The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (9 page)

            He
shook his head, half-turning “You wouldn’t believe me. And there’s nothing I
can say to convince you. I’ve met people like you before. Stuck in the past,
refusing to move into the modern world. I could quote the greatest minds of the
past century and you’d still believe technology was a curse.”

            Alice
crossed her arms. “Give me one. And not a scientist. Give me a great mind,
someone who wrote something I might actually have read.”

            “Alexander
Pope. ‘Be not the first by whom the new are tried, not yet the last to lay the
old aside’.” He gave her a look of triumph.

            It
was strange to hear that name just hours after seeing it in an email. Alice
shrugged. “That’s hardly a ringing endorsement. Sounds cautionary to me.”

             “I’ve
met dozens of bookstore owners like you. I know how you think. Even if I did
explain what I was doing, you wouldn’t approve because these books should be
treated like the rarest treasures. Nothing else matters and you’ll do anything
to inhibit progress.”

            Alice
let that sink in. She wasn’t sure what was offensive about his statement. She’d
had her share of being overlooked, especially by handsome men. Maybe it was because
it made her sound so common, so bland. Resisting the urge to order him from the
store, she said, “I can’t imagine that you know how I think. We’re nothing
alike. You’re obviously some type of mid-level manager who wants a few pretty
editions on your office shelf to impress the visitors.” She paused. “Except you
smell like you’ve been rolling in old books.”

            He
stood motionless for a moment, a look of disbelief on his face. “Mid-level
manager? Is that your best insult?”

             “It’s
just a guess. But although you say you know everything about me, all you did
was point out the fact my store doesn’t sell trinkets. So, tell me what I am,
if you’ve met dozens of me.”

            He
blinked, as if not sure what to say. Then he shrugged. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”
He turned and walked back down the aisle, headed for her desk. “You have a
laptop, but I bet you only use it at work. You probably live close by in a
little apartment that’s stuck in the last century. You don’t own a television. You
might have a cell phone but you don’t use it.”

            He
ignored her little sound of objection and walked to her desk, standing over her
workspace. He pointed to her fountain pen, her mint green rotary phone, and Van
Winkle. “You still write letters, and only email when you have to. You think
people who play computer games are wasting their lives and losing brain cells.
You probably believe the world is going to hell in a hand basket because of
technology. If you could jump back in time a hundred years, you would be
perfectly at home in a world without any technology at all.”

            He
was perfectly controlled, but Alice could see the anger flashing in his eyes. “You
think it was more civilized, more humane, more genteel back then, and that
people like you are the only reason the earth is still turning. You’re proud
you didn’t drink the Kool-Aid like the rest of the deluded population. You’re
on a mission to turn back the clock. Only difference between you and the last
ten booksellers I’ve met is that you’re young and beautiful, but give it
another forty years and a few more cats and ―”

            “Just
hold on,” Alice interrupted. A little bit of her was replaying the ‘young and
beautiful’ part, but the rest of her didn’t care what he thought would happen
after another forty years. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t
believe you march into a bookstore, insult the owner, and still expect to walk
away with rare books.”

            He
pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment as if he were
counting in his head. Alice hoped she was giving him a headache. She’d never
been so put off by a customer in her life. Her brothers had been urging her to
carry mace in case someone broke in and attacked her. If only she’d listened.
Nothing would have been more satisfying than to wave the little canister in his
face and ask him to repeat that part about the cats.

            “They
don’t have to be rare. Just old.” His voice was calm. He looked up and Alice
knew he was waiting for her to ask him to explain again. She pressed her lips
together. She hated riddles but she didn’t want to be the one to give in. There
were at a standoff.

            There
was a rustle from the stacks of paperbacks and Mrs. Gaskell walked between
them, tail high, ears twitching.

            “Oh,
and I bet your cat is named Darcy,” he said. “Book owners always name their
pets after characters.”

            All
the arguments she had been forming fled her brain and she felt her face go hot.
“It’s a she, actually.” Darcy was perched not four feet above this man’s head
but she wasn’t going to tell him that. But the cat had heard his name and for
the first time in his life, decided to respond to it. He let out a low meow and
jumped to the carpet between them.

            The
man shot a look at her as Darcy sauntered away.

            “Jane
Eyre?”

            “No.”

            A
whisper of sound made him turn his head, but Alice stood stock still. Maybe if
she didn’t move, Jane Eyre would go back into hiding. The next moment, the
striped tabby stepped from between a row of books and put her nose to the man’s
pant leg. He cocked his head and a small smile touched his lips.

            “Mr.
Rochester? Everybody loves him. Crazy wife in the attic and all.”

            “No.”
She wanted to keep him from guessing but couldn’t figure out whether to push
him toward the poetry or out the door. A movement drew her gaze and Alice
couldn’t believe her eyes as Mr. Rochester took up a position at the end of the
row. His tattered ear was even uglier in the bright sunlight, and he looked
mangy and old. Something in her expression made the man turn around and his
smile spread into a grin. Then he went back to guessing.

             “Elizabeth?
Mrs. Bennet?”

            “No
and no. We weren’t talking about my cats. We were―”

            “Just
how many cats do you have?” He sounded simultaneously amused and alarmed as
Miss Elizabeth padded over, her eyes bright with excitement, Mrs. Bennet
following right behind her.

            “Not
that many,” Alice exclaimed. Her cats had never once responded to her, even for
breakfast. They came when they wanted, as if they owned the building and she
was just living at their convenience. But they all seemed to know it was time
to visit the obnoxious know-it-all customer today and prove how truly odd Alice
was.

            “It’s
from a romance. Definitely something made into a BBC movie. Let me think.” He put
a finger to his chin and pretended to consider it, but cracked an
almost-suppressed smile. If she hadn’t been so irritated, she would have let
herself admire him a little more.

            “It
could be from a horror novel for all you know.”

            “You’re
a romantic,” he said. “Look at the size of your poetry section.”

            She
couldn’t think of a word to say. She’d been called a lot of things. Odd, weird,
reclusive, introverted, quiet. She’d even been called impossible to please by a
few boyfriends. Just last week, Eric called her stubborn because she refused to
trade in her perfectly nice car for something newer. But no one had ever called
her a romantic. And she was, to her very core, a romantic.

            Every
relationship she’d ever had was doomed from the start because the men couldn’t
measure up to her book heroes. She wanted a Darcy, a Rochester, a Thornton, a
Colonel Brandon, a Captain Wentworth. Alice couldn’t change that fact, no
matter how much she tried. This dark secret fueled her fear that she would
never find true love, never marry. Now this stranger stood there describing her
so perfectly, it felt like someone had peeled back a layer of her skin and
exposed her very heart beating within her chest.

            “Her
name is Mrs. Gaskell,” she whispered.

            He
snapped his fingers. “Right! The author of
North and South
.
Richard Armitage as the cotton mill owner.” He glanced at her face and the
smile faded away. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, his voice no
longer teasing.

            Alice
looked at her feet. The whole day had been a disaster and it wasn’t even noon.
She’d flirted ridiculously online, accused a customer of book abuse, been
called the early version of a crazy cat lady, and now she was going to sell
this man some books even though she really, really wished he’d just go away.
She lifted her head to tell him to choose what he wanted, but she couldn’t seem
to get the words past the ache in her throat.

            He
seemed uncomfortable now. “About the books, they’ll be read and enjoyed, I
promise,” he said. He cleared his throat, as if waiting for her to continue the
argument. She stayed silent. There was something like tenderness in his eyes as
he said, “They’re not for me.”

            She
nodded. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. Some of these books have been in
Cane River families for generations. They were passed down from father to son,
from mother to daughter. These aren’t just books. They’re part of our city
history, and I won’t allow someone to destroy them. I know you think that’s
backwards and silly.”

             He
dropped his head, leaving his face shadowed again. “I shouldn’t have said that.
I was just surprised by your questions.”

            Alice
tried to pull herself together. “I don’t know why you would be. You’ve met lots
of people just like me before, right?” She pointed toward the poetry section. “Help
yourself. I’m sorry I made this difficult for you.” She heard the softness in
her voice, the little waver at the end of her words, and hated it.

            He
paused, as if searching for something else to say, then shook his head. He
walked away, leaving Alice alone.

            She
dropped into her chair and stared at the top of her desk, watching Van Winkle’s
chest rise and fall with every breath as he slept. She had always thought of
herself as a complex, intricate person, woven together of all the complicated
characters she’d ever read and re-read. She considered herself part Creole
woman raised by an old woman who was too tired to really bother with an angry
teen girl and part Mr. Perrault’s living depository of book knowledge. Her past
was bright college-girl freedom and her present was working-woman worries. She
was a dedicated hometown girl and the historic district business owner who
always felt as if she’d lucked into her life. But no matter what she’d always
thought of herself, maybe she really was just someone who was afraid to join
the real world. Her romantic nature seemed charming in this little place, but
to the rest of the population, she was a nut job.

            She
rested her chin in both hands and thought about the picture she’d sent Browning
Wordsworth Keats. How desperate she must have looked, sending him a picture of
her shelf. He probably brushed it off. She was nobody to him and he certainly
wouldn’t give it a second glance.

            It
shouldn’t matter, but it did, because Alice knew her own heart. She’d taken out
the cell phone she never used, took her first mobile photo, sent it to herself
on email and then on to him. That was a lot of trouble for a man who didn’t
even give out his real name. It was a whole lot more trouble than she took for
the man she was actually dating.

            As
if called by her thoughts, there was a jingling at the door and Eric stepped
through. Alice stood up, forcing a smile. It seemed impossible that she could
have forgotten that they had a date, yet again.

             As
bad as this day was going, it was about to get worse. She had to tell him the
truth. They weren’t meant to be together. He was better off with someone who
could remember he existed.

Technological society has succeeded
in multiplying the opportunities for pleasure,

but it has great difficulty in
generating joy. ― Pope Paul VI

            Paul
stood with an old leather book in his hands, cracked open to a random page, his
gaze unfocused on the words. He’d only planned to pop into the store long
enough to take the measure of her and then go on to meet the realtor. He
couldn’t have predicted how his plan would go. The little book he’d scanned on
the plane left enough book dust behind that she’d noticed. His mind flashed to
the moment she’d stepped forward, put her face in his shirt, then grabbed his
hand and smelled his palm. He choked back a laugh at the memory. He’d never
been manhandled by a bookstore owner before and he had to admit he hadn’t
minded a bit. She must have superhuman olfactory senses along with those green
eyes and perfect skin. But it wasn’t just that she surprised him by asking what
he was doing with the books, or even that she’d smelled it on him in the first
place. It wasn’t the uncannily astute questions or the whirlwind of the
conversation, either. It was that she was ten times prettier than her pictures and
a hundred times more captivating than any of those little notes.

            He
knew he’d been treading on thin ice this morning but now he was in genuine
trouble. Of all the women he’d ever known, Paul had never been so instantly
smitten. He wanted to know everything about her life here, ask her about those
rings she wore on that necklace, ask her opinion on all his favorite books, and
he especially wanted to impress the socks off her. Which would be pretty
difficult now that he’d insulted her to her face.

            Paul
slammed the book closed and didn’t bother to open the next. He’d acted like a
complete jerk, implying she would die alone and surrounded by cats. He’d never
been the smoothest guy in the room but this was a new low, even for him. Maybe
his manners had sunk to that level without him noticing because most people
cared more about his money and name, rather than whether or not he was decent
human being. Andy would have told him to shut up if he’d been here, but Paul
had sent him on an errand at the opposite end of the city so he could make this
trip in secret. That was his first mistake.

            Shame
made his neck go hot. He needed to apologize. Whether or not they ever wrote
each other again, whether or not she helped him find books he needed, whether
or not they ever had another conversation. His conscience burned at the memory
of the things he’d said. His mother hadn’t raised him to speak like that to
anyone, especially a woman.

            He
trudged down the aisle toward the little desk, forming his apology in his mind.
He stopped short at the end of the range by the sight of Alice planting a kiss
on a man’s mouth. The man turned and gave him a look of surprise, which Paul
was sure matched his own expression. He hadn’t expected Alice to have a
boyfriend although she’d never said she didn’t. Paul swept a look from the
man’s blond head to his too-tight polo shirt to his tasseled loafers.

            “Are
you ready?” Alice came toward him, holding out her hand. Her cheeks looked pink
but she didn’t have the glow of a woman in love. She seemed under stress,
anxious.

            But
of course she was. Paul was still in her store. She probably thought he was
going to launch into another litany of insults. “Almost. I was wondering if you
had a few more books I need.”

            The
blond man let out a deep sigh. “Where’s Charlie? You promised she’d be here and
we’d go to lunch. I know I didn’t imagine that.” His voice was bordering on
whiney and it grated on Paul’s nerves.

            Paul
saw the little grimace Alice made, but she recovered quickly and turned back
with a smile. “Sorry, Eric. She’ll be here in a few minutes. I think you’re
early. We said noon, right?”

            Eric
shrugged. “Okay, but if we say noon for lunch, that means I come down here at
eleven forty-five so we can get to the restaurant in time.”

            “Oh,
did you make a reservation somewhere? How thoughtful.” Alice’s voice was a
little too sweet. Her sarcasm said this guy wasn’t the type to bother with
making a reservation at a nice place on a Friday at noon, but he wasn’t above
whining when his plans got bumped.

            She
was half-turning back to Paul when Eric stumbled out a denial. “No, but I have
patients waiting on me. You don’t even have customers, usually. You could close
and no one would even notice.”

            “I
guess I would notice,” Paul said. He shouldn’t get involved but the man was
talking as if Paul didn’t exist, even though they stood less than five feet
apart. Paul was trying hard to keep a straight face. This couple was in the
last stages of a relationship. They’d probably been together for years and
years, clinging to the comfort of old arguments. He glanced at Alice, saw surprise
in her eyes. She deserved better than this too-tight-polo-and-loafer guy.

            Eric
gave him a once over, letting his eyes rest on Paul’s favorite Converse shoes
and then turned back to Alice, as if Paul hadn’t spoken. “Maybe you could call
Charlie. I bet
she
answers her phone.”

            Ouch.
The snide comment made Paul’s offhand remark seem even more pointed. He saw
Alice’s face go red and he regretted ever having said those words. He stepped
toward Alice, holding up the book. “I’m sorry to keep you. If you need to
leave, I can come back later.”

            Alice
bit her lip, glanced at the poetry books and then at Eric, as if mentally
calculating how much it was worth to keep her boyfriend happy. “Well, maybe you
should…”

            “Or
maybe I’ll just buy these if you don’t have the others I need,” Paul said. “It
would take just a second to check your inventory, right?”

            Eric
made another noise and walked to Alice’s desk, slumping down in her chair.
Alice kept her eyes straight ahead but her face went tight. Paul felt her
frustration, being caught between the rudest customer she’d probably ever met
and the boyfriend she apparently couldn’t stand.     

            “What
are you looking for exactly?” she asked. “I’m afraid we don’t have much more
poetry than what you saw in that section.”

            The
weariness in her voice triggered something in Paul, and he made a decision
without really thinking it through. “I’m looking for a present. This person is
a collector, has almost everything. I need something really impressive. Doesn’t
matter what.”

            Alice
frowned. “It should matter if they’re a collector. Have you ever seen their
shelves? Maybe you have some idea―”

            “Nope.
And don’t worry, I won’t come back and return it if he doesn’t like it,” Paul
said. “But if you have something rare and valuable, I think that would be
best.”

            “Eleven
fifty-two,” Eric intoned from the desk chair.

            Alice
closed her eyes briefly and Paul wondered if she was going to tell Eric to get
out. Instead, she nodded. “I’ll show you where we keep our most valuable
editions,” she said, and she led Paul toward the far side of the store, through
a little doorway. There stood wall-to-wall cabinets, all climate-controlled.
Paul peered into one case and was momentarily speechless. He didn’t expect this
little shop to have a treasure-trove of rare books that would put his own
collection to shame. He thought back to the front of the store and wondered why
she had no security system, no cameras, no alarms. She was asking to be robbed
of she didn’t take more precautions. But it all sort of fit with her refusal to
join the modern world.

            “
A
Farewell to Arms
. Signed?” Paul didn’t need a signed
copy and he didn’t really like Hemingway. But he knew how much that little book
cost. He’d seen one in a bookstore in New York City for close to twenty
thousand dollars. “
Cat’s Cradle
.
I don’t think he has any Kurt Vonnegut.”

            He
moved to the next cabinet without waiting for her to answer. “You have a lot of
children’s books,” he said, almost to himself.

             “The
previous owner, Mr. Perrault, had always wanted children but he and his wife
were never blessed with any. “ Alice came to stand beside him and turned, eyes bright.
“Would you like to see my favorite?” Paul nodded. If she had asked him to step
off a cliff, he might have agreed. She took a small key from a bracelet around
her wrist and opened a low display case.

            She
quickly tugged on a pair of white cotton gloves and brought out a cream-colored
box. Inside was an artist’s portfolio. Leaning over, the rings on her necklace
swung forward and he could see they were plain gold bands in two different
sizes. She untied the ribbons and moved close to him so he could see. “It’s not
really a book, but rather the pictures to a book.
Little
White Bird
, by J.M. Barrie, was illustrated by―”

            “Arthur
Rackham,” Paul breathed. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Vellum
gilt-edged pages, perfectly engraved plates of full-sized watercolors.

            “Only
twenty were signed even though the publisher had planned for hundreds. As far
as we know, there are only twenty total.” Alice sighed. “Probably money
issues.”

            “I’ll
take this one,” he said. “This will be perfect.”

            Alice
opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She looked conflicted. “I hate to
tell you this, but the price is more than a new car. It’s a very rare
portfolio.”        

            “I’m
sure it’s fine,” he said, smiling.

             “It’s
almost sixty thousand dollars,” she said, already moving to put the folio back
in the box.

            “I’ll
take it,” he said. He wasn’t trying to impress her with his wealth but he felt
great satisfaction in knowing that buying this piece would make up for being a
real jerk earlier. “I think my friend will really like it.”

            Her
hand stilled on the papers. He wondered if she’d hoped to save it for her own
children, but then he figured she would have put it aside. Unless she couldn’t
afford to put it aside for her future children when her store was suffering.
Paul blew out a breath. He didn’t know which way to go with this woman. It
seemed whatever he did was wrong.

            “Sorry,
I probably seem like I don’t want to sell you a single thing in this store,”
she said, rushing her words out. “I’m just surprised.” She glanced at him,
smiling a little. “Not many people can buy a first edition like this. Let me
get this wrapped back up in its box back to the register.”

            “Thank
you,” he said, feeling his shoulders relax. Maybe meeting him wasn’t a complete
disaster on her side. Money didn’t solve everything but it sure helped soften
the blow. He glanced around the small room, unsure if they would get another
chance to speak alone. He cleared his throat, feeling more nervous than he had
in a long time. “And I wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you
earlier.”

            She
looked up, meeting his gaze directly. “Don’t be. You were right.” Sadness
touched her eyes. “Everything you said was right.”

            He
let out a short laugh. “Not everything, surely.”

            She
nodded. “Especially the part about―”

            A
teen girl with long blond hair came in at a trot, already talking before she
was through the doorway. “Hey, Miss Alice! Why is Darcy down from his spot? Did
you get the broom?”

            “Darcy?”
Paul asked. “I thought you didn’t have a cat named Darcy.”

            “No,
I said that
particular
cat wasn’t named Darcy,” Alice responded, her
lips tugging up.

            “You
would have made a good lawyer,” he said.

            “Oh,
my gosh,” breathed the teenage girl. She came forward slowly, blue eyes wide.
“Are you Paul Olivier?”

            “Yes,
I am.” He smiled and held out his hand.

            She
grasped it, shaking it reverently. “Wow,” she said. “Just… wow. I never thought
I’d meet you. I’m Charlie Soule. I’m, like, your biggest fan ever.”

            Alice
stared from one to the other. “Are you an actor? I’m sorry, maybe I should have
recognized you. I don’t watch TV.”

            He
let Charlie’s hand go and smiled. “I’m not on TV. And I should have introduced
myself but I think we started off on the wrong foot.”

            “No,
it was my fault.” Alice put down the little box and took off her gloves. She
held out her hand. “I’m Alice Augustine. Let’s pretend we just met. I’ll have
better manners and you can buy anything in my store that you want.”

            He
reached out and took her hand, feeling the softness of her palm against his.
For just a moment, Paul forgot all about the portfolio and the argument and the
teen girl watching them. And he forgot especially about the long-term boyfriend
sitting at Alice’s desk.