The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (14 page)

            “Eric,
do you know what my favorite color is?”

            “What?”
He scanned the room. “How would I know that?”

            “It’s
red. Do you know my favorite poet? Do I like my coffee with sugar and milk? Am
I a morning person? How many brothers do I have?” She was standing in front of
him now, arms crossed. She didn’t expect him to answer any of these questions.

            “Hold
on, now. How could I know these things?” He looked panicked. “You like your
coffee black,” he exclaimed, his gaze falling somewhere behind her.

            Alice
turned and spied her coffee cup on her desk. “With sugar,” she corrected him.
“Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Not a morning person. Four brothers.”

            He
scowled, all his defenses were up now. “I just came in to ask you to the
festival.”

            She
sighed. “Eric, you didn’t come to ask me to the festival. You came to
tell
me we were going.”

            “Okay.
Whatever. Are we going?”

            Alice
looked around the store, wishing there was some answer written on the walls.
She knew in her heart that she was right but it was difficult to explain to
someone who was being willfully ignorant. “No, we’re not. And I’m not sure how
to say this, but we’re not going to anything else, ever again. I thought I made
it clear the other day.”

            His
eyes narrowed. “Is it about that guy, Paul Olivier? You’re dumping me for him?
If you think he’s going to look twice at someone like you, then you’re really
deluded.”

            For
a moment it was hard for Alice to draw a breath. “Someone like me? What does
that mean?” She held up a hand. “No, wait. I don’t want to know. I’ve always
had the feeling that you didn’t think much of me, and now you’re proving me
right.”

            He
stepped toward her. “You think you can do better? Try it. There aren’t many
guys like me in this nasty little backwater.”

            A
deep voice cut into their conversation. “And what a good thing that is.”

            Alice
jumped, seeing Paul standing there for the first time. She had been so focused
on the argument that she hadn’t heard the door or seen him approach. His hair
was wet, as if he’d just stepped out of a shower and he was freshly shaved.
Although his face was carefully neutral, Alice heard real anger pulsing under
his words.

            “Oh,
you again. I knew this had something to do with you.” Eric turned, a sneer
curling his lip.

            “Don’t
blame me for your bad behavior. I’m guessing your were digging this grave long
before I showed up in town,” Paul said. He was closer now, arms at his sides.
Alice had the impression he was waiting for Eric to take a swing.

            “We
were happy before you got here,” Eric said.

            Paul
shook his head, as if starting to realize that arguing with Eric was a complete
waste of energy. “So, I managed to ruin your relationship all in one day? I
came in, bought a book, rented her apartment, and everything fell to pieces?”

            Eric
swung around, glaring at Alice. “He’s living up there with you? Oh, that
explains a lot.”

            Alice
felt her face go hot even before the words completely sunk in. Her hand went to
the rings at her neck, as if to shield them from what Eric had just said. She was
a secure, intelligent, professional woman. But his insinuation touched
something deep inside, where old hurts and shame lurked. Fury coursed through
her. “Get out,” she whispered.

            “Don’t
need to tell me twice. I don’t like to share.” He walked by Paul, smirking.

           
Alice
didn’t see the first swing, only saw Eric’s head snap to the side and then he
went down. Paul hooked a hand into Eric’s belt, another under his collar and
dragged-carried him to the door. He propped him up, opened the door
,
and tossed him out. Alice could see Eric through the glass door, stumbling to
his feet, one hand over his cheekbone.
           

            Paul
walked back to the desk, face tight with anger. His brown eyes seemed black
under dark brows. He was breathing heavily.

            “That
was completely unnecessary,” Alice hissed. She peered behind Paul, watching
Eric walk away, his expression furious. People on the sidewalk turned their
heads to stare, a few pointing out the man who had clearly just lost a fight.

            “I
agree. But it felt great.”

            “You
probably feel like you can do that sort of thing because you’re…” Alice was
having trouble finding words.

            “Rich?
Famous?”

            “From
out of town! But I have to live here. People talk.” She put her hands to her
face, feeling her cheeks burning. She felt sick at the thought of what Eric
would tell people now.

            He
sighed, examining his knuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.”

            “Obviously,”
she said, letting the word stretch into the space between them.

            Paul
shifted his feet, eyes downcast. He really did seem as if he regretted punching
Eric and it certainly had happened faster than she could imagine. Maybe he was
under as much stress as she was. She certainly wanted to punch Eric herself. Paul
seemed calm and collected on the outside, but inside he might just be as
hot-headed as she was.

            Alice
felt a laugh rise in her throat. She tried to keep her face straight, but the
memory of Eric’s expression as he went down to the floor had her giggling.

            Paul
looked up. “I’m afraid to ask.”

            Alice
covered her mouth, snickering. “I’m not a violent person,” she started to say.

            “But
you enjoyed that a little bit?”

            She
nodded, laughing. “Eric is one of those people who’d gripe with a ham under
each arm. He is never happy.” Then her smile faded away. For the second time in
less than twenty-four hours, her resolution to avoid Paul Olivier had been
broken. “Did you need something? Is everything all right with the apartment?”

            “Fine,
everything’s fine,” he said. “I always sleep to blaring zydeco music.”

             “Me,
too. Must be a Natchitoches thing.”

             “As
for why I’m standing in your shop, I woke up and smelled the most amazing
breakfast somewhere very close. Maple bacon, eggs, maybe some hash browns.
Definitely good coffee. So I went looking. I’ve been up and down the block and
can’t find the café. So, if you could just point me in the right direction,
I’ll be on my way.”

            “Oh,”
she said. “I’m afraid you just described my breakfast.”

            Paul
gave her a quick scan from head to toe. “All of that? You must be a runner.
Nobody can eat like that and stay so―”

            Alice
waited. It had been a long time since anyone complimented her appearance. She
shouldn’t have cared, but she really wanted to know what came after the “so.”

            His
neck slowly turned redder and redder, and when the color reached his cheeks,
she couldn’t hold back a smile. “That’s the nicest thing anybody has said about
me for a long time.”

            “That
you must be a runner?”

            “No,
that they got out of bed and looked all over the block for my cooking.” She was
teasing him and he knew it. The real compliment was the approving look and the
longer pause. She thought of how Eric had never mentioned her appearance unless
it was to suggest she straighten her hair or wear a little more make up because
it fit his idea of a professional woman. Eric always talked about cholesterol,
and salt intake, and how she should get a gym membership because working at a
desk in a bookstore would shorten her lifespan.

 “I didn’t know the apartment came with
olfactory torture.”

            “Wait
until Monday. Gumbo simmers all day in a crock pot while I work. I can smell it
through the vents.”

            “My
mama always made gumbo on wash day, too,” he said, his lips tugging up.

            Alice
nodded in surprise. Mrs. Perrault called Monday wash day, a tradition from back
when the woman spent the day doing laundry and needed a meal that could simmer
while they worked.

            He
grinned, and she stood there, thinking of how good it felt to share a joke with
him.

            His
eyes dropped to her necklace. “Can I ask you something?”

            She
paused. Paul already knew more about her than most people. She nodded.

            “What
are the rings about?”

            Alice
quickly tucked her necklace back in place under her shirt. “My parents’ wedding
rings,” she said. She drew in a shaky breath. Eric had never asked that. How
had she been so blind? That relationship had gone on about six months too long.
“Sorry. You asked about breakfast. Two blocks east is Babet’s Diner. Great
pancakes, grits, and eggs. Biscuits are better before ten or after four when
she makes another batch,” she said.

             He
nodded, looking as if he wanted to ask another question. “Thanks. I’ll head
right over. And that’s a great Heinlein series.
Starship
Troopers
is my favorite.”

            Alice
was grateful she didn’t have to explain why her parents’ rings were around her
neck and not on their fingers. She picked up one of the books, looking at the
mass market 1950’s cover. “I’ve never read them. I’m not really into science
fiction.”

            He’d
turned toward the door, but came back and took the book from her hands. “These
are in great condition, too.
Starship Troopers
was originally published as a serial called ‘Starship Soldier’ in
The M
agazine
of Fantasy and Science
. The interstellar war between the
Terran Federation, which is Earth, and the Arachnids, which are called ‘The Bugs,’
was actually Heinlein’s way of defending his views on production of nuclear
weapons.”

            “Okay.
I never knew that.” Alice stared down at the stack of paperbacks. She wasn’t
really sure what an interstellar war had to do with the nuclear arms race. Probably
one of those things that people read into a book when the author had no
intention of ever having written it.

            “There’s
a real famous soliloquy about violence that people think glorifies militarism,
but I think has more to do with Heinlein’s own views on moral philosophy, especially
about how only veterans should be able to vote for a military intervention.” He
paused. “I think what I love about science fiction is how it’s always just
ahead of reality. Heinlein dreamed up this world of an all-volunteer, highly
trained force in a time when our military was mostly conscripted.”

            Alice
couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She nodded instead.

            He
turned the book over in his hands, a smile touching his lips. “And the very
best authors insert little nods to history, so even in this futuristic war,
he’s sprinkled in World War I and World War II references, which a lot of men
in his time caught and appreciated. Like my Granddaddy. He loved Heinlein. Maybe
not so many readers catch it now, since the study of military history isn’t very
popular.”

            Alice
cleared her throat. She hadn’t felt this out of her depth in a long time.
Charlie nagged at her to read fantasy, but Alice had never seen a reason. But
the way Paul explained it, the stories were as relevant now as they were sixty
years ago. Maybe more.

            He
seemed to notice that she had nothing to say and frowned, weighing the
paperback in his hand. “It sounds kinda strange, doesn’t it?” Then he snapped
his fingers and said, “Well, it’s just like
Beau Geste
,
really, with the themes of personal responsibility, never leaving a man behind,
and doing the right thing even when it involves tremendous personal sacrifice.”

            “Oh!”
Alice saw all the details start to fall into place and she nodded. “I think I
know what you’re saying. And it’s really odd you should mention that book. I’ve
talked to more people about
Beau Geste
in the last few days than I have in ten years. It must be coming back into
popularity.”

            He
was silent for a moment, carefully placing the Heinlein back on the stack. “I’d
better get some breakfast. Sorry again for―”

            Bix
burst through the door. “I was down at The Red Hen and Eric came in,
caterwauling that you dumped him for that ScreenStop owner. But I told
everybody it was impossible because you can’t stand the guy.” Bix seemed to see
Paul at the same time he uttered the last words, right as he pulled up close to
the desk. He turned, his straw hat askew and his green raincoat misbuttoned,
and said, “Well, good mornin’, Paul.”