Chapter 24

Carys

“You’re No Good” by Linda Ronstadt blares through my speakers as I take in the mess around me. Macaron ingredients cover every surface in my small kitchen, including me, and I can’t be bothered enough to care. When I’m sad or lonely or depressed, I bake, but I also listen to Linda Ronstadt. She was my grandmother’s favorite. She’s the reason the Blue Bayou is the Blue Bayou. So, listening to this album makes me feel connected and gives me a soundtrack to escape to.

I’ve done a lot of that the last few days.

Escaping.

Forgetting.

Stewing.

I’ve tried pouring myself into work by implementing my new marketing plans, but I just can’t.

I’m trying to get over it and I’m failing. Miserably.

I’ve tried to convince my heart to fix itself. It’s not that bad. I’m not this sad. It didn’t cut that deep. But it doesn’t listen. It keeps hurting and I keep remembering. The odd thing is that I can’t find it in myself to regret it. Maverick served a purpose. He helped me see what I was missing. He helped light a fire and make me want to do better...be better, work smarter.

Maverick.

I growl out my frustration to no one, except this fresh sheet of macarons. He left his mark here, in this kitchen. It’s in these cookies I’m glaring at. It’s in the courtyard outside my window. It’s in my lobby...my office...room 201, and especially room 304. I haven’t been to either of them since he left. Actually, the furthest I’ve been inside the hotel is the lobby to man the desk, and my office to stare at the piles of papers I made the night Maverick and I had sex.

Made love.

That’s what it felt like.

To me, anyway.

Angrily, I pick up my bag of frosting and forcefully fill the macarons. These cookies require care, but I can’t find it in myself to give them any. It’s like I’m punishing them for being made, for being delicious, and for giving me visions of Maverick sitting at my table and closing his eyes as he tasted one for the first time.

Now, I know that face he made—one of utter and complete ecstasy—is nearly identical to the one he makes when he’s coming. And I can’t get it out of my head.

That pisses me off too.

A knock on the door makes me jump. I’ve been super jumpy lately, probably due to my lack of sleep. Even though I’ve spent an exceptional amount of time in my bed under the covers, my time there hasn’t been productive.

Mindlessly, I continue to pipe white filling onto half the cookies, blocking out the knocking behind me.

“Carys June Matthews,” Jules bellows. “Open the damn door right this second.” Since when does Jules sound like an angry southern mama?

I don’t open the door. I roll my eyes and continue my task at hand instead, hoping he’ll get the message—I don’t want to talk—and leave.

“Carys,” he warns. “If you don’t open this door, me and this sledgehammer are coming through.”

I pause, lifting my head and staring at the cabinet in front of me. There’s a chip in the wood I’ve never noticed before and I focus on it, hoping if I don’t make any movements, Jules will think I’m gone.

“One...” The southern mama is back.

Huffing in frustration, I slam the bag onto the table, causing icing to squirt out, but it doesn’t matter. It blends in with the rest of the mess.

“What do you want, Jules?” I ask to the closed door.

“I’ve been sent here to get a visual. Mary says I can’t come back inside until I’ve physically laid eyes on you. She hasn’t seen you since your shift yesterday and she said you looked like death warmed over, her analysis not mine.” He pauses for a second, probably waiting for me to give in. “Carys, I am not made for the New Orleans humidity. I’m fucking melting out here. If you love me at all, you’ll open this goddamn door.”

My shoulders slump and my chest falls as I exhale loudly. Feeling frustrated and defeated, losing my battle in solidarity, I unlock the deadbolt and then the bottom lock and slowly open the door.

Jules eyes go wide when I come into view and I glance down at myself. Powdered sugar. Everywhere. I try to brush it off, but that shit sticks to yoga pants bad. Blowing a loose strand of hair out of my face, I wipe my brow and then smooth down my shirt.

“Hot fucking mess,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Leaning in, he takes a whiff. “And, oh my God...have you showered? Like, ever?”

“Yesterday,” I reply defensively, wrapping my arms protectively around my torso. Also, trying to hide whatever stench might be radiating off my body.

Jules raises an eyebrow and his eyes bore into mine.

“Fine, the day before yesterday.”

He breathes deeply, looking up at the sky, like he’s searching for inner strength. “Listen, here’s what’s going to happen...” Pausing as he takes a step forward, his eyes go wide again when he notices my kitchen. “What the fuck is going on in here? Because it looks like World War III and flour is the weapon of choice.”

“It’s actually powdered sugar,” I say distractedly.

He rolls his eyes as his hands go to my shoulders. “Listen, I’m being a good friend. Okay?” he asks, waiting for me to respond, but when I don’t he continues. “This is coming from a place of love, but...” He takes another deep breath and another look around before continuing in a flat, no-nonsense tone. “You stink. You look like shit. Your hair...” He cringes, doing a full body shiver. “It looks like squirrels are living in it. You’re covered in flour...powdered sugar, whatever the fuck. Your kitchen is a disaster zone. And I know...you’re...well, you’re...”

“Pissed,” I offer.

“Right,” Jules says, nodding as he scans my face.

“And...” My throat tightens as I try to form the words without tears accompanying them, but I feel my nose start to burn as I try to hold them back. “I...I think I was falling for him,” I admit on a whisper.

“I know, honey,” he says, pulling me into a hug, albeit an odd one, because he’s also trying to keep me at arm’s length as he pats my back. “Me too.”

I chuckle, for the first time in days. Jules makes me feel something besides sad.

“Can we turn this fucking depressing music off?” he asks, letting me put my head on his shoulder as we start to sway. “It’s making me want to eat a pint of ice cream, and I can’t afford that right now. I have a show this weekend. My fans expect svelte, not svat.”

We continue to pseudo-slow dance in my kitchen until the vinyl screeches, signifying the end of the song. “This is the problem with records,” I murmur into his shoulder. “You have to physically flip them over. But it’s also awesome...because you have to physically flip them over.”

“I really love that you’re a seventy-five-year-old trapped inside a smoking hot twenty-five-year-old’s body, but you really should consider catching up with the twenty-first century.”

I laugh, again, and it feels good. It feels like maybe this elephant that’s been sitting on my chest since I found those papers in Maverick’s room might vacate the premises at some point.

“Mary told me to bring you this,” Jules says, putting some space between us and pulling a brown leather journal from his back pocket.

I know that journal.

Trying to ignore the spike in my heart rate and the jolt in the pit of my stomach, I ask, “Where did you get that?”

“He left it,” Jules says without emotion, like he’s hiding his reaction while he’s waiting on mine. “He told Mary he wants you to have it. Something about his grandfather...and he hopes you’ll find it useful.” He shrugs, holding it out and letting it hang in the balance between us.

Looking at it, I can’t decide what to do. Part of me wants to take it and run away with it. The other part wants to take it and light it on fire. And then, there’s a small part that wants to sit down, right here in the middle of this mess and devour every word...searching the pages for a glimpse of the Maverick I thought I knew.

“He left it for me?” I ask, just needing to hear that again. I don’t know why. I just do.

“Yep.”

I nod, still looking at the worn cover and pages...the leather strap that keeps it closed...remembering seeing Maverick carry it around with him.

“I’ll leave it...here,” Jules says, finding the one clean spot on my kitchen table to set it down. Patting it, he looks at me and shrugs. “Maybe see what’s so important. Couldn’t hurt anything, right?”

I nod again. “Right.”

“Okay.” Jules’ tone changes to one of determination. “But first. Shower.” He points to the hallway that leads to my bedroom. “I’m not bathing you, but...”

I give him a small, reluctant smile and shake my head. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink.”

He rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. “Bitch, I’ll throw your stinky ass in the Mississippi River if that’s what it takes. Now, get in there.”

“Fine,” I acquiesce. “I’ll shower.”

“And then, you’ll get dressed in something besides yoga pants and you’ll brush that nappy hair...and those teeth, because, damn girl.” Shaking his head, he covers his nose, giving me a look of disgust. “And then, you’ll get your ass to work. We can’t fill in for you forever. You gotta be a big girl...suck it up, pull yourself up by your bootstraps, and get a fucking grip.”

My eyes go wide at his candor, but it’s what I need. He’s right. I can’t neglect my life. It’s selfish of me. I can do this. I’ve done it before. Losing Maverick, or the hope of what I thought could be with him, isn’t the worst thing I’ve lived through.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Jules, taking his hand in mine and giving it a squeeze. “I’m fine.” I take a deep cleansing breath and shake my head, trying to clear my mind and rid it of the black cloud that’s been following me around. “You’re right. I have responsibilities and you all depend on me. What kind of boss abandons their employees?”

Jules smiles softly at me. “Don’t go getting overly dramatic. The place is running just fine without you, but...”

“Thanks, Jules,” I tell him, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll shower and then I’ll be over to take the front desk for the rest of the day...and night. I know you’ve filled in for me a lot lately, so thank you and I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me. That’s what friends do.”

Hearing those words and feeling them ring true deep down in my soul, I still believe in fate and destiny. Even through everything that’s happened. Finding a friend in Jules makes me believe. Sometimes, people come into your life for a season, but sometimes, they come to stay.

“You can’t ever leave me, okay?” I tell him in all seriousness. “Even when you’re a big, powerful attorney one of these days, you’re still going to be stuck with me.”

“If we’re both not married in five years, you can be my beard.”

With that, I throw my head back and laugh, for real, feeling some lightness seep back into my bones.

After I’m in the shower, Jules yells that he’s heading back, giving me some privacy to get ready, but also warning if I’m not there in thirty minutes, he’ll be back banging my door down.

Twenty minutes later, I’m feeling more human than I have in the last three days. Showered, dressed in jeans and a yellow top to help with my mood, and my hair still damp, but braided out of my face—I feel like I look human too.

The smile on Jules’ face when he sees me come through the back door is confirmation.

“There’s my girl.” He offers me his cheek, which I kiss, and then the other. “And, by golly, you don’t smell like a trash dumpster. What a difference some basic essentials make.”

“Stop.”

“Oh, girl. You’ll be hearing about this for a while. I can’t let you forget where you came from.”

I shake my head, but before I can say anything, Mary is wrapping her warm arms around me from behind. I don’t know where she came from, but I’m happy to see her. “Sorry, Mar,” I whisper, knowing she’ll forgive me, but feeling horrible about worrying her.

“It’s okay, baby.” She walks around, taking in my full appearance as she gives me a once-over. “Better.” Her and Jules share a conspiratorial smile and it makes my heart swell.

These people are my family. They’re the ones I can count on and trust to always be there. I just need to focus on the positives and keep my chin up, because they’re counting on me just as much as I’m counting on them.

“I’ll take over the front desk. Y’all go and get some rest.”

Mary pats my cheek, her eyes lingering on mine as she searches for the truth. Happy with whatever she finds there, she smiles and nods. “I’ve got a few things to take care of. Call if you need anything. George said he’ll be back by later.”

“Thanks, Mary,” I tell her, squeezing her hand as she walks away.

Walking to the desk, I look over the guest book, seeing that we have four rooms booked for the night. “Everything been going okay?” I ask as Jules stands beside me and punches a few things into the computer.

“Yeah, but this did come for you yesterday,” he says, pulling a very official looking envelope out of the drawer. “I wasn’t sure what it was so I put it in here for safe keeping.”

“Thanks, Jules,” I tell him, glancing over the envelope and then back up at him.

“I’ve got to go get ready for my shift at Revelry tonight, but if you need me, I’m just a phone call away. I can always get a bitch to fill in for me,” he says, collecting his keys and a magazine from under the counter. “You should eat something.”

“Any other instructions for me?” I tease.

His eyes scan from my head to my toes. “I wish I was as flawless as you with such little effort.” He shakes his head, like I’ve seriously disappointed him, but I smile at his compliment.

“You are,” I assure.

Two seconds later, Jules is out the door, offering a wave over his shoulder as he struts his stuff out onto the sidewalk.

When I’m alone and the lobby is quiet, I flip the envelope over in my hand, looking at the address and then the certified mail label. The only things I’ve ever received through certified mail had to do with money—owed or earned, but usually owed.

City of New Orleans

What could be so important that the city is sending me something certified? Have I won the lottery? Maybe it’s bad and I’ve broken some kind of code or inspection?

Do they do those for hotels?

Feelings of frustration and dread come creeping back. All I need is one more thing I don’t know about or know how to handle. Just when I feel like I’ve crossed the last hurdle, something else pops up. I roll my shoulders, trying to keep my calm demeanor.

Open the letter, Carys. It can’t be that bad.

Right. Running my finger under the loose flap of the envelope, I wiggle it until it’s open. As I take out the letter inside, I see the stamp from the city at the top and my stomach does a weird thing. There’s a small inkling in the back of my brain, like my mind trying to play connect the dots.

Notice of Tax Sale

Confusion muddles my mind as I read through the rest of the letter.

A tax sale? What does that even mean?

Setting the letter down on the desk, I look around the lobby, like the answer or explanation will be written on the walls.

Ask Carys about taxes

Maverick’s note on one of the papers regarding the Blue Bayou floods my memory and my stomach drops. What did he know? What did he know that he didn’t tell me? Why didn’t he just tell me?

Even if he was here to find out information about the hotel, he could’ve just told me. I’m not saying I would’ve understood or been nice about my response, but at least he would’ve been honest. Honesty I can work with. Deceit and lies I cannot.

Firing up the computer in the office, I wait what feels like an eternity for it to boot up. In the meantime, I start searching through the pile of papers I had deemed important the other day, going to the bottom of the stack for another envelope I remember seeing from the city. I had assumed it was some kind of reminder or notice. I thought it was important, but not tax sale important. Whatever that means.

“Come on, you slow-ass machine,” I mutter, tapping my fingers harshly on the keyboard, like that will help it come to life quicker.

Eventually, the log-in screen appears and I enter my information, heading straight for my good friend Google.

What is a tax sale?

Still trying to wrap my brain around all of this, I scan back over the notice again. It says due to delinquent taxes, but I know I’ve paid taxes. That’s one thing I used to help my mother with. She did them by the quarter, which is what I’ve continued to do. So, this is probably a mistake, but I need to know what it is before I can dismiss it or fix it.

Glancing back up at the screen, I see my answer.

In some states, the government will seize properties with unpaid property taxes and then sell the properties at a tax deed sale, which is a public auction.

Property taxes?

I owe those?

And public auction?

My stomach drops a little and my mouth goes dry as I read over the explanation from Google once more, and then I do a further search, typing in things like: tax sales in New Orleans, what happens when you don’t pay property taxes, how much are property taxes. The questions go on and on, and by the time I’ve exhausted everything I can think of to ask the Internet, I’m panicked, to say the least.

Could that happen?

After opening the rest of the mail and seeing the other letters, I hate myself. I hate that I let all of this pile up and I hate that I wasn’t being more proactive, taking care of business. My business. The realization that they could put a lien on my property and sell my hotel, at least that’s what I gathered from my Google search, scares the shit out of me.

Is that what Maverick was trying to do?

Or is that what Mr. Kensington sent him here to do?

Immediately, I walk back out to the lobby, and for once, I’m thankful it’s a slow day as I pick up the phone and dial Mary’s number. I don’t know who else to call. I can’t bother Jules at work and I don’t want to worry George. He never takes bad news well. He’s a worry wart. So, Mary is my only option.

“Carys?”

“Mary,” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice, but not succeeding. “What do you know about a tax sale?”

“I’ll be right there,” is all she says before hanging up the phone.

Shit, this can’t be good.

By the time Mary steps into the office, I’m a huge ball of nerves. I’ve started pacing the floor since I’ve already chewed my fingernails down to the quick. I guess my next step will be pulling my hair out.

Mary wraps her hands around the tops of my arms to stop my movements. “Tell me what’s going on.”

With shaky hands, I show her the papers Jules gave me earlier. I watch as she reads over them, studying her face for a sign of what she’s feeling. Relief, confusion, worry, anger, horror...she’s giving me nothing.

Eventually, she looks up at me and states matter-of-factly, “According to this, you’re behind on your property taxes for the hotel.”

I nod my head, ashamed, and hand her another paper. “I just found the original tax bill under all these papers. Mary, what am I going to do? How could I have let this happen?”

Feeling as though my legs are going to give out on me any second now, I make myself sit on the couch in the corner of the office. Mary joins me, still not offering any advice.

“I accidentally found some papers while I was in Maverick’s room,” I start. “It was information on a few different places, including the Blue Bayou, and they contained things like what the properties are worth and what they could sell for. I don’t know if you know this but Maverick works for his father, the owner of Kensington Properties in Dallas, and he works deals so that his dad can buy out businesses. I assumed the reason he was here this whole time was to get close to me and get information that would help his dad buy me out. There was a note on one page that mentioned asking me about the taxes, but he never did ask. Is this what he was talking about? Did he know I could potentially lose the hotel but decided to keep it from me?”

When I finish spilling my guts I’m breathless and nearing hysterics. To think and to say out loud my suspicions about Maverick hurt as much, if not more, than when I originally found the papers.

“Calm down, honey,” Mary says in her usual calm, firm manner. “You’re going on so fast I’m having trouble keeping up. Now, let’s try to figure all this out together, okay? Can I get you something? Some water, tea, maybe? A shot of bourbon, perhaps?”

I manage to chuckle and agree to a glass of water. Once I’ve calmed down and related the details more calmly and rationally, I ask, “What’s going to happen to this place if I can’t pay these taxes? Will I lose the Bayou?”

“It’s a possibility, yes. At a tax sale, the property is put up for sale for the taxes owed. Since this property is paid off, someone could come in, pay the taxes, and then own this hotel.”

Mary has just voiced my worst fear and I feel my nose burn as I try to suppress tears. The thought of losing this hotel, the only home I’ve known, makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t have time to wallow, though. I have to stay focused and figure out my next step.

“I feel so stupid and immature. I’ve worked my ass off since my mom died to keep this hotel afloat and it may have been all for nothing. I know this is my fault and could’ve been avoided if I had a better handle on the business side of things, but I can’t help and wonder why my mom didn’t teach me more—more about how to run this place? I was twenty-three when she died. I could’ve had more responsibilities than occasionally working the front desk, but she just let me come and go as I pleased.”

Mary clears her voice and straightens, grabbing my hands and forcing me to look at her. “Your mama wanted you to live your life and have choices...choices she never had when she was your age. She never forced you to work or to go to college and settle on a major; she wanted you to have fun. Vivienne always knew running the Bayou was her future and she didn’t want to force that upon you. Don’t get me wrong, she loved this place and she loved working here and she even hoped you’d feel the same, but she wanted you to come to that decision on your own. She thought you had time; we all did.”

“You’re right, but look at me now. I’m so lost and I’m about to lose everything. I’m an idiot.”

“Now, you hush,” she says firmly, causing me to come to attention. “You’re not an idiot and you’re not stupid. It’s true you’re young and you lived a carefree life up until your mama passed. Nobody planned for any of this, so don’t go putting unnecessary blame on yourself.”

“But, it’s my fault I’m behind on the taxes.”

“Then, let’s focus on that and figure out a way to get them paid, if that’s what you want to do.”

This gets my attention, so I ask Mary directly, “What do you mean if it’s what I want to do? I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice. If you want to keep the hotel open, then we’ll figure a way to pay the taxes, but if you want to do something else, then we’ll do that. No one would blame you if you decided to sell. If you don’t want to run the business and are tired of the stress it brings, then now’s the time to get out.”

“I can’t do that, Mary. I have people depending on me, on this place. I can’t hurt you, George, and Jules like that!”

“You can’t base your decision on us, but know this: we’ll be fine and we’ll understand whatever you decide. That goes for your mama and grandparents, too.”

“How do you know that? This place is all I have left of them; it’s all I’ve ever known.”

“No, Carys, you are what’s left of them. The hotel is a great place, but you are how your mama and grandparents live on.”