The Guests on South Battery was published in 2017 and was followed by The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street in 2019. Knowing it was the penultimate book in the series, I realized that the latter couldn’t have the tidy ending my readers might have been expecting. But I’d never ended any of these books with a true ending where everything is cleared up, and The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street would be no different. Especially since I knew there would be one more book.
And so here we are at the end of the series, with the seventh and final (really!) book, The Attic on Queen Street. I am confident that I have tied up any loose ends and answered any lingering questions. I am also hopeful that I have whetted my readers’ appetites for more with the introduction of Beau Ryan as well as the beautiful city of New Orleans for the next chapter in the lives of Nola Trenholm and the extended family we have all grown to love.
Because I knew I couldn’t completely leave behind my beloved Tradd Street series, I have started writing a spin-off series set in New Orleans, featuring Nola and a new cast of characters (and the appearance of old ones). The first in the series, The Shop on Royal Street, will be out in 2022, with a second one to follow in 2023. And if readers love this new series as much as they loved the first, then be prepared to join me on this next journey.
So thank you, dear readers, for your extraordinary support and enthusiasm for all of my books, but especially for my little series that was meant to last for only two books. I’ve said it before and I will say it again—my readers are THE BEST, and I will continue writing as long as you continue reading.
Keep reading for an excerpt featuring a grown-up Nola Trenholm in the first book of a new spin-off series by Karen White
THE SHOP ON ROYAL STREET
Available in spring 2022 from Berkley
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, pressing against the glass in a vain attempt to escape. The roof of the front porch sagged, as if weighted with the gravity of the human experience that had once passed through the corridors before exiting out the doors and windows forever.
I stepped up onto the porch, my fingers brushing the rainbow-hued Mardi Gras beads dangling on the handrails and over the missing porch spindles that lent a grinning pumpkin look to the front of the house. Creeping vines 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 I’d 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 wasn’t convinced I deserved.
“Nola . . .”
Despite the worry and caution in my stepmother’s 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 played a slow hopscotch as I avoided 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 haint 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 who’d 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, I’d say this house needs more than paint and linseed oil. A wrecking ball or flame thrower 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 neighborhood—toward 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 can’t 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 if 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 touch-ups. 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.