Genre Fiction
![Karen White - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000APPP00.jpg)
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.
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.
Editorial Reviews
"White has added another page-turner to her repertoire of haunted houses and ghosts who won't stay put."-Northwest Indiana Times
Readers Top Reviews
Kindle KarenCass
Nola and Beau are "friends" again. This time, they are in New Orleans on Beau's home town. Ghosts are involved in solving a mystery.
meganmeganKindle
I loved this book. It was fantastic to slip back into a world so similar to the Tradd Street stories. The setting, New Orleans, was really well done and a great setting for Nola's story. I loved the house renovation story line, I really enjoyed the new characters and I loved the mystery and paranormal aspects. The only thing I didn't love was the some of the story details were a bit too similar to the Tradd street series. I don't want to give anything away so I'm not going to elaborate here but a part of the story felt very close to the other series. That being said, it didn't detract from my enjoyment of the story at all.
BarbmeganmeganKin
The Shop on Royal Street by Karen White is the first book in her new Royal Street series. Nola Trenholm, who was in the Tradd Street series, is the heroine in this book; as she has moved from Charleston, South Carolina to New Orleans. Nola has purchased a historic fixer upper, which requires a lot of work, not to mention the house is haunted, with ghosts who do not want to leave. Nola learned a lot of historic preservation, especially being the step daughter of Melanie, who had the ability to talk to ghosts (Tradd series). Beau Ryan, who Nola broke up with awhile back, is the hero in this book, and though they no longer are together, she knows she needs Beau’s help to renovate the house. Beau lives with his grandmother, Mimi, and they are the ones who sold the house to Nola. Beau is like Nola’s stepmother, able to see ghosts, but he hides this from others, and Nola already can tell he has that ability; even though he refuses to listen to her. Nola has gained a lot of new friends, who will help her with the house renovation. Jolene is Nola’s friend, and also works with Beau; who will assign Jolene to be the project manager of the renovation; she will also become a roommate of Nola. Jolene was such an awesome character, so much fun and always cooking/baking for everyone; and I liked Jaxson, who used to be Jolene’s boyfriend, and they remain good friends. Thibeau and Jorge are the men who work in the house to renovate, as they are willing to work there, despite the ghosts. There is a mystery surrounding Beau’s family, that Nola is determined to discover more; which relates to a powerful New Orleans family. A woman was killed years ago, and she is one of the ghosts that are in the house, as well as Beau’s grandfather; with the powerful family threatening Mimi’s family, which also resulted in Sunny, Beau’s sister disappearing. Nola will push Beau to help her get the ghosts to finally move on. The Shop on Royal Street was so very well written by Karen White, which was an excellent story, with a fabulous heroine in Nola, in a town that has so much history, with ghosts and historical homes. Besides rooting for Nola and Beau to find a way to get together, I loved Jolene and many other secondary characters. Karen White once again gives us a fabulous new series, and I look forward to the next book in this series.
Debora KlepperBar
As always loved the book! Love that we get Nola story, but not sure I will listen to next book because it was hard getting past the narrators drab voice, that's just hard imagine Nola that drab
Kindle Debora Kl
Nola moved to New Orleans to start her professional life. She buys a house over the objections of a guy from her past. Is the house haunted? Who keeps breaking into the house under renovation and why? Can NOLA see people who died but haven't moved on like her step mom? This is a great book for fans of The House on Trand Street.
Short Excerpt Teaser
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 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 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 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 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 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 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. She'd inherited a historic house in Charleston despite a lifelong dislike of old houses. It wasn't the houses so much as the restless spirits of past residents who hadn't left and had insisted on communicating with her-a gift she'd 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 she'd once called the architectural relic she'd 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, she'd developed a grudging admiration for old houses. I'd even heard her describe ...
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 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 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 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 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 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 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. She'd inherited a historic house in Charleston despite a lifelong dislike of old houses. It wasn't the houses so much as the restless spirits of past residents who hadn't left and had insisted on communicating with her-a gift she'd 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 she'd once called the architectural relic she'd 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, she'd developed a grudging admiration for old houses. I'd even heard her describe ...
