Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “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 liter
ary 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.

  The jet went through a large cloud and for a moment the sunlight in the cabin dimmed. Paul looked back at the screen. He didn’t want to see everyone as a threat. He understood why Mr. Perrault had reacted that way. He wanted to believe there were kindred spirits waiting to stomp into his life and demand that he rearrange something he’d already figured out.

  Dear Alice,

  Mr. Perrault was very wise. Passionate readers are rare and we must stick together. (To be clear, I say we’re different than “the bookful blockhead, ignorantly read with loads of learned lumber in his head” that Alexander Pope described.)

  The books are all mine. I haven’t met the right person to share shelf space with, I suppose. I agree that it’s a very personal decision and it brings up a conundrum. If you’ve fallen in love with someone and decide to live out your lives in happily wedded bliss, but then realize your books can’t coexist on a shelf, does that spell the end of your relationship? I think I would spring for separate book cases but I fear for those ardent readers with limited space and means. Perhaps the real cause of divorce is lack of shelf space? This needs to be studied at a higher level.

  Yes to science fiction. I don’t think I read outside the genre from the ages of ten to twenty-five. It has served me well. And I admit I’m disappointed in your lack of appreciation for Miss Flannery. Have you read any of her letters? Maybe some background into her daily life would help. The Graveyard Book was the first new children’s book I loved as an adult. There have been others since then, but that was the first.

  As for that book you spotted, The Seraphim and Other Poems was the first collection she published under her own name but I have other reasons for liking it. Now I have to know how my Elizabeth Barrett Browning is tied to your youthful outrage in Mr. Perrault’s poetry section.

  Your friend,

  Browning Wordsworth Keats

  Paul pushed send, set the laptop on the table and stood. He didn’t mention the gaming manual and he wondered if she would notice. The six wings of the seraph in the logo of ScreenStop came from the title of that book she’d just pointed out. But nobody knew that except for him. Most people thought it was just a cool design, with two large wings crossed at the top, two to the side, and two crossed at the bottom. It made him nervous to dance around such a large clue, but Alice honestly seemed interested in the books, and not in his identity. He didn’t mind letting slip the fact he wasn’t married. She didn’t seem the type to want an online romance. Just the opposite, really. She would be someone who would insist on face-to-face communication.

  He watched the mist outside fade away as the jet slowly descended through the clouds. As soon as the jet landed, someone would spot the ScreenStop logo and the news would spread that he’d returned to his home town. He felt his stomach roll with nerves.

  It had been a long time since he’d made a new friend. Well, not exactly. He made friends all the time. He had five thousand Facebook friends, ten million Twitter followers, and everywhere he went, people knew his name. But it never got around to books. His whole public life was gaming, the company, and the huge conventions that brought thousands of people together in cosplay. He never dressed up, but he never quite felt like himself, either.

  Paul reached for a Coke in the cabin fridge and opened it with a crack. The soda tasted too sweet and he blinked against the burn of carbonation. Andy embraced the geek fandom with open arms, feeling like he had the best of both worlds. For years, Paul worked hard without a break, traveled without a real vacation, and tried to fit into the New York high-tech lifestyle. He’d succeeded beyond anything he could have imagined. But he didn’t feel at home.

  He wandered back to his seat on the couch and set down his drink. The laptop screen showed another message. Paul rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles. Would she insist on asking about the video game programming book?

  Clicking it open, he only saw a few sentences, and a .jpg attachment. She’d sent him a picture. Of herself? Of her store?

  Dear BWK (that’s how I think of you),

  I’m conflicted on the subject of Mr. Pope. I agree with him when he says “an honest man’s the noblest work of God,” but then my hackles rise when I see that too-oft quoted “woman’s at best a contradiction still.” I’m not sure whether he had a sly sense of humor or if he really didn’t like women much.

  Also, I feel like I’ve been very rude. I’m sending this picture as a literary olive branch.

  Your friend, Alice

  P.S. I’ll tell my story when you explain the gaming manual. I really am curious. It’s not something I think is useful, good, or worthy. It’s like seeing a bomb on your shelf, with the timer set and running.

  Paul let out a bark of laughter. A bomb? His software manual was a weapon of mass destruction, set to take out everything around it?

  Andy looked up, an expression of total surprise on his face. “What’s so funny?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. I just got a shock. Wasn’t expecting…”

  Andy stretched and let out a wide yawn. “People are weird. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

  “I guess. Someone just compared designing games to building bombs.” Paul paused. “I’m pretty sure that’s what she meant.�
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  “Who are you talking to?” Andy shot him a look. “I thought you were going to scan in a new book while we were hanging out up here in the sky.” His brows went up. “Wait. Did you meet someone new and I’m the last to know? Was she on one of those dating sites?”

  “No, but thanks for implying I need one.” He read the line again. Yup, she had definitely just called him a bomb-maker. “She’s a reader from the classic book site. Well, a bookstore owner, actually.”

  “Hold on, why are you talking about gaming? I thought you were doing your superhero secret identity thing. Is that over? Are you out?” Andy looked honestly alarmed. “You made sure those were all in the public domain, right? We could get the pants sued off us.” He held up a hand. “Sorry, you could get the pants sued off you. Remember to tell the lawyers I had nothing to do with it.”

  Paul snorted. “Your loyalty is touching. I’m still anonymous. She just noticed the books on my shelf. You know, in my profile picture. She must have zoomed in and read the titles.”

  “Buddy, you are playing a dangerous game with those people. They’re worse than gamers. They have no lives. Everything becomes about the online interaction. You talk to them enough and they feel like they own you.”

  He had to agree, just a little. Watching the comment threads explode from one question about an obscure book to thousands of passionate arguments pro and con, he had to wonder if these people had jobs. Paul wasn’t willing to sacrifice hours of his time to argue about whether Kidnapped or Treasure Island was Robert Louis Stevenson’s best work and he was an above-average fan of the man.