The Shop on Royal Street by Karen White (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Shop on Royal Street by Karen White Nola Trenholm is hopeful for a fresh start in the Big Easy but must deal with ghosts from her past—as well as new ones—in this first book in a spin-off series of Karen Whites New York Times bestselling Tradd Street novels. After a difficult detour on her road to adulthood, Nola Trenholm is looking to begin anew in New Orleans, and what better way to start her future than with her first house? But the historic fixer-upper she buys comes with even more work than she anticipated when the houses previous occupants dont seem to be ready to depart. Although she cant communicate with ghosts like her stepmother can, luckily Nola knows someone in New Orleans who is able to—even if hes the last person on earth she wants anything to do with ever again. Beau Ryan comes with his own dark past—a past that involves the disappearance of his sister and parents during Hurricane Katrina—and hes connected to the unsolved murder of a woman who once lived in the old Creole cottage Nola is determined to make her own...whether the resident restless spirits agree or not. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography Karen White is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including The Shop on Royal Street, the Tradd Street series, The Last Night in London, Dreams of Falling, The Night the Lights Went Out, Flight Patterns, The Sound of Glass, A Long Time Gone, and The Time Between. She is the coauthor of four collaborative novels including The Lost Summers of Newport with New York Times bestselling authors Beatriz Williams and Lauren Willig. She grew up in London but now lives with her husband and one spoiled Havanese dog near Atlanta, Georgia. She is the proud mother of two grown children and when not writing enjoys reading, playing piano, and avoiding cooking. Review "White has added another page-turner to her repertoire of haunted houses and ghosts who wont stay put."—Northwest Indiana Times"A complex mystery thats appropriately goosebumpy. Not just fans of the Tradd Street series, of which this is a spin-off, will look forward to seeing more of Nola."—Publishers Weekly"White has added another page-turner to her repertoire of haunted houses and ghosts who wont stay put."—Northwest Indiana Times"A complex mystery thats appropriately goosebumpy. Not just fans of the Tradd Street series, of which this is a spin-off, will look forward to seeing more of Nola."—Publishers Weekly Review Quote "White has added another page-turner to her repertoire of haunted houses and ghosts who wont stay put."-- Northwest Indiana Times "A complex mystery thats appropriately goosebumpy. Not just fans of the Tradd Street series, of which this is a spin-off, will look forward to seeing more of Nola."-- Publishers Weekly Excerpt from Book CHAPTER 1 Shadowy reflections of drooping banana leaves haunted the dirt-smudged windows of the old house. It made me think of the hidden memories of people and a past long since gone but still trapped within the walls of the crumbling structure. The roof of the front porch sagged as if weighted with the gravity of the experience of people who had once passed through the corridors before exiting through the doors and windows forever. I stepped up onto the porch, my fingers brushing the rainbow-hued Mardi Gras beads dangling from the handrails and next to empty spaces left by missing porch spindles that lent a grinning-pumpkin look to the front of the house. Creeping vines from the overgrown front yard claimed most of the three guillotine windows that lined the porch adjacent to the front door, completing the abandoned air and haunted look of the Creole cottage Id already set my heart on buying. This dilapidated structure was a symbol. A call to arms for me. A new place to start after an impressive and unexpected stumble and a complicated knot of bad decisions, stupidity, and an alarming amount of unwarranted confidence that had almost derailed my life. And all despite the family whose love and support I wasnt convinced I deserved. "Nola . . ." Despite the worry and caution in my stepmothers voice, she stopped. We had both learned over the last six years that I needed to make my own decisions. And accept the consequences. I slowly hopscotched broken boards and patches of termite-chewed wood, the lacelike sinews as dangerous as thin ice. Spots of faded fuchsia paint clung to the front door and corbels of the porch roof, contrasting with the inevitable blue paint of the ceiling and lime green of the clapboards. A line of dusty blue bottles sat atop the sash of one of the windows, a precarious position for something so fragile. Maybe whoever had placed them there believed in taking chances. "It needs a little work," I said. "Mostly TLC. And maybe a few gallons of paint and linseed oil." I looked down at the sidewalk where my stepmother, Charleston Realtor Melanie Middleton Trenholm, stood in her high heels-despite my warnings about New Orleans sidewalks. Her face wore the expression of someone whod just witnessed a train wreck. I would have laughed, except she was looking at the house I wanted to buy. She muttered something under her breath, something that sounded a lot like Oh, no, not again. Louder, she said, "You know, Nola, speaking from experience here, Id say this house needs more than paint and linseed oil. A wrecking ball or flamethrower might be more appropriate." To distract her, I pointed past a cluster of debris piled on the porch, including a discarded surfboard-not completely out of place in the eclectic Faubourg Marigny-in the direction of a tall oleander plant, its clusters of white funnel-shaped blooms drooping drunkenly in the heat. "The front and back gardens are a little overgrown but contain lots of gorgeous plants. I cant wait for Granddad to come visit and offer his expertise." I said this with a grin, trying hard to transfer my need for her to see what I saw, the possibilities and hope that I imagined both the house and I required. The beauty and life that existed just under the surface and would emerge if we were given the opportunity to shed our old paint. I looked around again, determined to be honest with myself. Maybe it did need more than TLC and touching up. But whatever it required, I was up to the task. I straightened my shoulders and returned my gaze to Melanie. One thing I was sure of: Our foundations were strong. The house and I were survivors. "Nola . . ." Melanie began again, but stopped. She met my gaze, her eyes warming with understanding. Shed inherited a historic house in Charleston despite a lifelong dislike of old houses. It wasnt the houses so much as the restless spirits of past residents who hadnt left and had insisted on communicating with her-a gift shed tried to deny for most of her life but seemed to have finally come to terms with. Through the years, as the "goiter on her neck"-as shed once called the architectural relic shed inherited-had become less of a burden and more of the warm and welcoming home where she lived with her husband, children, and multiple dogs, shed developed a grudging admiration for old houses. Id even heard her describe one to a client as "a piece of history you can hold in your hands." Now, as she looked at me with dawning perception, I knew she was seeing this house as I saw it. As a chance for me to move on with my life, much as the inheritance of her own house had pushed her forward. Kicking and screaming, for sure, but with a forward and positive trajectory. The light flickered in her eyes, and I hoped she wasnt hearing the sound of a cash register ringing in the back of her practical mind. "Well, then," she said, carefully stepping onto the porchs bottom step, "lets have a look inside." Relief unclenched my chest and allowed me to take a deep breath as I reached inside the rusted metal mailbox nailed to one of the square columns holding up the porch. "Is that really a good idea?" Melanie asked. "I mean, anybody could just walk in and steal everything." "Uh, yeah. That. Luckily, theres nothing left to steal. Anything of value has been long since stolen or otherwise removed. Anyway, Ali said it would be a good idea for us to have access." "Whos Ali? What happened to whats-his-name?" "Frank? He resigned as our agent. Something about how he wouldnt show me another house if you were going to be there. Im sure its because he recognized that youre an accomplished real estate agent and that I didnt need both of you." I spared Melanie the adjectives Frank had used to describe her-pushy, overbearing, officious, and anal retentive. The rest of his descriptions werent repeatable in polite company. "Good. His presence was completely redundant. Im glad he was gracious enough to admit it." I hid my smile as I stuck the old-fashioned iron key into the lock and jiggled it the way Ali had instructed me over the phone. "She said the owner would stop by to answer any questions. Apparently, the owners made of stronger stuff and cant be cowed by a labeling gun." I bit my lip as I continued to jiggle the key, hoping Melanie hadnt noticed my slip. "Excuse me? Did you look inside Franks briefcase? It was a disaster. He should be thankful that I organized it for him." I was spared from responding by the door opening on its own, despite the fact that I hadnt felt the turn of the key or any release from the lock. I felt Melanies gaze on me. "That was easier than I thought it would be," I said brightly. "Ali said the lock should be the first thing I replace because it took her forever to get it open. Guess I just have the right touch." I stepped across the threshold, hearing the delicate tap of Melanies heels following me inside, her gaze boring holes in the back of my head. I shut the door, then turned to face her. "Remember our agreement. If you hear or see anything while we are touring this house, please keep it to yourself. Im not the one who can talk to dead people. Except for that one time in Charleston, they dont have a reason to bother me, and I can remain blissfully oblivious if theyre around. If I feel a connection to a house, I wont care if there is an army of wandering souls in its hallways-I wont hear or see them, so it wont keep me up at night. Besides, there are no old houses in New Orleans without at least one lingering spirit. Its a given." Melanie smiled tightly. "Of course." We turned our attention to the interior of the house, neither one of us speaking. Either the pictures Ali had e-mailed me had been taken a decade or two earlier, or someone was very skilled with Photoshop. Without furniture to hide behind, the scarred cypress floor glared up at us like an unbandaged wound. Colorful splotches of varying sizes stained the old wood, and I promised myself that I wouldnt look too closely or try to identify the sources. Especially of the ones that were definitely not water- or pet-related. Like a woman in the throes of labor trying to imagine the happy outcome after the agony, I said, "It could be worse." "How?" Melanie walked toward the remains of a fireplace. The woodwork had been removed with what must have been an ax, judging by scars in the surrounding drywall that were deep enough to show the studs underneath. "Nothing that a match and some lighter fluid couldnt fix." "Oh, come on. I know you dont really believe that. Not anymore, anyway. Just think of our house on Tradd Street. And your mothers house on Legare. You helped saved them both from the brink. Even you have to admit that in the end it was all worth it." "I might. But they were only on the brink. This one has been completely pushed over it. And then trampled on. I think it would appreciate being put out of its misery." "Look," I said, sticking my fingers through one of the holes in the drywall. "Imagine how beautiful these walls might be if we removed all the drywall and replaced it with plaster. And refinished the floors and fixed the woodwork around the windows and doors. Just look at these high ceilings! Imagine the history in these walls." As I spoke, her gaze trave Details ISBN0593334590 Author Karen White Pages 400 Series A Royal Street Novel Language English Year 2023 ISBN-10 0593334590 ISBN-13 9780593334591 Format Paperback Publication Date 2023-03-21 Series Number 1 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Illustrator Judi Abbot Imprint Berkley Publishing Corporation,U.S. Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2023-03-21 NZ Release Date 2023-03-21 US Release Date 2023-03-21 UK Release Date 2023-03-21 Birth 1954 Affiliation Kinshasha Holman Conwill Position Narrator Qualifications Ph.D. DEWEY 813.6 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:141712354;

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