansion peels in disuse and is colored with age.
“What a waste,” TB says, looking around. “Why would someone let this beautiful place fall apart?”
I shake my head because I’m thinking the same thing, that and why did I see the name Stewart and blue tile.
Then I remember the pirate.
“There’s a pirate here,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I’m going in,” I tell TB, although what I might find inside scares me to the core.
I discover a door that leads inside the building but before I enter TB grabs my elbow. He motions to the graffiti everywhere. “There might be squatters inside.”
I nod because as much as ghosts can be frightening, real people are notoriously worse. We peel back the wooden door that’s been warped by weather and age and enter the home. There’s evidence of people living here — empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, newspapers, and cardboard pieces — but the place appears empty. For good measure, we call out as we walk through the darkened rooms but all that returns are weird echoes that make us shiver.
As we enter what looks like the main living area, there’s a staircase heading to the second floor, tall ceilings, an old piano that’s been left to rot, and oversized murals dotting the walls. One is of a pirate, resting a rifle over his shoulder with a pistol stuck in his belt. There’s a chest at his feet in the painting, which matches a similar one in the corner of the room.
“I saw this,” I tell TB, pointing to the mural.
“What? Where?”
“In a vision I had when Mimi was showing me something about the moon.”
The full moon’s tonight, I suddenly remember, and shiver again.
TB slips behind me and holds me tight, rubbing my arms in an effort to warm me. But nothing can stop the feeling that something’s not right here, something horrible has taken place and I’ve been designated the one to find it.
I point to the chest. “What do you think is in that?”
Now, it’s TB’s turn to shiver. After a few moments of us staring at the chest, he releases me and heads in that direction.
“Maybe we should call Wanda?” I suggest.
TB pauses for a moment, thinking, then reaches down and flips the chest latches, pulls the lid open. He bolts backwards, his hand instantly at his mouth, then moves forward and slams it shut.
“What is it?” I ask, but then the smell hits me.
It’s the smell of death.
The marina boats bop in the waves stirred up by the oncoming storm. Wrapped in a police blanket, I sit on the edge of the lake watching a cute little red dingy fighting the waves.
“Just what we need, more rain,” says a voice from over my head.
I look up to find a sequoia of a man. He reaches in his breast pocket and pulls out a badge, then the giant tree sits down beside me on the dock steps, his long legs stretched out before him.
“Wanna tell me what happened?”
I smirk. “You first.”
He rests his arms on his knees and tries to relax in this position but his height makes it uncomfortable for him to do so. He reminds me of a giraffe bending down to eat low-hanging fruit.
“Viola Valentine, I presume?”
“At your service. Any dead bodies you need finding?”
I don’t mean to be sarcastic, but discovering what likely is Elena Gomez in a horrible state of decay, not to mention folded up in a moldy old chest, has left me devoid of proper etiquette. Despite my rudeness, sequoia holds out his hand.
“Clayton Ginsburg, FBI narcotics division.”
I’m impressed, the case has attracted the big guns. But then I remember that I found all the bodies.
“Are you arresting me?”
He sends me a wry smile. “Should I be?”
“I seem to be in all the wrong places.”
“More like the right ones.”
I sigh and look back at my favorite boat. “I’m a medium and this woman Elena Gomez keeps haunting me. I know that sounds crazy but….”
Clayton looks around to make sure we’re alone. “Wanda caught me up.”
I look at his face, notice his green eyes and a series of laugh lines surrounding them. Seems nice. Seems trustworthy. “You know Wanda?”
He rubs his hands along his thighs, out of nervousness or trying to warm up, I’m not sure. “We’ve been working on this case for a while now. You’re the first break we’ve had in a long time.”
“And this is where you send me away? Either jail or the insane asylum?”
Clayton smiles. “I have a lot of questions, Ms. Valentine, but I doubt we’ll be locking you up.”
He takes out a pad and pen and a tape recorder and I suddenly think of Portia. “May I have my sister present?”
Sequoia agrees and calls a deputy police officer to find Portia. She heads over, introduces herself as my lawyer, and makes herself comfortable. Or as comfortable as Portia would be in dress slacks sitting on a dock.
Clayton holds out his hand again and introduces himself. “I assure you, there’s no need for a lawyer.”
“That’s what they all say,” Portia answers.
I smile and take Portia’s hand. I’m glad my big sister’s here.
Clayton turns on the recorder and rattles off the twenty questions. More like fifty. After what seems like an hour of me explaining everything, from finding my father in Alabama to discovering pirates in Galveston, he flips his pad shut and stuffs it inside his jacket pocket, then turns off the recorder.
“Is it my turn yet?” I ask.
His smile makes me warm inside and I wonder what his demeanor is like apprehending drug criminals.
“Is it Elena?” Portia asks.
He sighs. “We think so.”
I know so. Between the vision, the iPad playing pirate music and Elena appearing to me, I can’t imagine who else would be in that chest. Then there was poor Wanda screaming when they asked her to ID the body. I shiver thinking about Wanda and her cries of anguish.
“Shall I get you another blanket?” Clayton asks.
I shake my head. “I just want to get out of here.”
“It’s been two hours,” Portia says. “And it’s getting dark.”
Clayton stands and brushes off his pants. “I’ll see about getting you an escort back to the hotel.”
I stand and stomp my feet; my legs have gone to sleep. “No need. Wanda can take us.”
“Wanda will be here for a while, I’m afraid.”
I look over at our favorite police officer who’s standing by the forensics team, a blank look on her face, and my heart breaks. I’ve come to really like this woman and I fear she’s in for a night of hell.
Not to mention years of grief.
“Can I at least talk to her?” I ask. “I’ve lost someone dear to me. I might be able to help.”
“Tomorrow,” Clayton says, and motions us to our van.
Portia rounds up Mimi and TB, both of whom had been questioned by different officers, and we head to the driveway where TB and I parked the van a million years ago. I pause and look back to Clayton.
“I only see people who have died by water. I know that must sound weird but it’s true. Something that happened to me after Hurricane Katrina. I don’t think Elena died inside that house.”
Clayton absorbs this information, once again looking around to see if anyone else is listening. “Thank you, Ms. Valentine.”
We pile into the van and leave the haunting old mansion behind. As we drive down the coast highway, watching the setting sun casting orange sparkles on the waves, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn expecting to find Mimi offering empathy but it’s Portia.
“I got your back,” she says and I send her a grateful smile.
No one says another word all the way to the hotel.
As the valet gives us back our ticket and TB relinquishes the seat, Mimi pulls our bags of costuming from the back. “What’s this?”
I had forgotten about the dance-off; it seems like years since we were laughing inside that vintage shop. “It’s for the dance contest, Mimi. A moot point now.”
She peeks inside and brightens. “Absolutely not. This is just what we need.”
“I don’t think so, Mimi…,” TB begins.
“Mimi’s right.” Portia’s the last one I expect to agree to this. “Y’all went to the trouble of getting clothes, and we need a good laugh.”
Good laugh? I’m starting to rally. “We have a great routine.”
She smirks. “I’m sure you do. So, go get dressed.”
TB looks at me uncertain. “What time is it?”
I don’t wear a watch and Mimi shrugs; she definitely doesn’t. Portia sighs and relays that it’s seven fifteen.
“When does it start?” Mimi asks.
My heart’s not into dancing tonight so I shake my head. I glance at TB and know he’s thinking the same thing.
“Seven-thirty,” Portia announces, grabbing the bag containing my dress with one hand and my elbow with the other. “Let’s go.”
TB and I continue our protestations in the elevator but Portia ignores us, pulling me off the elevator at the second floor and instructing TB to get dressed in our room and to meet us in the lobby as soon as possible. Mimi heads over to the conference room where the event is being held with instructions to sign us up.
“Really, Portia, I’m not in the mood,” I say as we rush down the hallway.
“Then this is just the thing,” she answers, pushing me into her room.
She retrieves the silky copper polyester dress out of the bag and laughs. I pull it free of her hands, head to the bathroom and change clothes. The dress fits me well, snug at the bosom with ample material at the skirt that will twirl nicely when we’re dancing. I emerge from the bathroom and do a catwalk turn. Portia gives me a smile that says she approves.
I pull out the shoes and earrings but Portia has other plans. She grabs my hand and leads me back into the bathroom. “You need some proper makeup.”
I’m not a fan, have never been good at makeup and the finished product always looks worse than me in my natural state. But I let Portia work her magic, reveling in my sister and I bonding in a girly way.
“We need one more thing,” she says and hurries off. She returns with a flask and hands it to me. “That should take the edge off.” I drink and it does, warming my insides and relaxing my muscles.
Once she finishes with my makeup —and I must admit, it looks pretty awesome — I pull on my shoes and gaze in the mirror. Clumsy travel writer Viola has turned into a disco queen. I can’t help but laugh.
“Good,” Portia says. “You’re bouncing back.”
If the sight of me in a disco dress, makeup, and high heels wasn’t enough to startle Mimi, TB in his all-white suit with royal blue shirt and platform heels does the trick. She practically rolls on the floor with merriment.
We head down to the lobby to a series of meeting rooms and into the main ballroom where the dance-off is taking place. There’s a wooden stage in the center for dancers, a DJ parked at one end and dozens of tables scattered about where people are drinking and having a good time. The overhead lights are low but the stage is well lit. A couple dressed in Latin attire are dancing an awkward tango.
“If you’re better than those two, we might have a chance,” Portia whispers in my ear.
For the first time in hours I feel confidence again. I place a hand at Portia’s shoulder and whisper back, “You have no idea how good we are.”
Portia gives me a snarky look, thinking I’m kidding, and I laugh. If TB and I pull this off, she’s in for a big surprise.
We make ourselves comfortable at an empty table we found near the right corner of the stage and wait our turn. Since we were the last ones to sign up, we’re the last to perform. Mimi orders a margarita and Portia bourbon neat with water chasers for the rest of us.
“I don’t want any,” TB says.
“It helps with the nerves,” I add.
“I’m not nervous.”
And he’s not. I think back on that contest at LSU and remember how confident he was then. He had planned this crazy dance routine with a friend majoring in choreography and we had practiced for weeks. The project had lit a fire inside TB and made me wonder then if he wasn’t all party and sports. When I got pregnant and he insisted we marry and bring our little angel into the world, I knew I had been right, that there was more underneath that superficial exterior.
When Lillye died, however, he retreated to being a zombie couch potato, but now I see it for what it was, a chance to hide inside his grief. I did the same, only I slipped into shadows and refused to deal with her being gone.
TB looks at me and frowns. “What are you thinking about?”
I’m remembering another night like this one when we created something amazing. As much as that night caused havoc in our lives, I would do it over again in a heartbeat.
“Nothing,” I say.
After watching several couples do their thing, and a few hardy souls dancing solo, they call our names. By this time, Mimi and Portia are a few sheets to the wind and start hooting and hollering. TB rises and offers his hand, which I accept gracefully like the disco queen that I am. While the sounds of piano, trumpet and tambourine flow out from the DJ’s speakers TB and I enter the dance floor, TB standing at its center in a sophisticated pose and me right behind with a hand on his shoulder. KC and the Sunshine Band count out “one, two, three” and I’m Your Boogie Man starts to play. We launch into action.
We eat up that dance floor, TB spinning me everywhere, lifting me up while we contort ourselves, the two of us in unison as we disco every inch of that stage. Sometimes he twirls me so hard and long the world becomes a blur but I can hear Mimi and Portia squealing with delight.
The story behind our dance is a man trying to impress a woman with his moves. At first, I resist and play hard to get, but slowly I’m won over by his style and passion. By the end of the song we’ve moved closer together and he’s won me over. Before the dance ends, we’re practically making love out there. As the song fades away, TB lifts me high over his head and I slowly descend into his arms. He dips me backwards while one leg of mine is pointing heavenward and kisses me soundly as he does. The crowd goes crazy.
We linger too long in that kiss but it’s too delicious to end. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight. Finally, I hear the DJ announcing our names to more applause so we break away.
“Wow,” TB says heatedly, breathing hard from the dance.
Wow indeed.
We straighten and take our bows and if applause is any indication, we nailed this contest. Mimi and Portia are standing, jumping up and down with excitement, and it feels so good to be happy for a change. TB and I look at each, smiling as if our faces will crack, and then he spins me around and dips me again, planting a passionate kiss that makes the crowd yell once more. He pulls me up and we do our choreographed bow, then head to our table.
“Oh, my, God!” Portia yells.
“Watch your mouth,” Mimi admonishes her — she hates anyone taking the lord’s name in vain, — then grabs us both in a tight embrace.
We fall into our chairs while our two relatives pour praise upon us and this time TB knocks back the bourbons sitting on the table. The judges are tallying up their scores and a buzz vibrates through the room. Finally, the DJ takes the mic and calls out the third-place winner, a sweet young couple who danced a West Coast Swing number.
“Okay, okay,” Portia says seriously. “We’re still in this.”
I laugh because my badass lawyer sister is totally enraptured by this contest.
“Second place winner,” the DJ announces, “the Spicy Salsa Sisters.”
Portia leans toward me, “Don’t ever expect me to do that” and I laugh.
There’s a drum roll and the crowd hushes. TB and I sit on the edge of our seat, holding our breaths.
“Where this couple got its moves, I can’t say, but I do know they were meant to be together,” the DJ says. I’m not sure he’s talking about us but TB and I grin at each other. “And they sure won over this crowd. First place goes to Tibault and Viola Boudreaux.”
As Portia and Mimi scream and the crowd echoes their approval, TB and I head to the stage. I’m glad Mimi used my married name, even if it’s not the legal version, and I wonder if TB noticed. He’s beaming to the stars and back and I almost — almost — see that angelic aura Mimi keeps talking about. We turn and bow and the crowd erupts, then the DJ hands us our trophy and a check for five hundred dollars, enough to help pay Portia for this trip and then some.
Once the ceremony is done, we head back to the table with lots of pats on the back and well wishes from the audience.
“Five Hundred dollars?” Portia exclaims.
“It’s all yours,” TB says. “To cover all these expenses.”
Portia hugs him, and I’m almost sure my mouth dropped open. When she pulls away, TB’s eyes are filled with moisture and — I can’t believe it — Portia’s too.
“Use it for Tennessee,” she tells us.
TB and I glance at each other in wonderment.
Portia gives us an exasperated sigh. “I’m a lawyer. I eavesdrop.”
Mimi starts talking about celebratory drinks in the lobby but the way she’s slurring her words I’m doubting she will last the hour. Portia looks tired and mentions calling the kids. As for me, I have other plans.
“Sorry, guys, but I have something I need to do to my husband.”
And with those finals words I grab TB’s hand and lead him out of the ballroom. We’re not two seconds inside the elevator before we’re passionately embraced in a kiss.