Chapter 2

Carys

“Laissez les bon temps rouler,” the DJ on the radio says boisterously, entirely too energetic for this early in the morning. I slam my hand down on the snooze button, needing just a few more minutes of sleep.

The good times are definitely not rolling around here.

As I close my eyes to try to squeeze just a little more rest out of the morning, my mind starts to drift to all the problems I’ve been facing lately. There’s the water leak in room 204. The toilet that has been clogging up nonstop in 201. The A/C hasn’t been running properly in one of the rooms on the third floor. My computers have been on the fritz. I have a mountain of paperwork waiting on me in my office.

My office. That still sounds weird.

A few years ago, if you’d have asked me what I’d be doing at the ripe age of twenty-five, I’d have told you I have no idea. That’s the honest truth. I’m sure I would’ve been doing something; just not this, not running and operating a hotel by myself. Well, not technically by myself, but without my mom and grandpa.

It’s weird how we think the people we love will live forever. It’s also a harsh reality when they don’t.

Rolling out of bed, I decide to forgo the extra minutes the snooze button would provide and go ahead and get ready. I need coffee.

I’m also hoping for some beignets from Mary. She stops and picks them up, hot and fresh, on her way into work sometimes. We tend to be on the same wavelength, even though she’s forty years older than me, so I’m hoping she picks up my need of fried dough and powdered sugar.

Before I even get my clothes on and teeth brushed, my phone rings.

“Hello.”

“Miss Carys, I hate to bother you,” George says, concern evident in his tone. “But these computers are on the fritz again.”

I sigh, tucking in my shirt. “Sorry, George,” I tell him, knowing he isn’t incredibly tech savvy, so when things don’t work the way they’re supposed to, he gets flustered easily. “I’ll be right there.”

Tossing my hair up in a messy bun on top of my head, I run out the door and across the courtyard. In my world, problems concerning customers trump personal appearance any day. Without customers, I don’t have an income. Without an income, I can’t keep the lights on...or food in the pantry or pay George and Mary.

And let’s face it, I’d be living in a van down by the river if it weren’t for the two of them. Shit, I might not even have a van, more like a cardboard box, if I was lucky.

When I took over the daily operations of the hotel eighteen months ago, I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I had no clue exactly how difficult it would be to keep this place afloat. My mom, and grandparents before her, made it look simple. The hotel business was second nature to them and they ran this place like a well-oiled machine. But it’s becoming apparent that the business-running gene skipped me entirely.

“Take a deep breath, baby,” Mary urges when I come jogging in the back door. “This too shall pass.”

“Ugh,” I groan, but it sounds more like a cry. A cry for help. Because it’s mornings like this when I ask myself if I’m really cut out for this job. Can I run a hotel? Can I keep it open?

One look at the desk in my grandfather’s old office has me following Mary’s advice and taking deep breaths… lots of them, as I talk myself off the ledge.

Come on, Carys. Pull it together.

The surface of the desk is hidden with piles of papers awaiting my attention and causing me anxiety. All of this on top of today’s computer failure might be what finally plunges me into eternal darkness.

Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, even for me.

“I know you’re letting that head of yours get the best of you this morning, but a little computer problem never stopped nobody.”

“Right,” I mumble, biting my lip while I try to get a grip.

“Your grandfather never used a computer.”

“Nobody did back then,” I add, rubbing my forehead as a slight headache begins.

“Well, still. He got by just fine without one.” Mary walks up behind me and places a comforting hand on my shoulder that I quickly lean into.

“And he had a lot more people come through those doors than I ever have,” I add with a sigh, not sure if that should make me feel better or worse.

“He did,” she pauses, with a hint of hesitation. “But those were different times. People brought their families to the city, and they didn’t need fancy pools and bars,” she says in her deep Louisiana drawl. “They just wanted a nice room and a soft bed and familiar faces.”

She sounds like I feel: nostalgic, sentimental, and on the edge of tears.

“I’m not sure if this is helping, Mar.” I look to the ceiling, saying a silent prayer to keep the hotel running, even if just for another day.

“You’re right.” Mary brushes her hands down the front of her white apron, the same type of apron she’s worn every day of my life. Literally. Mary has always been here. She worked for my grandfather and then later for my mother. She helped me learn to ride a bike and sewed my Halloween costumes. “I’m gonna find a ledger and the manual credit card machine. Those will get us by until we get this computer problem figured out.”

“Thank goodness we didn’t give into the keyless entry system that pushy guy tried to sell us last month.”

“See, modern amenities aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” she says smiling at me from over her shoulder as she digs through a file cabinet in search of the old credit card machine that works on elbow grease and carbon paper.

“Tell that to all those travel websites and adventure bloggers.”

Sitting down at the desk, I try to take a page from Mary’s book and make a dent in the papers and bills while I wait to hear back from the computer guy. Before I can even get started, my attention is caught by a picture sitting on the corner. With the frame in my hand, I trace my finger over the faces of my grandfather and grandmother, then my mom’s, and finally, my own. I was only a kid when this photo was taken, but it’s always been a favorite of mine. My grandfather would show it off to anyone who’d give him a moment of their time, declaring he was the “luckiest man on earth to be surrounded by such beauty.”

Anticipating the tears I’ve been trying to avoid, I put the picture back in its place and try to focus on the task in front of me. They didn’t raise me to fail. If they didn’t believe I could run the Blue Bayou, they wouldn’t have left her to me. At least that’s what I have to tell myself, and for the most part, it makes me feel better. So much so, I make it through the sales tax form and a few other important tasks in just a couple hours.

When I can’t stand being cooped up in the office any longer, I walk into the lobby to stretch my legs and check on how things are going, hoping there are no new catastrophes waiting for me.

I find George sitting behind the front desk, working on the daily crossword puzzle.

“Hey, George. Everything okay up here?”

“Well, hello there, Miss Carys.” He puts his newspaper and pencil down and stands, greeting me with the same broad smile he’s had since I was a kid. Along with Mary, George has practically been here since the beginning of the hotel, and I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen him without his trademark smile. Nothing gets him down and I love that about him.

“Don’t stand on my account. I’m just taking a break from the office and wanted to see how you’re doing.” I motion for him to sit back down before pouring us each a glass of water from a pitcher I keep on top of a nearby antique table. We always have ice cold water for guests as they come inside or to anyone who needs it, really. It’s always so hot and humid here in New Orleans that it’s more of a necessity than anything. Plus, I just think it’s a nice thing to do.

It’s what my grandmother did. She started so many wonderful traditions here, some I continue, like the fruit infused water, and some that have fallen to the wayside.

“We’ve had two guests check out so far and that computer guy you spoke with yesterday called to say he’ll be here after lunch.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid he was gonna cancel on me. Was it a big pain to check out the guests by hand?”

“Oh, no,” he says, grinning. “Miss Mary helped me with the first one, but it didn’t take much for me to remember how we used to do it.”

George is the resident jack of all trades, and even though he’s in his seventies, he’s still as sharp as a tack. But I have no doubt he enjoyed Mary reminding him how to manually check the guests out. Those two have always had eyes for each other and a sweet, flirty relationship. When I was a little girl, I used to daydream about being the flower girl in their wedding, even though they’re both old enough to be my second set of grandparents.

“How many guests are scheduled to check out today?” I ask, looking through the ledger. “We had four rooms sold last night, right?”

“That’s right. Besides the two that done left, we’ve had one request late check-out and one say they’re gonna stay another night.”

“Oh, okay. That’s great.” With it being close to the weekend, I’m hopeful we’ll have even more rooms booked tonight.

“Yes, the lady who extended her stay said the hotel was very lovely, even though it’s lacking in character.” My eyes light up at his words only to come crashing back down along with my shoulders as he finishes his statement.

Character? I feel like the Blue Bayou has tons of character. I mean, if you looked in the dictionary under character, a picture of the hotel should be there. If we don’t have character, what do we have? This place used to be the bee’s knees, to quote my grandmother, and was always packed with guests.

While other kids my age were off at the pool or zoo or having sleepovers, I was here meeting people from all over the world. I adored this place. I still do, I just have to somehow help it get its mojo back.

And to be fair, business isn’t always this dreadful. We have our busy seasons and our slow seasons, like any business in the tourist industry, but this particular season seems to be slower than a herd of turtles and it has me nervous. Summer is just around the corner, though, and I’m hopeful it’ll be a great one for us.

The Blue Bayou is located just outside the French Quarter, sandwiched between Jackson Square and Bourbon Street, which is where most tourists want to visit. You’d think we’d be sold out most nights, but we’re not. Before I inherited the hotel, it seemed like we were always filled to the gills with businessmen, as well as families on vacation. Now, we only seem to get late-night stragglers who’ve partied too hard to remember where they’re staying, or those who wait too long to book elsewhere and have no choice but to stay here. We still have some of our regulars, but most of them are older and we only see them once or twice a year.

In days gone by, word-of-mouth was enough, but nowadays, you need a presence on the internet and paid advertisements. I know all of that but having the time and money to do it is another question.

I wish I could figure out how to get more customers, especially returning customers. I’ve thought about hiring a marketing firm, but I can’t afford it right now. But without good marketing, I might never get this place filled back up.

It’s a catch-22 if I’ve ever seen one, and a vicious cycle that keeps me up at night.

As the afternoon drifts on, my eyes begin to cross from looking at my computer screen for so long. The tech guy who came over to help only wanted to sell me a new computer, which I can’t afford. I finally convinced him to fix the damn thing enough for us to get by, but we’re still not able to run credit card payments, so it looks like I’ll be putting in another call soon.

“How about I open the front door for a little bit and let some fresh air in?” Mary asks, already heading toward the door. She opens one side of the double door and a smile instantly spreads across my face.

There’s a nice breeze blowing in, bringing with it the smell of Cajun food and the sounds of jazz music from down the street. It’s faint, but it’s just enough to soothe my mind and remind me how much I love my city.

“Watch out for Rusty,” I warn Mary. “He’s been trying to sneak in lately.”

Technically, Rusty is a dog; however, he looks more like a long-haired baby goat, with about as much grace as one too. He’s a sweet little thing, but I’m always afraid he’s going to destroy this place.

“Did you tell Floyd he escaped?”

“I did, but I can call him again,” I tell her. Floyd runs one of the horse-carriage tours around the Quarter, and when he works, he leaves Rusty at home, which is around the corner from here. No one can figure out how he escapes, but he does. Frequently.

Mary sticks her head out the door, looking for Rusty, I presume. When she’s back inside, she has a sneaky smile on her face. “Oh, let me handle it. There’s a cute young man walking down the sidewalk and I think he just might need a room.”

I roll my eyes at her as I walk over to refill the pitchers of water on the side table. Cute young men are a dime a dozen in New Orleans, but without a gym or pool or bar, not many want to stay here, so I don’t get my hopes up.

Still, I wouldn’t mind catching a glimpse of whomever it is that turned Mary’s head. I may be too busy to even think about dating, but I’m certainly not dead.

Peeking out the glass of the door that’s closed, I nearly swallow my tongue when I see him.

Faded, slightly tattered jeans.

A well-worn t-shirt that’s snug over his shoulders and biceps.

He’s carrying a leather duffle bag that makes his arms flex as he continues down the sidewalk. The closer he gets, the more his features come into view.

Dark, messy hair.

Light stubble covering his well-defined jaw and chin.

Speaking of chins, I need to wipe the drool off mine and get back to work. He’s a dreamboat, for sure, but Mr. Dreamboat is not going to help me get this hotel back in its groove. Although, he could get me back into mine, I bet. Just call me Stella.

I step away from the door and laugh at myself as I walk back to the table, straightening the water glasses on display. The sound of the bell jingling above the door catches me by surprise, but not as much as Mr. Dreamboat does when he walks inside. I’m so caught off guard by his presence, not to mention his blinding, white smile, I don’t even notice Rusty rushing in behind him until it’s too late.

“Rusty, no!” Trying to control the crazy dog does me no good. In fact, I only seem to excite him more, which causes him to run and jump on me, knocking me off-balance and into the table. When I fall to the floor, it’s like I’m in the Matrix and everything happens in slow-motion. Thankfully, somehow, my typically clumsy self manages to catch the glass pitcher before it crashes to the floor beside me, but now I’m completely drenched.

Rusty runs back outside, leaving me alone with Mr. Dreamboat.