The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (6 page)

            Eric
shook his head and for a moment Alice thought he was going to walk away from
her in anger. “Okay, but don’t forget. I have a root canal scheduled for two
this afternoon and I can’t be late.” He softened, leaning his blond head
towards hers. “I’ll meet you and we can walk over. It’s such a beautiful day.”

            She
gave him another quick kiss and whispered, “Promise.”

            As
he went out the door, Alice wondered at the way he hadn’t asked about what had
shocked her, or what she needed to tell him. She thought of how many times
she’d forgotten to call him. She liked Eric and enjoyed his company when she
wasn’t feeling guilty about forgetting him. But something was wrong, either
with her heart or with him.

If it keeps up, man will atrophy
all his limbs but the push button finger.

―Frank Lloyd Wright

            Paul
settled back in the leather reclining seat and did his best to ignore the fact
they were no longer in contact with the earth. He closed his eyes and let out
long, slow breaths. His doctor had offered to prescribe a mild sedative but
Paul didn’t like the idea of taking a pill just because he couldn’t handle his
fears. His mama had asked him to get the jet blessed by a priest but he never
had. Now he was wondering about the wisdom of that oversight. At least he’d
been to confession recently. Flying was a good way to keep himself on the
straight and narrow. He really didn’t want to die in a state of sin. No matter
how many times he got on a plane, he still felt the scrabble of panic in his
throat as they made the slow climb into the clouds.

            “You
know, if you had a few beers before we got on the flight, you wouldn’t have to
do the Lamaze routine every time,” Andy said.

            “I
don’t like to self-medicate,” Paul muttered. A beer was only a beer… until it
wasn’t. His mama once told him his absent father liked to drink too much, so he’d
always been wary of needing a beer for anything, even flying. His mind flashed
to his mama’s face and he smiled. As soon as he’d been able, he’d moved her out
of Natchitoches. Only a few hours from her sisters, she lived in a big farmhouse
on the edge of a small lake. Swans drifted across the surface and when the sun
set, it was like something from a calendar. He was proud of a lot of things,
but being able to buy his mother her dream retirement property was one of his
proudest moments. It would be nice to be closer than New York City, if only for
a few months.

            The
plane seemed to level off a little and Paul opened his eyes. Andy was scanning
reports from the marketing department, eyes narrowed, deep in thought. Andy
called himself lazy, but everyone knew that was a lie. The guy never stopped
working, something Paul appreciated in a business partner. He had a hard time
going on vacation himself, so the two of them were well matched.

            He
flipped open his laptop and set it on the table in front of him. Some of the perks
of having his own plane were not having to worry about losing his internet
connection, or fighting for space or trying to tune out loud passengers. There
was a theater room in the back but Paul hardly used it unless they had guests.
He and Andy both usually worked through the flight. Paul wasn’t sure if that
made them dedicated or just boring.

            He
flipped through a few project overviews but couldn’t focus. He felt like a kid
on his first day of school, and that had never been a good thing. He logged onto
Browning Wordsworth Keats and tried not to groan at the number of messages. But
answering a few was better than nothing. He’d been trying to work from the
bottom, but this time he clicked on the newest. A thank you note. Another thank
you note. A complaint over the violence in a book on the African Safari.
Another thank you… from Natchitoches?

            Paul
sat up with a snap. She owned a bookstore, offering him help. Interesting. He
had people offer to send him boxes of old books, but he didn’t want to sort
through and then find a safe place for the vintage volumes if they weren’t what
he needed. But a book store… full of rare books. A slow smile spread over his
face as he typed his answer.

           
Dear
Mrs. (Miss? Ms.?) Augustine,

      
     I’m glad your customer has discovered the glory of
Beau
Geste
.
It was my favorite book when I was twelve. I didn’t appreciate John’s beau
geste as well as I should have. I always thought he deserved to live and have a
happy ending. Call me a romantic.

            Thank
you for your offer. I do need assistance now and then. Some of these books are
hard to track down, as I’m sure you understand. In fact, now that I think of
it, would you have a copy of
The Duke’s Secret
for a fair price? If you do, I can arrange to have someone pick it up.

            Sincerely,

                        Browning
Wordsworth Keats (Mr.)  

            He
pushed
send
and went to the next
email. Complaint. Request. Thank you. Thank you. Request. He paused, rubbing
his eyes. Even as fast as he answered, his inbox filled faster. He wondered
exactly how fast and hit
refresh
.
Another message appeared. He refreshed again and watched the numbers climb.
After a few minutes he figured it at a minimum of ten per hour. He shook his
head, refreshing one more time.

            The
bookseller had responded and he leaned forward, mouse hovering. He hadn’t
thought to specify a price. Would she quote him an outrageous figure? Savvy
businessmen always inflated the price when there was demand. Paul clicked on it.

           
Dear
Mr. Keats,

            I
do happen to have a copy of
The Duke’s Secret
.
The price is three dollars because the condition is somewhere between neglected
and deplorable. It has a lovely cover and is still legible, though. I’ve put it
behind the counter for you (or your friend).

            I’m
sure you fend off many unwanted requests and demands but I was wondering if you
could answer a personal question. Is that you in the fedora? If so, is that
your bookshelf in the background? Forgive me for being a nosy parker but I
believe you can tell a lot about a person by their bookshelves. Even
(especially?) if they own a whole building full of them.

            Alice
Augustine (Miss)

   
        Paul grinned. Three dollars. He flipped to the picture of himself on
the website and squinted, trying to see which of his books appeared in the
background. A sinking feeling filled his stomach. A few old textbooks, programming
guides,
Watership Down
,
Brave
New World
, a Ray Bradbury collection, the Steve Jobs
biography, a Neil Gaiman book for children,
1984
,
a favorite book of poetry so slender you couldn’t read the title,
Dune
,
a collection of Flannery O’Connor short stories,
Fahrenheit
451
,
Wordsworth’s poetry, a lot of Jules Verne,
Peter Pan in
Kensington
Gardens
.
But at the end, a history book about the Creole people of Cane River and a fat video
game programming manual were side by side. He’d written the manual with two
other programmers and his name was clear as day on the spine. If anyone had any
right to suspect that Browning Wordsworth Keats was Paul Olivier, video game
programmer raised in Natchitoches, that was pretty strong evidence.

            No
one had asked Paul about the books in the picture before. Not the thousands of
visitors who came for the message boards, not the hundreds who emailed. He
frowned, considering, then decided it didn’t matter much. No one had any reason
to link him to the site. Paul Olivier was a man who spent his waking hours
shaping the online gaming world. Browning Wordsworth Keats dedicated his life
to giving new life to obscure classic literature. Not even Sherlock could piece
that puzzle together.

           
Dear
Miss Augustine,

            Indeed,
that is Browning Wordsworth Keats in the fedora and my books on the shelf. It
must strike horror in you to see such disorganization. I wish I had kept all
the books I’ve ever loved, but for some reason, there are only a few hundred
that have followed me through college to my adult life. I only have three from
my own childhood, and they were my grandfather’s. Zane Gray had a baseball
series and I have
The
Shortstop, The
Redheaded Outfielder
, and
The Young Pitcher
.
With dust jackets. Just holding them in my hands makes me happy.

            Your
bookish friend

            The
air pressure made his ears ache and Paul reached for a pack of gum. After a few
seconds of chewing, he felt his ears pop and he settled back in his chair. Andy
was focused so intently on his work he didn’t even glance up.

            Paul
opened a few more emails, sent a note back about Hardy Boys books being under
copyright, and searched for a website for By the Book. There was nothing, not
even a holding place for a website someday. Other mentions came up under her
name, though. Pictures of fundraisers, a tax levy protest, a charity drive for
the historical district. Paul blinked at the photos. Alice Augustine was about
forty-five years younger than he’d figured. And pretty. Very pretty in that way
that women are when they don’t try to change too much about their hair and
face. She looked slightly uncomfortable in most pictures, but there were a few
that made him lean forward and look closely. In one, she was handing a sandbag
to a pair of hands belonging to a person outside the frame. Her hair was pulled
back, long curls flying around her face, rain soaking her jeans, both feet
planted in several inches of mud. She looked intense, focused. He would not
have pegged this woman for a bookstore owner. She looked like she would be more
at home as a karate instructor. No, something outdoors. Landscaper? He could
see her creating beauty and change from the boggy river land.

            Paul
caught himself at those last vague images and grimaced. He’d always been a
sucker for the brainy girls. Especially the pretty, brainy girls. But he wasn’t
a kid anymore. He had enough on his plate without crushing on a bookstore
owner. Plus, as part of the Natchitoches elite, she was one of those people
that wouldn’t have spared a glance for him or his mama, way back when. He
closed the page and went back to his email. There was another message from
Alice.

           
Dear
Mr. Keats,

            I
don’t come from a book-loving family so there are no special literary treasures
from my grandparents, but I did inherit a whole store from my dearest friend
Mr. Perrault. I stomped into his store, an angry teen know-it-all, and demanded
he rearrange a whole section. He answered me with smile, gave me free reign to
rearrange as I saw fit, and offered me a beanbag in a sunlit corner for as many
hours as I needed.

 
          When I was in college, I asked Mr. Perrault why he didn’t tell me to
get on out of his store. He said, “Anyone who is that passionate about books
should be welcomed. I knew I had found a kindred spirit.”

            He
was a wonderful man, Mr. Perrault.

            Your
friend,

                        Alice

P.S.
I know what you’re going to ask. What did I find so offensive about his poetry
section? I’ll just say… it’s related to the leather volume of poetry between
The
Graveyard Book
(you know Gaiman wrote that as a modern
day
Jungle
Book
?) and the Flannery O’Connor stories (I’ve never understood her, I’m sorry,
I’ve tried). I’m assuming the Browning in your name is not for the Mr., but
rather the Mrs.

P.P.S.
We have a few book friends in common but your shelf is much heavier on the
science fiction. Also, I’m confused by the video game programming manual. Do
you share shelf space with another person? That would be the true test of a
friendship. I wonder what that’s like, to be able to intimately mix your books
so casually. I find my shelves to be very personal property.

            In
two years, no one had come close to discovering anything about him. But in
three short letters, Alice figured out more than his most dedicated fan club
member.

            The
plane hummed along, the top of the clouds bright beyond the windows of the
cabin. Andy was in the zone, not bothering to look up from his work. The
steward sat reading at the entry to the cockpit. Paul looked around, unsure of
whether to trust what he was reading. Could Alice have figured this out from a
picture? Or she was someone he had once known in Natchitoches but didn’t
remember. Maybe she was teasing him, stringing him along. Maybe she wanted to
draw him into a friendship with her tender tales of inheriting a bookstore from
an old man, inviting confidences until she trapped him into exposing his
identity to the world.

            Paul
raked his hands through his hair. Some days he hated his life. Everyone wanted
money and power but it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. You never know
whether you’re making a friend or an enemy. He stared at the words on the
screen, then flipped back to Alice’s photo. She looked like a woman who didn’t
care about power. But pictures were deceiving. There was no way to find out
whether someone was lying to you, not really. Online, his intuition was non-existent.
Not that he was much better in real life. He’d been taken too many times,
fallen for so many sob stories, and believed what turned out to be blatant lies,
until finally, he’d learned. Be cautious. Slow down. Expect the worst.