The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (15 page)

            Alice
rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

            “Mornin’,
Mr. Beaulieu. Nice to see you again,” Paul said.

            “Call
me Bix. So, the rumors are true?” Bix nudged his hat up and gave Paul a
calculating look. “Let me tell ya, we keep a close eye on Miss Alice here. She
don’t have a lot of family. We’re all she got. You think it’s all sweet sugar
now, but there will be rules and expectations. None of that bossin’ her around,
tellin’ her which lipstick you like, and not to wear red, and how she needs to
exercise.”

            Paul’s
lips were twitching. “I wouldn’t ask her to change a thing. She’s perfect just
the way she is.”

            Alice
was in the middle of forming a protest but the words died in her throat. He was
placating Bix, that was all. But the words seemed to reverberate in her
somewhere, like the ringing of a bell, sending out little ripples of surprise
and happiness.

            Bix
continued, “And her store comes first. You get in between her and this shop,
and it’ll be the end of you.”

            An
awkward silence fell and Alice stared at her feet. Everything Bix said was
true. Especially the shop part. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it?
Her shop and his store, her town and his business. They were at odds, no matter
how many compliments Paul sent her way or how many bookish conversations they
had.

            “Duly
noted, sir.” Paul looked like he got the message. He nodded to Alice. “Thanks
for the tip on breakfast. You two have a good day.”

            Seconds
later he was gone, the tinkling of the bell like a post script to their
conversation. Alice stood there, staring at the door. She’d felt more emotion
in the past hour than in the past month. And it had been a pretty rough month.

            Bix
unbuttoned his coat and hung it behind the desk. “Well, I can’t blame ya. I
told you to find a man, not a boy. Even before the fisticuffs, I’d say he fit
the bill. Not just because he runs that big company, either. You get the
feeling he’s worked hard to make it in the world and he doesn’t walk around
complaining. He gets the job done.”

             “Bix,
you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not dating. He just came in at a bad time. He
was looking for directions to a good diner. And I don’t approve that kind of
behavior, no matter what people will say.”

            “Not
dating? You could have fooled me. I seen the way he looks at you. And if you’re
not, why’d he take out his aggression on Eric? The guy got it good, one side of
his face was already swellin’ up by the time he made it to The Red Hen.”

            She
wondered why Eric decided to run down to The Red Hen. Any man who’d just been
beaten in a fight should have slunk off home so no one saw a thing. Waving a
hand, she turned toward her desk. “Doesn’t matter. Something Eric said.”

            “And
it had nothing to do with you?” Bix was honestly confused. “Paul doesn’t seem
like the kinda guy who cares if someone’s tryin’ to jerk a knot in his tail.”

            Alice
cleared her throat and settled at her desk. She shuffled a few stacks of paper
and gave Van Winkle a pat. The kitty raised his head and blinked, then went
back to sleep. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “Well, to be fair,
it involved both of us… about Paul renting the apartment above the shop.”

            Bix
let out a low whistle. “Just like that little snake to cast aspersions on your
character because he’s jealous.”

            She
let a hand drop to the desk and said, “Jealous? It wasn’t working between us
and that had nothing to do with Paul.”

            “It
sure wasn’t,” Bix said. He shot her a glance. “But
sha
,
even though I got bad eyes, what I saw when I walked in here was enough. I
wager Paul wouldn’t say no to a chance at getting to know you better.” He gave
a wink, then called out, “Miss Elizabeth, where are you? We’ve got work to do.”
Miss Elizabeth trotted out and Bix picked her up, carrying her toward the back
room where the paperbacks were stacked.

            Alice
couldn’t find a thing to say to that. Of course Paul was handsome, funny, and
seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her head. But the logical part
of her could list ten reasons that Paul should be avoided at all costs.
She’s
perfect just the way she is.
Paul’s words echoed back at her. The idea made
her chest go tight. She’d never been one to take chances, in business or in
love. And a relationship with Paul wasn’t just risky, it was doomed.

            She
straightened her shoulders and shook off the swirling emotions. Who knew, maybe
Paul was putting on the charm to distract her from her protesting his store. He
knew she loved books, so he was trying to reach her that way. He was probably
used to women falling all over him, begging for his attention.

            Well,
he was about to discover she was a lot harder to distract than he thought.
Nothing came before her town and her people. Not even a man like Paul Olivier.

In software systems, it is often
the early bird

that makes the worm. ― Alan
Perlis

            Paul
walked toward the diner, dodging pedestrians and the occasional dog, his
thoughts back in the little bookstore he’d just exited. That had been a stupid,
sloppy mistake. He’d gotten caught up in convincing her that Heinlein was a
genius and had referenced a book they’d already discussed. Unfortunately, he was
Browning Wordsworth Keats when they’d discussed it. And now she was wondering
why everyone in the world was discussing
Beau Geste
at the same time. He wanted to tell her, but not like that. Not out of the blue
and right after punching her ex-boyfriend.

            He
trudged down the sidewalk, wondering if he was losing his sanity. His knuckles
throbbed, reminding him of the moment he’d opened himself up for the mother of
all lawsuits. More than that, an assault charge wasn’t good PR, and PR was
something he’d always been good at. When Andy heard the story, Paul was going
to get an earful. Or maybe just a look of total disbelief. He couldn’t believe
it himself.

            He
crossed the street, barely hearing the honking of a slow-moving vehicle as it
turned the corner. He’d never punched another person in his life. He wasn’t a
fighter. He’d had his share of battles against prejudicial people who only saw
a quiet nerd from a tiny Southern town, but his battles had never gotten
physical. Maybe Andy was right. Maybe this whole idea was doomed from the
beginning. There was too much bad history in Cane River. If he’d wanted to open
a store, he should have left the supervising to someone else. Nothing good
could come from his returning to Natchitoches.

            “Excuse
me,” a young man’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Are you Paul Olivier? I
heard a rumor you were in town, but I told my buddy he was full of it.”

            A
gawky teenage boy grabbed his hand and shook it before Paul could even focus on
the kid’s wide-eyed expression. His T-shirt read ‘Home is Where the WiFi
Connects Automatically’ and his red hair had outgrown a crew cut a few months
ago.

            “Yes,
I’m just here for a little while.”

            “Dude,”
the kid whispered. “You’re, like, the most epic game creator ever.”

            “Thank
you.” Paul glanced down the street. “We’re opening a new store here. Be sure to
come to the grand opening. We’ll have some really good door prizes and―”
His stomach was growling in earnest now. He glanced back and for just a moment,
he saw himself. He’d spent years as the awkward teenager nobody really listened
to, the kid everyone avoided because all he could talk about was gaming and
always at the worst times. Paul looked the kid in the eye and gave him his
undivided attention. “And what do like the most about our games?”

            “You
did such a great job with
War of the Universe
. People don’t always get
that it’s
not just the graphics. It’s the
story
,”
the kid said. “The best part was the way Reena used the evil Commander Lorfan’s
secret past to bring him down. The dude woulda been totally invincible if he
hadn’t been obsessed with getting revenge.”

            Paul
started to agree, when something else occurred to him. Flannery O’Conner once
said that she wrote to discover what she knew. Paul wrote the script for
War
of the Universe
while thinking about all the greatest morality tales--Greek
myths and the tragedy of humanity. He’d never considered that he could turn into
one of the bad guys, so focused on revenge and proving he was right that he
doomed himself and everything he loved. He looked back at By the Book, and saw
his violent actions in a whole new light.

            “What’s
your name?” Paul asked.

            “Tater
Leaf, sir.” The kid grinned hugely.

            Paul
blinked, trying to decipher why any parent would name their child Tater and pair
it with the last name Leaf. He decided it most likely linked to some long
history that would take ten minutes and a diagram of the kid’s family tree to
explain.

            “Nice
to meet you, Tater. I’ll be in town for a while,” Paul said. “If you’re ever
interested in joining our team of beta testers, we have a small group that runs
through the very first versions of a game.”

            “Wow,”
Tater breathed. “The very first people to try it out?”

            “Just
to work out the bugs. Sometimes the final version is pretty different.”

            “Absolutely.
Really. I would.” Tater was nodding and grinning.

            “Cool.
Here’s my card.” Paul scribbled his cell phone on the back. “And now, I have to
get some breakfast before I start eating my own hand.”

            “Sure,”
Tater said. He stepped out of the way, still grinning. “See you around.”

            Paul
managed to make it the rest of the block without anyone else stopping him,
although he did hear a few whispers and the quiet click of people taking
pictures. Any other time, he’d have stopped, or at least flashed a smile. But
he was focused on getting breakfast and getting back to the privacy of his
apartment, where he could take a few minutes to process what he’d just realized
about himself.

            Babet’s
Diner was packed to the gills with hungry customers. Paul hovered near the
door, breathing in the smell of bacon and eggs. The conversation ebbed for a
moment when he walked in, but then picked back up to a respectable level.
Although he felt more than a few pairs of eyes on him, he didn’t feel as
uncomfortable as he did walking around big tech conventions. You knew your fame
had passed the comfort level when you needed a security detail to go to the
bathroom.

            He
leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone, sending Andy a quick text.
Looking around at the crowd, he wasn’t sure take out was an option. A lot of
these old tourist places were sit down only. While he waited to see if Andy was
awake, he clicked on the Browning Wordsworth Keats site, then to his email. Scrolling
through the mail, his heart rate started to rise. He tried to tell himself it
didn’t matter, but as soon as he saw Alice’s name, he almost stopped breathing.

            It
took several seconds to decide whether to open it. If she didn’t want to meet
him, this awkward double life would continue. Things were happening faster than
he could predict and who knew what tomorrow would bring? He hoped not another
fistfight. He took a steadying breath and opened the note.
Red boots.
He’d
never been a great dancer, but he was more than willing to dance with Alice.

            He
hit reply and pecked out a short reply.

           
Dear
Miss Alice,

                        I’ll
be there. Looking forward to hearing the story of EBB and your youthful
outrage.

            Your
BWK

            “Paul?
Is that you?” A woman’s voice cut into his thoughts.

            He
turned. “Mrs. Joubert?” He started laughing. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “I
haven’t seen you since sixth grade.”

            She
looked the same, except for the streaks of silver in her curly dark hair, and she
looked thinner, more fragile. Memories washed over him. He used to pepper Mrs.
Joubert with questions that she couldn’t answer during their science classes.
She never got angry, and would return the next day with everything she’d
discovered. Now she reached out, pulling him close, wrapping her arms around
him. “Oh, Paul,” she breathed. “Gimme a Yankee dime.” She turned her cheek and
he kissed her. He felt her shoulders shaking under his hands.

            Were
those tears in her eyes? “Mrs. Joubert, is everything okay?” He hadn’t kept up
on the local gossip. Maybe she was dying. Maybe she had lost a spouse. Or a
child. The thought made his heart drop in his chest.

            “Sorry,
sorry, it’s just a surprise seeing you,” she said, wiping her eyes. She stepped
back. “Look at you, so handsome. And I always knew you’d do real well just soon
as you got turned loose. I knew it, Paul.”

            He
nodded. He heard that kind of thing all the time. People who couldn’t be
bothered to give him the time of day when he was younger liked to tell him how
they’d always been his most ardent supporters. But Mrs. Joubert was different.
“I remember you telling me that. Sometimes more than once a day.”

            “You
took a lot of convincing.” She was still blinking back tears. She held onto his
hands and leaned close. “Tell me the truth, son. Beyond all the money and the
fame, are you doing well? Are you happy? When I see you in the news, I’m right
worried about you. I want you to be happy, Paul.”

            Her
words touched him deep inside, in a place he kept hidden from the rest of the
world. Standing in an old diner, surrounded by chattering tourists enjoying
their enormous platters of bacon and grits, Paul felt as if he were being asked
to review the last ten years of his life. And he found it wanting.

            “I’m
doing fine. My mother has a nice farmhouse out of town. My company has branches
in every major city and offers some of the best benefits around,” he said. She
cocked her head and said nothing. He went on, “I have a good friend. I’m not
completely alone.” He realized how pathetic it sounded.

            She
smiled. “One good friend is better than a hundred admirers.”

            “You’ve
got that right,” he said, not returning her smile.

            “So
what are you doing in here? Didn’t you bring your own cook to make you grits? I
know you have a jet. We all saw pictures of it on the front page of paper this
morning.”

            “Nope,
no cook. We just got in yesterday.”

            “Oh,
not even enough time to get make groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. You and your
friend come to dinner tomorrow after church. You still go to church, right?”
She turned and gave him the eye.

            Paul
wanted to laugh but knew it was in his best interests to just nod. “Sure do.”

            “Good.
I have another question maybe you could shed some light on. I hope you can
forgive me for being nosy.”

            “Go
ahead,” he said. He couldn’t imagine a nosier question than whether he was
happy or if he was still attending church.

            “I
heard you’re in town for a while. Now, my son lives in Atlanta and he said when
a ScreenStop opened there, you came just for the day and then went back to the
city.”

            “That’s
true,” Paul said.

            “Are
you working on another project in these here parts?” She held up a hand. “You
don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I was hoping you’d heard about our
problem and were coming to lend a hand.” Her cheeks went pink. Paul realized
that she wanted to ask him for a favor, but was worried he would be offended.

            “Mrs.
Joubert, anything you need. Please just ask. I’ll do anything I can.”

            She
swallowed. “We were tryin’ to get a grant for a new computer lab for the
elementary and middle school but it went to a bigger school in New Orleans. A
lot of our kids don’t have a computer at home. They think computer tech is all
about getting on the Internet on their phones. They go on to the high school
and the computer classes are so below standard that they’re not worth a plugged
nickel.” Mrs. Joubert shook her head. “Our kids just can’t compete, Paul. The
ones who get into college are struggling from the moment they set foot on
campus. They don’t understand basic word processing, programming, web design,
or graphic design.”

            “So
the school needs help? Mrs. Joubert, whatever I can do, I’ll be happy to pitch
in.” He felt the truth of it deep in his soul. She had believed in him when he was
just a scrawny kid who carried a chip the size of a cinder block on his
shoulder. “You made everything seem possible, if I worked hard enough.”

            She
gripped his hand. “Yes! These kids could make the same sort of difference in
science or technology in these here parts, if they got the chance. There are so
many who need basic skills that they can only get with labs that are properly
equipped. I had real hope that if we got the grant we could shore up the city,
keep the young folks from movin’ away, but…”

            He
understood. It was the age-old dilemma of a small town: stay or go. Those on
the edge of technological innovation never got a choice. They always had to go.
“Tell me what I can do. What do you need?”

            She
took a few deep breaths, as if struggling for control. “I knew you would help.
I knew, if I just asked, you would…” Her voice trailed away as her dark eyes
filled with tears.

            “Can
you get a copy of the grant application? We could work from there.”

            She
nodded. “Sure can.”

            He
reached for his wallet, getting out his business card. “My email address is
there. Send the application to me and I’ll find out where to go from there.” He
shifted uncomfortably as Mrs. Joubert wiped her cheeks with both hands. “I’m
glad I can help. It’s really nothing.”