Ghosts of the Island Library

Chapter One

First Week of May

Petite C?te Island, Louisiana

Callie

Callie Jameson had been listening to Khaki Boudreaux’s stories about Petite C?te Island—pronounced “petticoat” by the locals—for so many years that by the time she caught her first glimpse of the barrier island off the Gulf coast of Louisiana, it should have felt anticlimactic.

And yet, as her well-loved Toyota crested the peak of the bridge that arced over the waterway separating Heron Bay from the gulf, Callie’s breath caught in her throat.

From that elevation she had a bird’s-eye view of the place that had featured prominently in her elderly library patron’s stories.

She wished it would be safe for her to stop her car at this vantage point, but she had no more than a few seconds to take in the entire panorama.

As she reached the bottom, she saw boats of all colors bobbing in the tidily laid out marina, with docks arranged in a grid around a pier that jutted out into the calm water.

Just down the road, a weathered gray, one-story shop sat on shore next to a small parking lot, its sign reading shoreside bait & tackle, but Callie knew from Khaki’s stories that it was more than a place to pick up fishing supplies.

It was the closest thing to a grocery store they had in these parts.

Since the island would be Callie’s home for the next year at least, however, she’d have more than enough time to explore the lay of the land.

When her eye was drawn to the highest point on the elongated island, she realized with a shiver of excitement that it had to be her ultimate destination—the peaked roof of the St. Ignatius Library.

The library was Miss Khaki’s former home here, and the most generous gift that Callie had ever received.

Perhaps because she’d felt the slowing of the car, Callie’s traveling companion chose that moment to stir from the deep sleep that had claimed her nearly an hour ago.

Rising up on her hind legs and bracing herself on her front paws against the car door, Stella, a four-year-old calico-tabby mix, pawed at the window.

Callie opened the window a crack, and both she and the cat breathed in the salt-tinged air, and Callie could almost feel the sun on her skin—though the day was cloudy.

But she didn’t care. After two days of driving from her hometown in the Midwest to this island sanctuary, she wasn’t about to let a little rain dampen her mood.

Especially when their arrival marked the beginning of her new life, and where, if she had anything to say about it, she’d finally, after a lifetime of never landing in one spot for too long, put down roots.

But a few minutes later, she faced just about the only thing that could dispirit her—a lost reservation.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s no record of your booking in our system.”

After so many years of dealing with the public as a librarian, Callie had thought she’d perfected her poker face, but now she gaped at the young woman—Sissy, according to her plastic name tag—behind the reservation desk of the one-story cement-block motel.

“But that’s impossible,” she said calmly—though inside she was aghast. “I made the reservation almost a month ago because I knew you’d be busy this time of year.

” She didn’t comment on the fact that “their system” appeared to consist of a large old-fashioned guest book and an ancient PC that looked like it had been purchased new in the ’90s.

Or ask the girl if she knew how exhausting it was to drive nearly nonstop from Ohio to Louisiana with no one for company besides a tortoiseshell cat and Rachel Grant’s latest romantic suspense novel on audiobook.

No, instead of unloading the unhinged tirade that was lingering on the tip of her tongue, she took a deep breath and said with what she thought was admirable calm, “Maybe it would help if I showed you my confirmation?”

That was the problem, she told herself. She’d forgotten the first rule of the reference desk: clear communication.

Shaking her head a little at the mistake, she reached into the large straw bag she’d purchased for her new life in a beach town and dug around for a moment before she found the dog-eared pages she’d decided to print at the last minute, just in case she couldn’t get a cell signal on the island.

“Here! This should clear things up!” The note of triumph in her voice was surely excusable given the circumstances.

But even as she unfolded the pages to show them to Sissy—who bore a striking resemblance to the lead character on the old MTV animated show Daria that was so popular with her Gen X patrons—the girl was already shaking her head.

“You must have done this during the three hours we were offline that week.”

Despite her attempts at maintaining her cool, Callie was losing patience.

“A glitch, then.” She could hear the note of hysteria in her voice but pressed on.

“Since I’ve already paid for my room, surely you can just move me into a different one.

As long as my cat is allowed, I’m not picky.

After that long drive, I’m just ready to settle in.

Maybe go for a walk on the beach before dinner? ”

As if to punctuate her plea, Stella, the cat, chose that moment to give an impatient yowl.

Callie would have bent to soothe the cat, who was annoyed at having to wait inside her carrier, but she saw the door behind Sissy open and a tall man in his fifties stepped forward behind the reservation desk. Ah, she thought with relief. A manager.

“Did you say Cincinnati?” the older man asked.

There was no mistaking the New Orleans in his accent, which to Callie’s ear sounded a bit like the Brooklyn and Bronx accents from Goodfellas—one of her ex-boyfriend’s favorite movies.

Both Khaki and her daughter Julie’s voices had shared a similar cadence.

At Callie’s nod, the man continued, breaking into a broad smile. “You must be Miss Khaki’s librarian.”

At the mention of her benefactor, whose generosity to Callie was the reason she was here in the first place, she returned the man’s smile.

This must be the Southern hospitality that Mrs. Katherine Boudreaux—Miss Khaki—had talked so much about during their many conversations in the Cincinnati Public Library. “I am. At least I think I am, Mr.—?”

“Aw, we’re not formal around here. I’m Frank Barbier,” the man said, reaching across the desk to offer her his calloused hand. “This is my hotel, and Sissy, in case you haven’t already guessed, is my daughter.”

Now that he said it, Callie could see some resemblance between the two of them.

Though Sissy’s glasses had the chunky black frames that were popular these days, and Frank’s were more understated wire rims, they had the same dark hair and olive-toned skin.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Barbier. I’m Callie Jameson.

And yes, I am the one Miss Khaki left her library building to in her will.

Though I’m not planning to check it out until tomorrow.

Right now, I’d just like to get Stella and me settled in our room and maybe get some dinner. ”

She made no mention of the money that had been conditionally included with her inheritance.

For one thing, it was nobody’s business but hers, but for another, she still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the fact a woman she barely knew had left her a million dollars.

It was true that she’d needed to leave her job and her house in Cincinnati to live full time on Petite C?te Island for the next year in order to “earn” the money, but a million dollars was a million dollars.

And it was clear from the note Khaki’s daughter had handed her at the lawyer’s office that the elderly woman who’d only known her for a year had somehow seen into that part of her soul that had always yearned for home.

As a navy brat, she’d become used to pulling up stakes every few years since she was a little kid.

When her dad’s transfer orders had arrived, the promotion was always for him, and the rest of the family just went along for the ride.

At least this time there would be a huge payoff for her at the end of it.

A place where she could, at last, put down roots.

And if she played her cards right, she’d have a chance to create the sort of home away from home for others that she’d always dreamed of.

And truth was, she was ready for a change.

After a decade of serving on the front lines of the main branch of the Cincinnati Public Library as a public service librarian, Callie had been nearing the end of her rope when Miss Khaki had come along.

Though she’d still enjoyed her regular patrons, not everyone who walked through the doors of the library was as lovable as Miss Khaki.

Working in a public-facing position in one of the busiest public libraries in the state had taken a toll long before the Louisiana native had started visiting Callie’s workplace with her middle-aged daughter.

And despite what she’d thought were her mad skills at hiding her fatigue from the rest of the world, Miss Khaki had shown through her bequest that she’d noticed just how exhausted Callie was.

Once, in what she thought was just a lighthearted conversation about Petite C?te Island, where the older woman had lived most of her adult life, Callie had made some wistful, offhand comment about what a delight it would be to leave it all behind and move to an island with a slower pace of life.

It had never occurred to her that Miss Khaki would take her words seriously.

Or that she’d have added Callie to her will.

Things like that only happened in the movies—or in romance novels.