The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (5 page)

            Alice
took her mug of coffee and headed down the narrow, wooden stairs from her
apartment to the back of the shop. It was Friday and Charlie would be in soon,
because she had a half day of school on Friday. When she’d told Alice that she
wanted to apply to work in ScreenStop, it had hit Alice hard, right in the heart.
The lawyer’s letter was a kick to the same spot. Alice knew she might be
fighting a losing battle to keep her store, preserve their culture, and swim against
the rising tide of technology, but she couldn’t let any of it go. She was going
to encourage Charlie in every way that being Creole was important. It was
sacred. She’d speak French, even when Charlie answered in English. She’d remind
Charlie to be proud of what she’d been given by birth. If only Charlie would give
up the gaming and come back to what really mattered. Alice would explain it the
way Mr. Perrault had explained to her. Charlie would understand how much was at
stake. She had to.

                                                                        ***

            “All
ready?” Paul kept his voice as upbeat as possible.

            “Huh.”
Andy responded with a grunt. In the background of the call, Paul could hear
clanking and thuds. “With every item I pack, I ask myself again why we’re doing
this.”

            “Must
be a short answer. Or you’re not packing very quickly.”

            “I
don’t get any answer, so now I’m finished.” He heard Andy pull a long zipper.

            “You
don’t have to go,” Paul said. He wanted Andy to come to Natchitoches, but he
didn’t want his friend to feel miserable, either. It might be better if the CTO
just stayed in the big city.

            “Nope.
I’m in. Just questioning my own good judgment and your sanity. Did you get the
apartment lined up?”

            “We’re
seeing it this afternoon. Try not to look like a party animal,” Paul said.

            “I’ll
do my best ‘working stiff’ impression. And this place will be high tech, right?
We’re not going to be adjusting the rabbit ears to watch a game or playing on
an old Atari or something?”

            “It
may not be now, but it will be when I’m done with it,” Paul said, laughing a
bit. He was sure the place had cable. Well, actually not very sure. But they
could get a good gaming set up installed in a few hours. As soon as the lease
was signed, he’d have everything overnighted. He’d managed to get the building
permit shoved through faster than he’d ever dreamed possible. Surely he could
get the manager to install cable Internet service. “I’ve got to pack. The car
should be there to pick you up in about an hour. Meet you at the gate.”

            “You’d
better. Paul and Andy’s Excellent Creole Adventure is about to begin.”

            Paul
disconnected, but instead of starting to pack, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling
window. New York City teemed with bodies, noise, and choking exhaust fumes, but
that was far, far below the glass walls of Paul’s high rise bedroom. He stared
out at the skyline and wondered if he should just cancel the entire Cane River project.
He must be crazy to think of coming back to that backwater. Maybe Andy was
right. Was he making a bad business decision just to satisfy his ego? He took a
long moment to let the idea sit, and then he shook his head. No, Andy was only
partly right.

            Paul
headed to the walk-in closet, where he pulled a suitcase from the back. It was
true, he didn’t need to spend two months in Natchitoches. He could open the
store and fly in for the night, maybe two. His ego had everything to do with
dropping out of his life in New York City to show off to the people who used to
make him feel like trash. But he was certain it was a good business decision
and the store would be successful. He wanted to cram his rags-to-riches story
down a few throats, but he wasn’t stupid enough to throw away a million dollars
to do it.

            Paul
slid one of his favorite T-shirts into his suitcase and paused. It had been so
long since he’d been home, he wasn’t even sure what to wear. He grabbed another
shirt, a black one with a favorite band logo on the front. He had a closet of
nice suits he’d use for meetings and media events. The rest of the time, he
wouldn’t wear anything out of the usual. He knew better than anyone that
putting on a nice suit didn’t make you popular in Natchitoches. You had to
really
be
someone. Of course, there were different levels of being
“someone”. It was always better to be born someone than to work your way up,
but if you had enough money, sometimes you got a sort of honorary “someone”
status. It wasn’t always sincere, but you got to hang around with the old
families and eat dinner at their long dinner tables, and date their daughters,
just back from a few years in Europe or an Ivy League college. You were
tolerated, if you were rich enough, no matter which side of the river your
family came from in the beginning.

           
Tolerated.
He clenched his jaw at the thought and slammed another worn out T-shirt on the
pile. He wasn’t the skinny geek anymore. He had money, power, and influence on
his side. More than that, he was famous. Fame counted for everything these
days.

            He
threw in socks, underwear, and his favorite jeans, and zipped the case closed. He’d
hired Andy because he was the right guy for the job, but Andy was his best
friend because the guy didn’t care how many followers you had on Twitter or how
many likes your business page had on Facebook. Andy understood the real measure
of a man was wrapped up in faith, honor, and living above the standards of
world. He knew that the rest was all show, just numbers and bits of data
floating around in cyberspace, masquerading as reality.

            Paul
had learned to walk the fine line, to play the game. He played it so well, he’d
become the master, making millions in stock off the sheer popularity of his
name. When he wore a gray hoody, gray hoodies sold out. When he let himself be
photographed with an iPad, sales went through the roof. Paul knew how to work
the media, turning the Internet to his advantage, and he wasn’t going to let
that skill go to waste in Cane River.

            Sliding
into his desk chair, he brought up the ticket information again. Today he’d be
voluntarily stepping back into the place that had nothing but a few good
memories. His stomach dropped at the thought. Bringing up his email, he saw the
realtor was ready to show the apartment. She’d sent him a few pictures of the
inside. It wasn’t anything close to his penthouse suite, but Paul was satisfied.
He didn’t want anything from this century. He wanted to stay in one of those
historic homes with the twelve-foot ceilings adorned with vintage chandeliers,
and living rooms with exposed brick walls and enormous fireplaces. It spoke of
all the places he was denied when he was growing up. It was the kind of place
he’d never even have been allowed to tour, before he created ScreenStop and
made his fortune. And the historic district was perfect. Not because it was
close to the new site, but because it was where everything important happened.
Rich people lived, shopped, and hobnobbed there. The buildings were uniformly
old and showy. Paul could have rented the graceful wooden river house with the
wraparound porch for the whole two months, but he wanted this apartment. He
needed it. He was going to come back to Natchitoches as if he’d born in high
cotton, not dirt poor.

            He
leaned back and gazed at the photos of the enormous, sunny living room. He’d
outfit the place with a sixty inch TV, the best gaming system around, and turn
it into the techno bachelor pad he’d always dreamed of when he was fifteen. A
wide smile spread over his face. They say the best revenge is success. Well,
the wealthy snobs of Natchitoches better watch out. The day of reckoning was at
hand. In a few hours, Paul Olivier was coming back to town and nobody was going
to be able ignore him this time.

            Or
not.
Hope
springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest
,
Paul whispered to himself. Alexander Pope said it, but he also had a lot to say
about focusing on the good, instead of wasting energy on what couldn’t be
changed. Paul opened one of the cardboard boxes and searched through the
contents. He had just enough time to scan in a small volume of old poetry if he
was quick about it. As if in answer to his unspoken question, he saw a slim
volume of Alexander Pope poetry and essays.

            Removing
a box cutter from his drawer, he carefully cut each fragile page from the
rotting binding. As soon as he signed the lease, he’d have Mrs. Connors pack
these up and send them on. He didn’t want to neglect the community of readers
who waited for the next out-of-print book to pop up in their notifications.

            Paul
paused, his hands full of paper. There was nothing better than the smell of old
books. These poems reminded him of the miracle of words. They would have new life,
in ten thousand different hands. Instead of molding in the basement of an
apartment building, this book would be reincarnated in binary code, transferred
in terabytes across the country, and read around the world. Alexander Pope’s
Essay
on Man
would live again in a way it hadn’t lived before.

Any sufficiently advanced technology is

indistinguishable from magic. ― Arthur C.
Clarke

            “Can
I help you?” Alice approached the customer with a smile. It was rare to have
anyone in so early on a Saturday. The twenty-something woman with short curly
hair had the focused look of someone in search of a specific book. Alice held
out a hand and introduced herself.

             “Nice
to meet you. I’m Karen.” She glanced at the display of brand new hardbacks and
then around the rest of the store, her gaze settling on Van Winkle at the desk.
“Is that a cat or a really big paperweight?”

            Alice
had to smile. “Both, I’m afraid. He doesn’t move much so on windy days I just
tuck papers under his portly body.”

            Karen
giggled but it was cut short when she noticed Darcy on the top of the range.
“Oh, he gave me a start! He looks so…”

            “Severe?
Yes, he can be quite intimidating.” Alice hoped the girl wouldn’t notice any
more cats. Maybe she was allergic. Alice did have a sign in the window warning
people, but some might think the
resident attack cat
poster was a joke. She used a high-powered air filter and a top-notch vacuum to
keep hairballs to a minimum.

            “He’s
beautiful, even if he does look like he hates me,” Karen said. “Anyway, this is
the first time I’ve been in a book store in years. I usually order everything
online ‘cause I don’t have to search for it and it’s delivered right to my
house.”

            Alice
kept her smile in place. She heard some version of this a few times a week.
Everyone told her what great deals they found on Amazon. She wanted to tell
them that Amazon couldn’t find your book when you didn’t remember anything
except the author’s name started with a D and the cover had a seagull. But she
could.

            “Anyway,
I read this great book and I wanted to find the rest of the author’s stuff, but
it’s all…” Karen paused, as if searching for the right word. “Out of print, I
guess. And you have to buy them from little bookstores, but I don’t want to pay
shipping and I thought…” Her voice trailed off and she looked around the store,
as if wondering how she would ever find what she needed.

            “I’d
be happy to help,” Alice said, doing her best to ooze reassurance. “Who’s the
author?”

            “Um.”
Karen reached into her bag, grabbed a red, zippered notebook, and pulled out a
tablet. She turned it on, scrolled through a few pages, and then turned the
screen toward Alice. “Browning Wordsworth Keats”, she announced. “No, wait.
That’s not right.”

            Here
he was again, the mysterious BWK. Now he was actually bringing people into her
store, bless him. Alice said, “I think that’s the name of the man who’s posting
the book, not the author.”

            She
frowned. “Right. I knew that, I think.”

            “Can
I see the book?” Alice held out her hand, and the dark-eyed girl passed her the
e-reader. The cover was bright and clear like a photograph, but before she
could take it all in, Alice accidentally touched the screen and it was gone,
replaced by a line of books. “I’m sorry. I think I did something and lost the
page.”

            The
girl took it back with a smile. “You’ve never used one of these before? But, I
guess you wouldn’t need one. You have a whole bookstore.”

            “Exactly,”
Alice said, nodding.

            “My
grandpapa just got a tablet for his birthday and we set it up to handle e-books.
He didn’t think he’d like it, but his eyesight has gotten so bad that he pretty
much gave up reading. Even the large print wasn’t enough. He’d tried books on
tape and hated them. He said they all read so slowly.”

            “I
would think reading on a screen is harder, not easier,” Alice said.

            “Oh,
no.” The girl touched a few buttons and the font on the page enlarged. “He’s
read more books in the last week than he’s read in the last three years. He’s
so happy.”

            Alice
stared down at the page. Bix’s face popped into her mind. He’d just mentioned
how much he missed reading. “I didn’t know that they could do that,” she said.

            “Sure
can,” the girl said. She tapped it a few times and turned it back to Alice.
“Here it is.”

            “
Beau
Geste
,
by P.C. Wren.” Alice
tried not to look surprised. “We have quite a few of his stories, including the
sequels,
Beau Sabreur
and
Beau
Ideal
. They made several movies out of this one. I think
Gary Cooper played in one version.” She motioned her toward the far aisle. “Let
me show you.”

            As
the woman followed her down the row, Alice had a sudden thought. “Have you ever
been to the website run by Browning Wordsworth Keats?”

             “Sure,
but my friend May is on it a lot more. She loves old books. Her house is packed
with them. Not just the romances, but everything, like this one called
Tom
the Telephone Boy
, about a kid who runs the switchboard
in his town.” She laughed. “May keeps telling me to read it, but I don’t think
I’d understand half of it. Everything is so outdated.”

            Alice
nodded, even though Karen couldn’t see her face. “Even some of the kids’ books
from the sixties are sort of lost in translation.” She motioned to another
aisle. “We have the reissued
Encyclopedia Brown
books
and I loved those when I was little. But I had a lady come in, asking to return
them. Her grandson said a lot of the mysteries didn’t make sense anymore. With
cell phones, people can be reached night and day. Plus, you can Google anything
and there’s no reason to have a boy detective at all.”

            Karen
paused at the end of the aisle, reaching out to touch a book. “I know what she
means. I was a French major and liked the title of
Beau
Geste
, so I clicked on it, but the first chapter or so
was a real struggle. It wasn’t just the language, it was…” She stopped. “When
they’re puzzling out a murder and talking about breech-loading rifles and
bayonets, I could understand that. But it was when I realized the whole book
was wrapped around this idea of always doing what is right, even to the point
of sacrificing yourself for your family honor, I thought it just wasn’t the
kind of book I wanted right then. Not exactly light reading.” She turned,
smiling. “But I didn’t stop reading it. And now I’m looking for all the
others.”

            Alice
felt her smile widen in response. “If someone told you it was a book about
three brothers joining the Foreign Legion, fighting terrible battles, and the
main character dies in the end…”

            “No
way I’d ever read it,” Karen laughed. “But I’d already picked up
Tess
of the D’urbervilles
after I watched the movie, so I was
looking on the list for something else and…” She shrugged. “It wasn’t anything
like
Tess,
but I’m glad I read it.”

            “Let’s
find those sequels, then.” Alice started down the aisle and stopped near the
end, pointing to the middle shelf. “You’ll find all of Wren’s work here, and
some similar books. I’ll let you browse for a bit.”

            “Thank
you,” Karen said, already scanning the titles.

            Alice
walked slowly back to her desk. Her mind had been caught up in the lawyer’s
letter and for a moment it was hard for her to see how one new customer could
make a difference, but now she felt optimism rise in her. She wasn’t one to fan-girl
over anyone, except an author, but she just might make an exception for the
mysterious BWK.

            She
opened her laptop, and in a few clicks she was back on his site. There were a
hundred and fifty more comments on the thread she’d been reading a few days before,
and another forty people had joined the group dedicated to Gothic romances. She
clicked onto the About Me page and stared at his profile. She leaned closer,
noting the way his hand casually reached to straighten his loose tie. It was a
nice hand, with strong fingers and manicured nails. The slight beard stubble,
his tan skin, and the way the collar of his shirt was perfectly pressed, made
her think of an Italian mobster. But he was probably trying to channel someone cooler,
like Hugh Jackman in that really long movie about Australia.

            She
leaned back, absent-mindedly fiddling with the rings on her necklace. Either it
was a staged photo or the man had style and money. Money for the expensive
shirt and tie, style to pull it all together with a sly smile. Or it wasn’t
even him. BWK could be anyone, anywhere.

            Something
about that thought gave her courage and she hovered the mouse over the contact
button, and then finally clicked. There was an email address but any messages
probably just got some automated response. Alice chewed her bottom lip and then
quickly opened her email, pasting in the address. She didn’t know what to
write. She wasn’t even sure why she was writing him. But she felt compelled to
reach out, even knowing she must be one of literally hundreds of people wanting
to make a connection to this person.

           
Dear
Mr. (or Mrs.? Miss?) Keats,

            I’m
sure I’m one of thousands who feel the need to write and thank you for your
hard work. I can’t imagine the time and effort needed to create and maintain
this website, unless you have a dedicated team of assistants. No one solely
interested in monetary gain would give this much of his or her time.

            Alice
stared at the screen for a moment. That was enough. He didn’t need to know
anything about her and probably wouldn’t read it anyway. But she found herself continuing.

            I
own a bookstore dedicated to rare and classic books. I just met one of your
customers. She’d discovered
Beau Geste
and was looking for more of P.C. Wren’s work. I suppose you could say that I’m
writing to thank you for the sales. My shop is suffering and has been for a
long while, so this was a wonderful surprise on a usually quiet morning.

            I
wish everyone had access to real books, but if that’s not possible, I’m glad
they get a chance to experience them on a screen.

            If
there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.

          
Sincerely,

            Alice
Augustine

     
By the Book

        
Natchitoches, Louisiana

            Alice
pushed
send
before she could
change her mind. She really wasn’t one to send fan letters, but this was more
of a thank you note, really. Plus, nobody was on the other side of that email,
probably.

            “There
you are.” Eric’s voice made her jump in her chair. “Did you get my message?”

            Alice
turned, feeling her face flush with guilt. She closed her laptop and stood up,
catching her thigh painfully on the edge of the desk. “I’m so sorry! I forgot
to call you back.” She reached out to give him a big hug but he stepped back.

            “I
really feel like you’re ignoring me, Alice. Maybe I should ask you to pencil in
a few minutes on your calendar because just calling doesn’t seem to be working.
Maybe I should make an appointment.” Eric’s handsome face was devoid of any
humor.

            Alice
felt, to her horror, a laugh welling up. The stress of the legal problem and
the surprise of seeing him made her want to laugh. And she couldn’t force back
the realization that Eric sounded just like a girl she was friends with when
she was little. Well, not really friends, because Lorinda nagged her
incessantly so that their play times always went exactly as she wanted.

            “You
think this is funny? I’m not kidding.” Now his arms were crossed and he was
giving her a look of total outrage.

            “I’m
sorry. I’m―” Alice covered her face for a moment and tried to get
control. Eric was a nice guy. She really shouldn’t be laughing at his very
understandable pique. “I had a shock this morning.”

            “Excuse
me, I think I have everything I want.” Karen’s soft voice interrupted the tense
moment and Alice stepped to the side.

            “Come
right over here to the register.” She motioned toward the long counter where
Charlie usually sat on a stool. Karen crossed the tile floor, glancing back at
them.

            “I’m
sorry,” Alice whispered, reaching up on tiptoes to give Eric a kiss. “Come back
at lunch time and I’ll leave Charlie in charge for a bit. We can go grab a
sandwich at Babet’s Cafe. I need your advice on something.”