Jillian Chantal

This week, the authors of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt, cream. I fudged a little and used creamy. I thought about having her wear a cream-colored shirt, or adding whipped cream but nah, I am going to be a rebel this week before Christmas. 🙂

Check out the other tales here

She turned to face him where he stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen. “I thought you left. You disappeared when I came in the house.”

“I was here. In case you needed me in your sadness over the detective. I was merely doing as you people in your time say.”

“And what is it we say?”

He held his hands up to each side and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I believe it is called ‘giving you your space’.”

She had to laugh. He really was something. Picking up jargon over the years and learning how to use it. “I appreciate that but I don’t want to wallow in sadness. I think I’ll have some hot cocoa and then put all those layers back on and head to Ever’man’s and get something to cook for my Christmas Day meal. Now that I won’t be going to Malcolm’s and it’s pretty much too late to travel to my sister’s place, I’ll need to cook for myself.”

“That is a shame, Lula Mae. It is with great sorrow that I cannot ask you to the Hermitage to share a meal with Rachel and me.”

“I appreciate the invitation anyway.” She waved her hand to the side. “I hate to ask you to move, but I need access to the kitchen for the cocoa.”

He stepped aside with a flourish. “After you, madam.”

Aneto followed her. She wasn’t sure if he was coming along to help comfort her in her agitated state or if he thought he might get a treat. Doesn’t matter. Both work.

Before she started the pot of milk, she reached into the treat jar and gave Aneto a bacon-flavored snack.

Jackson indicated the pot on the stove with a tilt of his head. “Making it over the fire is the proper way. I have actually seen some put it in that box everyone seems to have on their counters and pouring water in a mix of some sort. Water.” He shuddered. “I cannot even imagine now that might taste.”

“Trust me. It’s not good. If you’re going to have hot chocolate, you need it to be creamy and thick.”

“Agreed. Ladies in my day loved their chocolate pots in the morning before rising. My Rachel was positively adamant she got hers each day.”

Lu didn’t want to think about how Rachel may have been about her chocolate served in bed. She had no idea how the woman might have treated her slaves, but she didn’t want to dwell on what ‘positively adamant’ might mean if she didn’t have it served properly. The only way she could keep her friendship with Jackson was not to dwell on the history of his era but to focus on how he behaved now. To her.

It’s Tuesday Tales day again. This week, we are writing to the word prompt, meet. I am still working on my story where the heroine can speak with spirits.

Check out the other tales here

Seated beside the bed, leaning forward, Lu held the railing with her left hand. “I wanted to see how you are but I also wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the incident.”

“I’ve already talked to a bunch of psychiatrists or psychologists or somethings.” He tapped his temple. “Head doctors, you know.”

“I’m not here to discuss your mental state—well, not in that way.”

His eyes widened. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No. No. I’m a nurse.” She held her hand up at the look in his face. “Not here to treat you in any way. Here to ask some questions that may sound a little weird to you.”

“Lady, you have zero idea about weird. I’ve had me some weird lately.”  He shook his head. “By the way, I’m Rob.”

“Nice to meet you, Rob.” She smiled. “And under better circumstances than last time.”

“For sure.” He indicated the IV. “I’m ready to pull this out and go home. Start living again.”

“That’s very good news. Do you mind if I ask you some questions about what led you down to the waterfront that day?”

“I’m afraid you won’t believe me. It’s bizarre.”

“Like you said earlier, if you’ve had weird lately, I’ve had bizarre lately. I think you’ll find I do believe you. I’ll believe anything you have to say. Trust me on that.”

Rob tilted his head and stared at Lu with a frown. “I don’t know. You tell me something bizarre first and then I’ll see what I can share.”

She sat back. “Fair enough.” Thinking for a second, she took a deep breath. No harm in telling him since they needed mutual trust. “I wasn’t out jogging and I wasn’t coming home late from a night out. I was sound asleep in bed when I was woken to come and save you.”

His eyes widened. “Wakened by what? Are you telling me you’re some kind of psychic?”

Lu had been going to tell him about the spirit of George Barkley but this would be better. No need in telling him the whole story. Her secret about seeing spirits would remain that—a secret.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

He grinned and ran his hand through his hair. “Cool. That’s cool.” He checked the charge on his phone by picking it up and looking at the screen. “So, you’re just sleeping away and then get this vibe that there’s a dude drowning? It wakes you up? And then you race to the rescue?”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt, Strong. I am still working on my story where the heroine, a former Army nurse, can see and speak to spirits.

Check out the other tales here

“A man inside is bleeding according to Bertha here. I’m not sure who. She thinks she could sew his wound so he must not be too injured. It might be the guy who did it and not the victim if that’s true.”

“Okay. That’s exigent circumstances. I’m going in.” Malcolm broke one of the window panes and reached inside to unlock the door.

Once it was open, he led the way inside with his weapon drawn, leading Lu to think he wasn’t sure who was in there either.

They moved from room to room and ended up at the back near the door leading to the rear of the house. It was clear that was the point of entry for the wounded man as the door was ajar.

He was on the floor with a vast amount of blood near his head. But head injuries always bled a lot.

It was also clear the man was not a threat. He was breathing, but shallowly.

Lu dashed over to him and knelt to check his pulse. “Thready.” She looked up at Malcolm. “Call an ambulance. I think he isn’t mortally wounded but he’s clearly lost a lot of blood and we need to get him warm immediately.” She glanced around for something to help warm his core but there wasn’t a thing. This place definitely used to be a restaurant. Not a blanket in sight.

At a loss for what to do, she did the only thing that came to mind. She got on the floor beside him and pulled him to her.

“What are you doing?” Malcolm asked as soon as he disconnected the call for the ambulance.

“He’s lost so much blood, he’s in danger of hypothermia. My body heat will help him. There are no blankets around so this is all I have.”

“Sometimes I worry about you.”

“For your information, I’ve done this exact thing before in Afghanistan. That guy was cuter though.”

“See? That kind of craziness is what worries me. Cute guy. Pfft.” He grinned, then turned serious. “What if this guy is the man we’re looking to arrest? Would you be hugging him?”

“Maybe. Depends on how bad he was injured. This one clearly is the victim. In fact, I have no idea how he made it this far from the church. He must have a strong will to live.”

“Too bad he didn’t stop somewhere on the way to get help.”

“He did. I saw him knock on the boarding house door and the house across the street. No one offered to help him,” Bertha said. “I urged him to come here but he didn’t act like he could see me.”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt, meet. I am working in my story where the main character sees spirits. I am also using real historical figures buried in our cemeteries as characters in the book. This is part of a scene where the protagonist stumbles on a dead body as she’s walking her dog in the cemetery.

Check out the other tales here.

She sat back on her heels and let out a small moan of pity for the deceased.

Realizing she was surrounded by spirits, she glanced at them to try to identify someone she might have spoken to in the past.

Her eyes finally landed on Juan de La Rua, a one-time alderman and mayor of Pensacola back in the 1800s.

He stared at her with sad eyes. “Someone has disturbed our peace yet again, Señorita Haverstock. We are all upset about this invasion of our resting places.”

“Did any of you witness what happened?” Lu didn’t see the amount of blood that would be expected if the man was killed on site but she also wasn’t sure how a body would’ve been transported there when the gates were locked from dusk to dawn. Who could’ve gotten inside to dump this poor soul here?

Many of the spirits disappeared when she looked back up at them from where she knelt beside the body. Clearly they didn’t want to interact with her like the ones in the morgue didn’t.

La Rua was still there along with two or three others she hadn’t met before. Lu addressed him. “Did any of you here see how this poor man got here? The gates aren’t open at night to let anyone in.”

“We have seen live people come over the fence and inside through the gates somehow. I think they do something to the lock.” La Rua pointed to a man standing to one side. “This is Salvador Pons. He thought he saw someone when he was out taking the air around three a.m.”

Lu wasn’t familiar with this man and wondered how he’d been buried in St Michael’s. He was dressed as if it was the late 1800s or early 1900s and she’d thought this cemetery was segregated during that time period. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Pons.”

He bowed as if he was attending a formal ball. “It is my pleasure. I am not sure you would have heard of me, but I was the first man of my race to be mayor of this fine city. In the 1870s. A very long time ago for you but it does not seem so long to me.”

“You’re correct. I didn’t know about Pensacola having been so open as to have someone of your race as mayor back then. I’m happy to hear it.”

“Thank you kindly. I was born in Mexico to a Hispanic parent and a Black parent. So perhaps with the Spanish background of this place, it was acceptable even so close to the end of what is called the civil war.” He smiled a grim smile. “Although as we know, there is nothing civil about a war.”