Spotlight & Giveaway: The House on Prytania by Karen White

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Karen White to HJ!

Hi Karen and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, The House on Prytania!

Please summarize the book for the readers here:

In the second book in the Royal Street series (and no, it’s not necessary to have read the first book, THE SHOP ON ROYAL STREET, to know what’s going on), Nola Trenholm is once again attempting to settle into her new life in New Orleans, confident that her fixer-upper Creole Cottage has been cleared of its previous non-living occupants. Except now there seems to be a new spirit, an angry and vengeful one, who even beyond the grave is desperate to hide evidence of a murder committed in Nola’s house in the 1960s, and will stop at nothing, even physical harm, to keep his secrets. With her charming best friend and roommate, Jolene—whose Southernisms are as perplexing as they are wise—and the constant attraction to developer and fellow renovator, the romantically unavailable Beau Ryan, plus with the addition of an old fling from Nola’s past, she’s got her hands full. Relationships develop, mysteries are solved, and new ones introduced to be explored further in the next installment of the Royal Street series.
 

Please share your favorite line(s) or quote from this book:

“A ghost doesn’t need a roof or walls, Nola. A person can be just as haunted as a house.”

“ I need to remind myself that I’m bigger than my fear.”

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• The town house apartment in which my heroine, Nola, and her roommate, Jolene, live is the actual apartment (including the oversized teacher’s desk and the landline princess phone resting on top of it) that was my residence my junior and senior years at Tulane University.
• I started planning this series in the spring of 2005. But then in August of that year a little storm called Katrina blew through New Orleans and the Gulf Coast and I knew that I had to pivot and find another great Southern city with plenty of history, gorgeous architecture and, of course, ghosts. That’s how THE HOUSE ON TRADD STREET (book #1 in my Charleston-set Tradd Street series) came to life. With the conclusion of the seventh and final book, it was time to return to New Orleans the brand new Royal Street series in 2022.
• Contrary to popular thought, even though I create characters who can communicate with the dead, I can’t see or talk with the spirit world. Nor do I ever want to because I am a scaredy-cat.
• Nola’s rescue dog, Mardi, is based on my sweet Havanese, Quincy, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in August 2001 and the dog, Belle, who lives across the street from Nola is a dead-ringer for my current Havanese Sophie who, like her book twin, also loves to eat and hates to exercise.

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

The mutual disdain between Nola and Beau Ryan started back in Charleston when he was hired as her boss in her grandparents’ antique store. Things got worse when Beau saved her from a fire. Nola is fiercely independent and has proven time and again that she can make her own way in the world. She hates being a “rescuee” or being beholden to anyone—especially Beau. They’ve always had a mutual attraction, but Beau’s long-term girlfriend acts as a convenient buffer, as does Beau’s admission that his buried feelings for Nola weaken his ability to ward off evil spirits.

Did any scene have you blushing, crying or laughing while writing it? And Why?

I find myself laughing out loud in just about every scene with Jolene. Her Southernisms are spot-on, and I don’t always know where she comes up with them! (Although I think I’m mimicking my Mississippi cousins sometimes). My favorite is when she’s sharing two of the most important things her grandmother taught her and one of them is, “Never fry chicken or iron naked.”

Readers should read this book….

Despite the mystery and ghostly elements of the book, THE HOUSE ON PRYTANIA is at its heart the story of a young woman’s struggle to find her place in the world, assisted by the love and support of a growing cast of family members and friends. Throughout the course of the book (and series), Nola must learn to rely on others and ask for help and realize that in doing so she doesn’t minimize her own self-worth but grows it exponentially. This is something I struggle with understanding, and I expect many of my readers agree.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have in the works?

I’m currently working on a single title Southern Women’s fiction novel, but it is much too soon to release any specifics! My next book written with Team W (Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig and me) is scheduled to be released in September 2024. Follow me on social media for the big title reveal and more details about what is to date our favorite collaboration. In the meantime, the third book in the Royal Street series (no title yet) will be released in 2025.
 

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: 1 Print copy of THE HOUSE ON PRYTANIA STREET by Karen White

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Excerpt from The House on Prytania:

In the upstairs bathroom of my Creole cottage I sat up on my padded knees and rubbed my back. I’d been painstakingly applying thin‑set mortar to the membrane I’d helped Thibaut install the previous day, and I had lost track of time while placing black and white octagonal floor tiles in a design I’d found in Preservation Resource magazine.
I had appreciated Thibaut’s agreeing that laying individual tiles was a lot more time‑consuming and difficult than laying sheets of tile but way worth it in the long run. Which was always the way with

historic restorations. My back and knees currently disagreed, and my mind was beginning to concur with my body when I looked up to realize that I had backed myself into a corner. My only way out was to step on the newly laid tiles with their even rows of meticulously placed spacers, which would erase all my hard work.
I groaned out loud when I spotted my phone lying out of reach on the other side of the doorway, where I’d placed it because it kept falling out of my back pocket when I leaned over. Melanie had sent me a lanyard designed to hang a phone around a person’s neck. She’d sworn by it, saying she didn’t lose her phone in the house anymore. I’d laughed at it as something only old people would need and shoved it into the back of a drawer. Someone was laughing now, but it defi‑ nitely wasn’t me.
Thibaut and Jorge had long since left, their misplaced confidence that I could get this one job done before they returned in the morn‑ ing sitting like sour milk in my stomach. I stood in my small untiled corner, wary of the waning of the light as I counted how many rows I needed to leap over. And how many rows I would likely destroy and have to replace before tomorrow morning.
The sound of a vehicle pulling up outside and then the slam of a door gave me hope. Maybe Thibaut or Jorge had forgotten something and had returned to the house. Holding my breath, I listened to foot‑ steps climbing the porch while my nostrils flared at the unmistakable scent of pipe tobacco. A loud knock sounded on the front door, and my surprise expelled air from my lungs in a deep cough.
“Nola? Are you still here?”
I recognized Beau’s voice and felt relieved and horrified at the same time. I was glad to be rescued but would have preferred it be by anyone but him. We had a long history of me being the unwilling rescuee while Beau Ryan swooped in to play my unwanted hero. Melanie and Jolene kept telling me that I needed to reanalyze my feelings on the subject, but that would be like blowing into a hurri‑ cane to change the direction of the wind. I’d come by my stubborn‑ ness honestly, and I wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.

My phone, its ringer silenced, vibrated on the floor. I found it easier to concentrate when I wasn’t being interrupted by calls and texts. Although I was beginning to think that if I had been inter‑ rupted, I might have noticed my error sooner.
“I’m upstairs,” I shouted. “If that’s you calling, I can’t answer my phone right now. But if you could come up, I’d appreciate it.”
“Why are you shouting?” Beau’s head appeared in the doorway.
I started at the sound of his voice, causing me to drop my trowel into the bucket of thin‑set with a soft plop. I pressed my hand against my pounding chest. “Because I thought you were downstairs.”
“I was, but now I’m here.” He grinned as he eyed my predica‑ ment. “You know, Nola, it’s usually recommended that when you’re putting down any kind of flooring, you should start on the far end and work your way toward the door so you don’t get trapped in a corner.”
“Gee, thanks for that clever observation. It would have been more appreciated four hours ago, when I started.”
“I bet,” he said, nodding sagely. “What are you going to do now?” “Oh, I don’t know. Learn how to sleep standing up, I guess.”
The smell of tobacco was even stronger now, the scent concen‑ trated around Beau. “Do you smell that?”
“Yes,” he admitted, showing how far he’d come in accepting his psychic abilities. He might not be shouting from the rooftops his aptitude for communicating with ghosts now, and he was still de‑ bunking fraudulent psychics on his podcast, Bumps in the Night and Other Improbabilities, but acknowledging it to me was a huge step forward.
As if reading my mind, Beau said, “Let’s discuss my grandfather’s pipe smoke later. I figure we have more pressing issues.” He indicated where I stood, in my little corner. “Have you come up with any ideas?”
“Yeah, but none that wouldn’t involve ruining at least two rows of tiles. Probably more if I fell backward after I leapt. Which I’m prepared to do without your help.”

He crossed his arms. “Sure. And I’m happy to watch. And I’ll even hold a flashlight while you pull up the crooked tiles and replace them before the mortar dries. Or,” he said with a wide grin, “you could leap toward me and I’ll work with your momentum and pull you forward. I bet you could clear all of the tiles and go home at a rea‑ sonable hour.”
I wanted to refuse, just for principle’s sake, but my stomach was already grumbling and my eyes could barely focus from the strain of the exacting work of getting the rows of tiles perfectly straight.
I sighed loudly. “All right. You win.”
His grin faded. “It’s not about winning or losing, Nola. It’s about accepting an offer of help. Without any expectations of payment or me thinking less of you because you needed help.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Come on. Take one huge leap toward me and I’ll grab you. And I promise not to tell anyone.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was too grateful to show any atti‑ tude that might make him rescind his offer. “Fine.” Without warn‑ ing, I sprang forward in an awkward version of a grand jeté that I’d once watched my little sister do in a ballet recital. From my gawky movements it was clear that I’d never taken a day of ballet lessons, but the aim of my front leg and the forward propulsion were all I needed to clear the tiles. And collide into a surprised Beau, who plunged backward, breaking my fall as we landed together with an inelegant thud on the hard cypress floor.
We both lay there in stunned silence, catching our breath and checking to see if we still had sensation in all parts of our bodies. I soon became aware of the solid feel of him beneath me, and of the warmth of his arms, which had found their way around me. It was all too familiar, reminding me of the night he’d been sick and had slept on the couch in my Uptown apartment and had sleepwalked, alert enough to have a phone conversation with his dead mother and then kiss me. Both events that we had studiously avoided mentioning since.
I rolled away, his arms seemingly reluctant to let me go. I jumped

up and brushed off my jeans even though the only thing they’d touched was Beau. He was looking up at me with a slightly stunned expression, but I knew better than to offer my hand and touch him again.
“Sorry,” I said, handing him the bottle of water that I’d left with my phone. “I thought you were ready. Are you all right?”
He pulled himself up and stood, rubbing the back of his head with his spare hand. “I don’t think I damaged the floor, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Funny. Seriously, you could have a concussion. Are you dizzy? Feeling sleepy?” I recalled when Melanie had been pushed down a flight of stairs by an unhappy spirit and the doctor had forced her to stay on bed rest, but not before he’d made her stay awake for a period of time just to make sure she hadn’t suffered any brain damage. I picked up my phone, noticing that I had five unread texts, and turned on the flashlight. Standing on tiptoe to shine it in his eyes, I said, “Let me see your pupils.” I had no idea what I was looking for, but it seemed like something I should be doing.
He gently pushed my hand away, a grin forming in the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure they’re still there. I’m fine—I promise. I’ll prob‑ ably have a nice knot on my head tomorrow, but that just means I’ll think of you stuck in the corner of your bathroom every time I comb my hair.”
I snatched the water from his hand. “I hope it gives you a headache each time.” I turned and walked out to the landing and began mak‑ ing my way down the stairs. “I trust you didn’t drop by to give me another driving lesson. I’m way too tired and annoyed right now.”
Since having a disastrous accident with lots of repercussions while still a student driver, I’d been determined to give up driving forever. Until my new job in New Orleans required me to get to places that were too far on foot or by bike, and too expensive to hire a rideshare. Beau had taken it upon himself to teach me, an effort that could only be called heroic—but not by me. His reassuring words had been that New Orleans wouldn’t even notice one more bad driver. And if I got

a truck or a big enough car, like Jolene’s, it wouldn’t matter who was the worst as long as I was the biggest.
“No, actually. About other things. You left Sunny’s party pretty early, so I didn’t get the chance to talk with you.”
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and glanced down at my phone in an attempt to buy time as I searched for a response. I was surprised to find that one of my texts was from Sam.

Meet 4 breakfast tomorrow? We should talk. Horns 7:30?

My thumbs hesitated for a moment as I wondered how she’d got‑ ten my number. My phone vibrated as I held it.

Jolene gave me ur number.

“Great,” I said under my breath, my thumbs flying over my screen as I replied. I said yes because I had a strong feeling that she would keep asking until I did. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Sam. I didn’t know her well, but what I did know, I liked. We might even have been good friends if it weren’t for the fact that she was dating Beau. And it wasn’t as if I wanted to date Beau, either. It was just . . . well, I wasn’t sure. I knew only that Beau and I weren’t a good fit because of reasons I preferred not to analyze. It could be because I didn’t like being be‑ holden to anybody. Or maybe it was because of what I’d overheard him telling his dead mother over the phone. I want her too much. She’s dangerous. I can’t afford to lose my focus. I can’t ever let that happen again.

Its important

“Is there a problem?” Beau said, indicating my phone.
I shook my head, then placed my phone in my back pocket. “No problem. Just . . . stuff.”
The pungent scent of pipe tobacco drifted past us, too heavy to ignore.

“We need to talk,” Beau said.
For someone who was attempting not to cause any drama while she focused on her new job and restored her Creole cottage, I had a lot of people who seemed eager to talk to me. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Mimi wanted me to invite you and Jolene to dinner on Friday night to really meet Sunny. We figured you’d have questions. And we thought you might want to know each other better, considering
we’ll all be working together at some point.”
“Sure. Just let me know the time and I’ll tell Jolene. Is that all?” A soft exhale came from behind me, enveloping us in a veil of pipe smoke.
His gaze drifted over my head before returning to my face. “Not quite. There are a couple more things we need to discuss.”
Knowing I didn’t really have a choice, and because I had no plans for the rest of the evening, I opened the front door to the only spot in the house containing chairs. As I stepped onto the porch, I heard two sets of footsteps following me outside into the cool, crisp air.

Excerpted from THE HOUSE ON PRYTANIA by Karen White, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2023

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

Nola Trenholm may not be psychic herself, but she’s spent enough time around people who are to know when ghosts are present, and there are definitely a few lingering spirits in her recently purchased Creole Cottage in New Orleans. Something, or someone, is keeping them tethered to this world. And not all of them are benign.

But with the sudden return of Sunny Ryan, Beau Ryan’s long-lost sister, Nola has plenty to distract her from her ghostly housemates. Especially when the tempting—yet firmly unavailable—Beau, wanting justice on those he blames for Sunny’s kidnapping, asks Nola for a favor that threatens to stall her hard-won recovery and send her hurtling backwards. He asks her to welcome Michael Hebert back into her life, even though Michael is the reason for Nola’s bruised heart. Beau is convinced that Michael’s powerful family was behind Sunny’s disappearance and that Michael is the key to getting information that the police won’t be able to ignore. If only Nola is willing to risk everything for which she’s worked so hard.

Torn between helping Beau and protecting herself, Nola doesn’t realize until it’s almost too late why the ghosts are haunting her house—a startling revelation that will throw her and Beau together to fight a common enemy. Assuming Nola can get Beau to listen to what the spirits are trying to tell him because ignoring them could prove to be a fatal mistake…
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Meet the Author:

Karen White is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including 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 co-author of The Lost Summers of Newport, All the Ways We Said Goodbye, The Glass Ocean, and The Forgotten Room with New York Times bestselling authors Beatriz Williams and Lauren Willig. She grew up in London but now lives with her husband and a spoiled Havanese dog near Atlanta, Georgia.
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