The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (4 page)

            Paul
sat back in his office chair. This was why he started the Browning Wordsworth
Keats project. This was how he’d meant the books to be used. Of course he’d
dreamed of people debating the classics that had drifted into obscurity. He
wanted to see folks discovering books that should be on every shelf but had
been lost amid the glossy hardback Stephen Kings and James Pattersons. But most
of all, he’d hoped to reunite old friends who’d been separated by time and
space, lost amid the ever-growing greed of big publishing chasing the next best
seller. He’d hated seeing vapid reality TV stars, scandal-plagued politicians
and child beauty pageant queens given million-dollar book deals while great
literature went out of print. So, he’d decided to do something about it, using
the tools and technology he knew best.

            Paul
clicked the button to respond, rushing to type out a few lines. This sort of
letter confirmed that he was doing the right thing. He wished he could use his
own name but it was impossible. No matter how much he wanted to take credit for
the project, it would always be attributed to Mr. B.W. Keats, not Paul Olivier.
He covered his cyber tracks: connecting through proxy servers that changed IP
addresses every few minutes, and using dummy accounts to send packets of
information. He carefully chose only books that were no longer under copyright.
Still, that wouldn’t stop the lawsuits if publishers thought there was easy
money to be made. So far, they seemed to think it was a waste of time to try
and track down his alter ego. And that’s the way he wanted it to stay.

            “Mr.
Olivier, your meeting is in ten minutes and it’s down on the twenty-fifth
floor, which leaves you approximately two minutes and thirty seconds before you
need to get your jacket on and get in the elevator.” Mrs. Connors kept her
voice carefully neutral.

            Paul
glanced at the jacket on his chair. The woman was uncanny. “I’m done here, Mrs.
Connors. Thank you.”

            She
disconnected without responding and he sat for a moment, staring at the
intercom. Maybe Mrs. Connors could take over the email sorting. She was
professional, intelligent, and exact. But she also had enough to do as his
assistant. Paul sighed and logged out, grabbing his suit coat. Folks liked to
say money could buy everything, including happiness, but the only people who
believed it were the ones who’d never had as much as he had. He knew the truth.
Money bought a lot of shiny things, but when it came down to it, money couldn’t
buy loyalty, trust, or love. Or someone to keep your secrets. There would
always be someone who would offer more, and you’d never know when that betrayal
would come.

            Punching
the button to his private elevator, he stared into his own reflection. As a kid,
he’d felt like he could only count on a few good friends and his family. Even
though the world called him “tech genius” and “wunderkind,” his face was on
magazine covers, and journalists begged for interviews, Paul knew that he was
still that geeky kid from the lowlands of Louisiana.

            The
doors slid open and he stepped inside. Andy said this project was his superhero
identity, but he felt like he’d been living a double life for years. At least
this one made him feel like he was doing some good.

Technology…
is a queer thing. It brings you great gifts with one hand,

and
stabs you in the back with the other.—Carrie Snow

            “A
businessman from New York is needing a place to live while his company finishes
some project here. He contacted me through the ad on the rentals site. Maybe
you need some time to Hoover? I’d like to show him the apartment this
afternoon, if that’ll work for you.” June LaTraye’s nasal voice made this a
statement, not a question.

            “Of
course. You have a key. And thank you for working on this so quickly.” Alice
couldn’t help grinning. Natchitoches was a tourist town, not a place many
wanted to come to live permanently. And if they did, they were usually looking
to retire in a nice place on the river, not a walk-up apartment in the historic
district. This was promising. Even a few months’ rent would really help the
book store’s bottom line.

            “You
want to meet them first? If they seem like they’re fixin’ to sign a lease
d’rectly, I mean.”

            Alice
paused. June was a good realtor, but she also had a keen eye and great
intuition. Her teased, blond hair and bright pink lipstick hid an uncanny
ability to weed out unreliable renters. “You know, I think it’s okay if you
want to handle that part. I trust you. If they’re interested, I’ll run over and
plug in the icebox.” Plus, it was a really big building. They only shared a few
walls and those were brick. If even this man held a few parties, it wasn’t
likely to disturb her peaceful evenings.

            “Okay,
hon. I’ll ring you later and let you know how it went.”

            Alice
hung up and whispered a prayer of thanks. She pulled the rings out of her shirt
and kissed them, hoping her parents could see her happiness. Whenever she felt
like things were falling apart, God sent her a sign that she hadn’t been
forgotten. She felt like a smile was permanently etched to her face. She filled
the kitties’ water dishes and poured herself one more mug of coffee, letting
the promise of good news color her mood.

            Padding
back into her bedroom, she searched through her closet for the cheeriest
sundress she could find. She had a whole closet of retro clothing but today she
felt like celebrating the possibility of a new renter. Slipping on a fitted,
red polka dot shirtdress and a little white sweater, Alice decided a simple
ponytail would finish the look. Not that she ever did anything much with her
hair, since it was untamable. She grabbed a pair of red patent heels and set
them by the front door.

            One
more cup of coffee and she’d head downstairs. The black-and-white tile kitchen
floor gleamed in the early morning sunlight. She lifted the double-hung window
above the old porcelain kitchen sink, propped it with a chipped mug that was
older than she was, and inhaled. The air smelled of the river a few hundred
feet away, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the humidity was finally easing
off. A feeling of intense satisfaction filled her. She led a charmed life, compared
to most of the world. Even with her money worries, her existence was about as
peaceful as anyone could ask for.

            Looking
across at the row of hardwood trees that edged the opposite bank of Cane River
Lake, she remembered the moment she’d learned Mr. Perrault had left her the
shop. She was a month from graduating with a degree in English Literature.
She’d already enrolled in a master’s of education program, assuming she would
do what English majors did and teach. But Mr. Perrault’s last will changed the
trajectory of her life, spinning her out of the program and back to
Natchitoches.

            Her
college friends did their best to warn her, even sitting her down in a sort of
intervention, laying out all the reasons she shouldn’t return to her tiny hometown.
But what they didn’t understand was that Alice liked her quiet life, her small
town, her Cane River people. She had never yearned for the big city. She was
content in this place and she felt no shame in choosing it. In fact, she was
thrilled to come home. The first years after college her friends would travel
from Atlanta or Miami or Seattle. They wanted to experience the food, the
accents and the cypress groves without the commitment of trying to make a
living in the tiny tourist town. Alice was happy to play tour director. As much
as they encouraged her to travel to their cities, she just never found the
time.

            Alice
turned, letting her gaze wander over her little kitchen and toward the bright
living room where every wall was covered with full bookshelves and the
furniture was more comfortable than stylish. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to find
the time. Maybe it had never been a question of money. This place was as much a
part of her as her love of classic literature or her collection of cats.

            When
Cane River Lake flooded five years ago, she was out in the rain with everyone
else, loading sandbags and praying for a miracle. When the grade school
organized a bake sale to benefit the soccer team, she spent a whole weekend
making pies, even though she’d never played soccer in her life. When the parish
council wanted to impose an extra tax on little barbeque stands in the region, she
picketed in front of city hall with her neighbors. She, Alice, who avoided
crowds with the dedication of the truly introverted, had stood shoulder to
shoulder with them and felt at home.

            The
smile that touched her lips at the memory, now slowly faded away. There was a
new threat in town. It wasn’t flooding or a lack of school supplies or
exorbitant taxes. But it was just as insidious, just as damaging. Alice pulled
in a long breath, as if steadying herself for an argument. That ScreenStop
store was not what Natchitoches needed. Her people had a culture that was
unique to Louisiana, unique in all of the South, and she wasn’t about to let
some entertainment giant kill it off with a steady diet of immorally violent
games filled with bikini-clad warrior maidens. Mr. Perrault had given her
countless lectures on the damaging effects of modern media and she was glad
she’d listened. She kept her life simple and as low tech as possible. She
ignored the fashion mags, didn’t watch the talk shows, and refused to get
sucked into the latest TV shows. Especially the TV. Really, it seemed like
every Emmy winner was either sickeningly violent or extolled a shallow kind of lifestyle
contrary to everything she held dear.

            If
she had to track down the council person that gave ScreenStop an okay without a
vote, she would. She was going to stop the construction any way she could. If
they moved it across the river toward the other big box stores, she might be
able to live with it, but there was no way she was going to let that
technological eyesore exist down the block from her building.

           
Alice picked up her mail and flipped through the stack. She needed
to get going or she’d be late opening the store. She refused to be lazy about
the store hours, even if there weren’t many customers. She opened the first
envelope without glancing at the return address and scanned the front page.

           
…
Norma R. Green,
hereafter
known as
the Testator, challenges the Last Will and Testament of Mr. Ronald B. Perrault.
The Testator, also an heir at law by blood relation, was named in the will of
the decedent as inheritor of By the Book until 2009, when the current will was
written to benefit Miss Alice Augustine. The Testator appeals to the court for
a review of the unintentional exclusion of Mrs. Norma R. Green, in light of the
possible unsound mind of Mr. Perrault or the possibility his actions were made
under duress
.

            Alice snatched
up the envelope and stared, heart racing. She forced herself to breathe, sat
down, then took a glance at the page again. Mr. Perrault’s will was being
contested five years after he’d passed away? Maybe it was a mistake. She found
the number of the lawyer’s office, someplace in Houston, and punched it in.

            A secretary
answered and Alice explained what she’d received, hating the quiver in her
voice. The secretary transferred her, a man answered the line, and seconds
later she was hearing the sound of her life being turned upside down.

            “I’m glad you
called, Alice. My client would like to reach a fair and equitable resolution to
this problem,” Mr. Crocket said.

            “I’m sorry. What
problem? And how does your client know Mr. Perrault? He had no children or other
relatives that I was aware of,” Alice said.

            “No, she’s not a
child. She’s his niece, his sister’s child. Mr. Perrault and his sister weren’t
close.”

            “But… the paper
I got says that Norma was in the previous will? Is that correct?”

            He sounded
pleased. “Exactly. It must be an oversight. She was the heir to all the Perrault’s
property and assets until 2009, when a new will was drawn up, with you as the
beneficiary. Since it doesn’t exclude her specifically, we can only assume it’s
a simple oversight.”

            “The paper says
he might have made the will when he wasn’t of sound mind or that he was under
duress. I can tell you he was perfectly sane and no one forced him to give me
the store. I didn’t even know he had until he’d passed away.” She tried not to
let her anger show at the suggestion of forcing Mr. Perrault to change his
will.

            “Well, I think
it’s best to let a court decide whether he meant to exclude his beloved niece,
Norma.” Mr. Crocket’s voice had gone steely.

            “Beloved? She
didn’t even know he was dead!”

            “Miss Augustine,
I suggest you retain a lawyer to present your case. You’re aware of the
petition to the court and if we can’t come to an agreement about the property,
then we’ll have to let a higher authority decide.”

            “The property.
It’s just a store. And I live above it. I mean, there’s another apartment but
the rent money only offsets the amount the store is losing…” Alice couldn’t
help stuttering.

            “The store may
not be worth much, but the property has been appraised at seven hundred
thousand dollars because of the parcel of property, the location, and the
historic nature of the building. If you’re willing to meet with us, my client
is amenable to being bought out from her share of the property. A third of the
appraised value would be sufficient.”

            Alice slumped
against the chair. This woman and her lawyer wanted a quarter million dollars
or they would take her to court to contest the will. “I don’t have that kind of
money.”

            “If the building
is sold, then the profits could be split evenly between you,” he suggested.

            “I won’t sell
the bookstore. Mr. Perrault left it to me.”

            “Well, again,
I’d advise you to hire a lawyer. Or you can take our offer. If the judge finds
in favor of my client, then you could be left with nothing.”

            Alice felt as if
she couldn’t breathe, as if the walls were closing in on her. Black spots
appeared in her vision. “Goodbye, Mr. Crocket,” she whispered and hung up. She
leaned over, whispering prayers learned in childhood, the French words coming
to her unbidden. God wouldn’t let someone take her store, would He? She’d lived
her life according to all His commandments, carefully guarding her eyes and her
heart, making her store a place of refuge from the gritty ugliness of the
modern world. Didn’t that count for anything?

            The
sound of the phone ringing so close to her head made Alice jump. The lawyer
might be calling her back to harass her into selling the store. Alice held her
breath, not making a sound, as if the person on the other end might sense she
was there.

            The
ringing stopped, and her own voice filled the room. Then there was a beep,
followed by an extremely loud sigh.

            “Alice,
pick up the phone. I know you’re there,” Eric said.

            She
grimaced. Why couldn’t he just leave a message like everyone else? Why did she
have to talk to him at eight in the morning?

            “Come
on, Alice. I called last night and left a message. It’s really your turn to
call me, but here I am, talking into the void.”

            Ouch.
That was right. She’d forgotten all about him.

            “I
hate your machine. I know you know that. Nobody uses them anymore. They cut you
off just as you’re―” Beeep!

            Alice
stood up, eyes wide, hand hovering over the receiver. Too late to pick up now,
and probably not a good time to call back. He’d be irritated with her for not
answering. She tried to tell herself that it was simply hard to pretend to be
bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. Truthfully, she just didn’t like
to talk to Eric on the phone. He had one of those personalities that was better
in person. Face to face, his rapid-fire speech and expressive voice was
entertaining. On the phone, he seemed bossy and off-putting. She’d text him
when she got downstairs and ask him to meet her for lunch. That would patch
things up. Plus, she could really use some advice. Eric was a dentist, not a
lawyer, but he might know what to do.