Spotlight & Giveaway: The Shop on Royal Street by Karen White

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Karen White’s new release: The Shop on Royal Street

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 White’s 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 house’s previous occupants don’t seem to be ready to depart.

Although she can’t communicate with ghosts like her stepmother can, luckily Nola knows someone in New Orleans who is able to—even if he’s 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 he’s 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.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from The Shop on Royal Street 

Two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, on my front porch I sat
on an old plastic lawn chair that had been found hidden beneath
the banana tree in the backyard. I’d discovered it and a second toilet
after I’d hacked the plant back to a size that was more fruit tree and
less Little Shop of Horrors. My current sitting position could best be
described as “splayed,” something Melanie would definitely not approve
of. The effort of lifting my water bottle to my mouth was more
than I could handle, and most of the water trickled down my chin and
neck in cooling relief.
Every muscle in my body ached, the raw skin on my knuckles and
knees burned, and my hair, skin, and clothing were wet enough to
wring out. True to his word, Beau had sent a demolition crew to the
house to help tear out laminate floors and Formica countertops and
what remained of the derelict kitchen and bathroom fixtures; the work
was interrupted for a period of time by an asbestos-abatement
team to deal with that unwanted surprise. The demolition crew always showed
up long after the sun had risen and were gone long before dusk. I
wanted to ask them why, but it was a rotating cast of faces with none
repeated. I’d made a point of asking Jolene if we could make a stop at
the Ruby Slipper Cafe on our way to the house in the mornings so I
could get a large box of Bam Bam Biscuits and a jug of iced coffee. But
even though the guys on the crew seemed appreciative, it wasn’t
enough to get them to return.
I’d been working by myself all morning. After watching Jolene
break off all of her nails and destroy an impressive collection of linen
shorts over the last couple of weeks, I made the executive decision to
relegate her to the social-media-and-publicity portion of the renovation
until it was time to do the interiors and décor. Her mother was an
interior designer (I’d seen photos, and her family’s funeral home really
was the prettiest I’d ever seen), and Jolene had a great eye, judging by
my memories of our freshman dorm room. I was pretty much color-blind when it came to paint and floor stains, and knew what I liked only after the fact.
But what Jolene lacked in proper renovation attire she made up for in dogged determination. One of her recent coups was the deal she’d recently made with a flooring company to supply the tiles for the bathroom floors and kitchen backsplash below cost in return
for free advertising on the JR website and YouTube channel and
a mention in any of the print coverage. When I’d asked her how she’d
accomplished that, she’d smiled broadly and said, “If you can’t run with
the big dogs, stay under the porch.” I wasn’t exactly sure what that
meant, but I was thrilled to get the price cut.
My phone rang where it rested on my thigh, stuck to my skin with
sweat. I opened my eyes wide enough to see that the call was from Dr.
Sophie Wallen-Arasi, a professor of historic preservation at the College
of Charleston and Melanie’s best friend. Ever since Melanie told her I
was restoring a Creole cottage in New Orleans, she’d been sending me
reams of instructions on the most authentic methods for renovation,
many of which—like picking berries to make my own paint—made
me cringe. I’d made the mistake of mentioning I was eager to get an
electric sander for the floors, and from her shocked and horrified reaction
I assumed she’d thought I said I was going to meander naked
outdoors. I declined the call before pouring the rest of the water in my
bottle over my head.
“Hello, Nola!”
I waved to my neighbor Ernest across the street as he attached a
leash to his brown and white Havanese dog, Belle, before attempting
another walk—or “drag and carry,” as he and his partner, Bob, called
it. Not that I blamed her. It was too hot outside to do anything more
strenuous than blink.
Unfortunately, Belle’s vet had put her on a strict
diet-and-exercise regime due to Bob’s habit of bringing home tasty
scraps from his job as a waiter at Upperline. Ernest and I were both grateful for Bob’s culinary expertise; I was sure I would have starved if not for the lovingly prepared meals he’d
bring over. With the shortening of the days as we headed into autumn,
and with my full-time job, I didn’t want to waste time eating. I always
asked Ernest to join me, but he would politely decline with an implausible
excuse, like the need to express Belle’s anal sacs. I had no idea
what that was, but I was fairly certain that I didn’t want to know.
“The planters are looking great!” I called out, nearly depleting my
energy reserves. On the first day of the demolition, Ernest and Bob had
come over to introduce themselves and Belle, and asked if I was going
to be keeping the coffin planter in the back garden. Now they had a
matched pair in front of their porch, each containing artificial Christmas
trees that were currently decked out in red, white, and blue for the
most recent holiday, the Fourth of July. I was looking forward to seeing
what they’d do for Halloween.
Ernest waved again, then proceeded to tug on the leash, dragging
the stiff-legged Belle for several feet before giving up and hoisting her
in his arms.
Beau’s truck pulled up at the curb in front of the house. I considered
sitting up straight and making myself presentable, but the mere thought
exhausted me, so I didn’t move as I watched him through droopy
eyes. He aimed his phone at me, which acted as a jolt of ice water to
the face and jerked me up to a sitting position. “Put that thing down
unless you want me to grab it and stomp on it before throwing it at
your head.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to be photographed today for the
JR Properties website? I wanted to get you in action hand sanding the
floors.”
“Do I look camera ready?” I pointed to my sodden T‑shirt
and dripping hair.
An odd look crossed his face. “I’m guessing that’s not up for discussion,
so I’ll hold off on candid shots.” He gave me an ice-cold bottle of
water before sitting down on the steps and unscrewing the top of another.

Excerpt. ©Karen White. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

Giveaway: 5 Print copies of The Shop on Royal Street by Karen White – giveaway open to US only

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Meet the Author:

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.
 
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