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

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  She opened to a favorite spot and read aloud, letting the words wrap around her worries. “The Cry of the Children” was a terribly sad poem, but Alice didn’t use it to wallow in her problems. It gave her courage, because Elizabeth had written it to condemn child labor in a time when all the great poets were writing about Greek tragedies. Alice loved her for it, this poet who declared that her own people, in her own cities, were worthy of her time, energy, and talent.

  Alice took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She was going to do what she could in Natchitoches, for her people. Whatever she had to offer, she hoped it was enough to turn the city from the overwhelming tide of technology and industry that was swamping the Creole culture.

  Feeling a little more centered, Alice opened the laptop to check her email. There was an email asking about a set of first edition Heinlein paperbacks they’d seen on a previous visit to the store, but hadn’t bought. They wanted them now and requested shipping to their Florida address. Alice scribbled down the titles and headed for the science fiction section. This was when she missed Charlie. Alice had to hunt around for a little while. Charlie would have been able to find the books with her eyes closed. She brought the books back to the desk and replied, letting them know they were still here, and attached an invoice.

  She allowed herself a small smile. Who said she couldn’t use technology to run her store? She clicked back to her email and her heart dropped a little before she even realized she’d been looking forward to another note from BWK. But there was no reason for him to write again. He had asked if she wanted to meet, and although she hadn’t said no, she certainly hadn’t said yes.

  She re-read the last message. Because you would have asked me where to meet you, instead of reminding me to keep my fedora on. A smile spread over her lips. BWK was interesting, but he was also astute. She sat back in her chair, chewing on her lip. She wasn’t the type of person who enjoyed meeting new people, even when they didn’t have a complicated secret identity issue. But BWK loved books with the same passion and fervor that she loved books. There were very few people in the world who understood what it really meant to be a bibliophile. The way he’d written about missing his friends on the shelf reminded her so much of how she treated her own books, whose words kept her company in the darkest times.

  She hit the reply button and quickly typed out a response, before she could change her mind.

  Dear BWK,

  I’ll be at the center stage area at eight this evening, when Step Rideau and the Zydeco Outlaws play. I’m not the best dancer, but it’s impossible to sit still and listen. I’ll be wearing red cowboy boots.

  Alice,

  who can’t think of a single line of poetry that fits

  Alice pressed send and then swallowed hard. This wasn’t a great time to be starting a new― what? Friendship? She didn’t even know if he was single. He could be married. He’d only said he didn’t share any shelf space and didn’t have any children. For her part, she’d flirted with him while Eric was still in the picture. She dropped her head in her hands at the thought of Eric. That had ended terribly, and right in front of Paul. He’d seemed sort of amused, really. He must think she was as country as a turnip green.

  Alice stood up, smoothing back her ponytail, and went to flip on the lights in the main area. It didn’t matter whether Paul Olivier thought she was sophisticated or not. And although her resolution of never speaking to him again had ended about five minutes later, this time it was for real. She was going to make a real effort to keep out of his way.

  ***

  Paul rolled over and groaned as the sun hit his face. Didn’t anybody believe in blackout curtains anymore? He flopped the other direction, pulling the pillow over his head for good measure, but some internal switch had been flipped, and his body refused to sink back into sleep. Throwing off the pillow, he sat up in bed, and rubbed a hand over his face. Last night had ended way too late, but not because of the Cajun party raging outside. He’d been using the mobile hotspot he’d brought to upload the files from the scanner to the website. The coverage was spotty and the upload would freeze mid-stream. He’d check the link in a few hours and see how his fans liked the new addition. The new equipment would be delivered sometime today so Andy could set up his workspace. To outsiders, it looked like play, but gaming was their livelihood. Their first game, Mars Invasion, a sci-fi fantasy, multiplayer online battle arena, made millions, because they’d treated it very seriously.

  He inhaled the smell of dark roast coffee and country bacon. His stomach spoke up then, and he vaulted out of bed. It was good to be home. It was even better to know that a full Southern breakfast waited for him somewhere close by. There must be a little café already up and serving breakfast.

  Paul didn’t bother to knock on Andy’s door. The guy had never been a morning person and Paul was positive that the promise of good country grits wouldn’t lure him out of bed. He grabbed a towel and headed for the bathroom. The shower was hot in a matter of seconds, another difference from his years growing up. Their tiny trailer had warm water three days out of seven and never enough for two people to shower in a row. He stripped off his pajamas and jumped into the steaming water. Money could buy a lot of creature comforts, that was certain.

  A few minutes later he threw on a pair of jeans, an old Donkey Kong T-Shirt, and his black Converse. He didn’t have any meetings today. Expensive suits would come later, when the big shots of Natchitoches started circling like gators in the bayou. Before college, he’d spent months submitting for city scholarships and gotten nothing. He wasn’t the right kind of kid, not from the right kind of family. Paul paused, his hand on his keys. No, he needed to think of them as partners, not the adversaries of his teen years. He swallowed back his bitterness and took a deep breath. That was all in the past. His full MIT scholarship had done what the city leaders hadn’t―given him the shot he needed to make it.

  He scribbled a quick note for Andy and headed out the door. Somewhere close was a hot Southern breakfast and he was going to find it.

  ***

  The door opened with a familiar tinkle and Alice looked up with a smile. It faded from her face in the next moment.

  “Hi, Eric.” She tried to sound welcoming, but this wasn’t how she’d imagined her first customer of the day. Dealing with the threat of a lawsuit was bad enough without boyfriend issues. Ex-boyfriend issues.

  “Hey,” he said, and cleared his throat. He looked like he’d put special effort into his appearance. An expensive button up shirt and nice slacks complemented a tailored suit jacket. “Am I picking you up tonight or were we just going to meet?”

  Alice blinked. For a moment she wondered if they’d talked through their argument, forgiven each other, made a date and then she’d forgotten about him, like she always did. “Meet where? For what?”

  “The zydeco festival. We made plans. Remember?” He leaned close, ducking his head a little.

  “I don’t remember.” Alice thought he must be trying for a certain boyish charm but what she saw was a man who thought he could manipulate her. “In fact, I don’t think we discussed the festival at all.”

  He straightened up. “Well, I’ll just pick you up at seven. The main stage is twenty feet from your store. It won’t hurt you to have some fun once in a while.”

  Alice stood. Eric was making her angry and didn’t even know it. She would go to the festival, but not because it was right outside her door. Her family’s history was intertwined with Creole music in a way that was hard to explain, but she would have tried, if Eric had ever asked, or even given her a chance to tell him about it. And in that moment, Alice realized how little Eric had ever cared about her. She knew everything about his daily stresses--the secretary who came in late every Monday, the billing system that took a genius to decode. She knew what his parents did for a living, that his sister traveled all over the world, that he hated hush puppies but loved cheese fries. She knew these things because she had cared.

 
“Eric, do you know what my favorite color is?”

  “What?” He scanned the room. “How would I know that?”

  “It’s red. Do you know my favorite poet? Do I like my coffee with sugar and milk? Am I a morning person? How many brothers do I have?” She was standing in front of him now, arms crossed. She didn’t expect him to answer any of these questions.

  “Hold on, now. How could I know these things?” He looked panicked. “You like your coffee black,” he exclaimed, his gaze falling somewhere behind her.

  Alice turned and spied her coffee cup on her desk. “With sugar,” she corrected him. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Not a morning person. Four brothers.”

  He scowled, all his defenses were up now. “I just came in to ask you to the festival.”

  She sighed. “Eric, you didn’t come to ask me to the festival. You came to tell me we were going.”

  “Okay. Whatever. Are we going?”

  Alice looked around the store, wishing there was some answer written on the walls. She knew in her heart that she was right but it was difficult to explain to someone who was being willfully ignorant. “No, we’re not. And I’m not sure how to say this, but we’re not going to anything else, ever again. I thought I made it clear the other day.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is it about that guy, Paul Olivier? You’re dumping me for him? If you think he’s going to look twice at someone like you, then you’re really deluded.”

  For a moment it was hard for Alice to draw a breath. “Someone like me? What does that mean?” She held up a hand. “No, wait. I don’t want to know. I’ve always had the feeling that you didn’t think much of me, and now you’re proving me right.”

  He stepped toward her. “You think you can do better? Try it. There aren’t many guys like me in this nasty little backwater.”

  A deep voice cut into their conversation. “And what a good thing that is.”

  Alice jumped, seeing Paul standing there for the first time. She had been so focused on the argument that she hadn’t heard the door or seen him approach. His hair was wet, as if he’d just stepped out of a shower and he was freshly shaved. Although his face was carefully neutral, Alice heard real anger pulsing under his words.

  “Oh, you again. I knew this had something to do with you.” Eric turned, a sneer curling his lip.

  “Don’t blame me for your bad behavior. I’m guessing you were digging this grave long before I showed up in town,” Paul said. He was closer now, arms at his sides. Alice had the impression he was waiting for Eric to take a swing.

  “We were happy before you got here,” Eric said.

  Paul shook his head, as if starting to realize that arguing with Eric was a complete waste of energy. “So, I managed to ruin your relationship all in one day? I came in, bought a book, rented her apartment, and everything fell to pieces?”

  Eric swung around, glaring at Alice. “He’s living up there with you? Oh, that explains a lot.”

  Alice felt her face go hot even before the words completely sunk in. Her hand went to the rings at her neck, as if to shield them from what Eric had just said. She was a secure, intelligent, professional woman. But his insinuation touched something deep inside, where old hurts and shame lurked. Fury coursed through her. “Get out,” she whispered.

  “Don’t need to tell me twice. I don’t like to share.” He walked by Paul, smirking.

  Alice didn’t see the first swing, only saw Eric’s head snap to the side and then he went down. Paul hooked a hand into Eric’s belt, another under his collar and dragged-carried him to the door. He propped him up, opened the door, and tossed him out. Alice could see Eric through the glass door, stumbling to his feet, one hand over his cheekbone.

  Paul walked back to the desk, face tight with anger. His brown eyes seemed black under dark brows. He was breathing heavily.

  “That was completely unnecessary,” Alice hissed. She peered behind Paul, watching Eric walk away, his expression furious. People on the sidewalk turned their heads to stare, a few pointing out the man who had clearly just lost a fight.

  “I agree. But it felt great.”

  “You probably feel like you can do that sort of thing because you’re…” Alice was having trouble finding words.

  “Rich? Famous?”

  “From out of town! But I have to live here. People talk.” She put her hands to her face, feeling her cheeks burning. She felt sick at the thought of what Eric would tell people now.

  He sighed, examining his knuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.”

  “Obviously,” she said, letting the word stretch into the space between them.

  Paul shifted his feet, eyes downcast. He really did seem as if he regretted punching Eric and it certainly had happened faster than she could imagine. Maybe he was under as much stress as she was. She certainly wanted to punch Eric herself. Paul seemed calm and collected on the outside, but inside he might just be as hot-headed as she was.

  Alice felt a laugh rise in her throat. She tried to keep her face straight, but the memory of Eric’s expression as he went down to the floor had her giggling.

  Paul looked up. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  Alice covered her mouth, snickering. “I’m not a violent person,” she started to say.

  “But you enjoyed that a little bit?”

  She nodded, laughing. “Eric is one of those people who’d gripe with a ham under each arm. He is never happy.” Then her smile faded away. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, her resolution to avoid Paul Olivier had been broken. “Did you need something? Is everything all right with the apartment?”

  “Fine, everything’s fine,” he said. “I always sleep to blaring zydeco music.”

  “Me, too. Must be a Natchitoches thing.”

  “As for why I’m standing in your shop, I woke up and smelled the most amazing breakfast somewhere very close. Maple bacon, eggs, maybe some hash browns. Definitely good coffee. So I went looking. I’ve been up and down the block and can’t find the café. So, if you could just point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I’m afraid you just described my breakfast.”

  Paul gave her a quick scan from head to toe. “All of that? You must be a runner. Nobody can eat like that and stay so―”

  Alice waited. It had been a long time since anyone complimented her appearance. She shouldn’t have cared, but she really wanted to know what came after the “so.”

  His neck slowly turned redder and redder, and when the color reached his cheeks, she couldn’t hold back a smile. “That’s the nicest thing anybody has said about me for a long time.”

  “That you must be a runner?”

  “No, that they got out of bed and looked all over the block for my cooking.” She was teasing him and he knew it. The real compliment was the approving look and the longer pause. She thought of how Eric had never mentioned her appearance unless it was to suggest she straighten her hair or wear a little more make up because it fit his idea of a professional woman. Eric always talked about cholesterol, and salt intake, and how she should get a gym membership because working at a desk in a bookstore would shorten her lifespan.

  “I didn’t know the apartment came with olfactory torture.”

  “Wait until Monday. Gumbo simmers all day in a crock pot while I work. I can smell it through the vents.”

  “My mama always made gumbo on wash day, too,” he said, his lips tugging up.

  Alice nodded in surprise. Mrs. Perrault called Monday wash day, a tradition from back when the woman spent the day doing laundry and needed a meal that could simmer while they worked.

  He grinned, and she stood there, thinking of how good it felt to share a joke with him.

  His eyes dropped to her necklace. “Can I ask you something?”

  She paused. Paul already knew more about her than most people. She nodded.

  “What are the rings about?”

  Alice quickly tucked her necklac
e back in place under her shirt. “My parents’ wedding rings,” she said. She drew in a shaky breath. Eric had never asked that. How had she been so blind? That relationship had gone on about six months too long. “Sorry. You asked about breakfast. Two blocks east is Babet’s Cafe. Great pancakes, grits, and eggs. Biscuits are better before ten or after four when she makes another batch,” she said.

  He nodded, looking as if he wanted to ask another question. “Thanks. I’ll head right over. And that’s a great Heinlein series. Starship Troopers is my favorite.”

  Alice was grateful she didn’t have to explain why her parents’ rings were around her neck and not on their fingers. She picked up one of the books, looking at the mass market 1950’s cover. “I’ve never read them. I’m not really into science fiction.”

  He’d turned toward the door, but came back and took the book from her hands. “These are in great condition, too. Starship Troopers was originally published as a serial called ‘Starship Soldier’ in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science. The interstellar war between the Terran Federation, which is Earth, and the Arachnids, which are called ‘The Bugs,’ was actually Heinlein’s way of defending his views on production of nuclear weapons.”

  “Okay. I never knew that.” Alice stared down at the stack of paperbacks. She wasn’t really sure what an interstellar war had to do with the nuclear arms race. Probably one of those things that people read into a book when the author had no intention of ever having written it.

  “There’s a real famous soliloquy about violence that people think glorifies militarism, but I think has more to do with Heinlein’s own views on moral philosophy, especially about how only veterans should be able to vote for a military intervention.” He paused. “I think what I love about science fiction is how it’s always just ahead of reality. Heinlein dreamed up this world of an all-volunteer, highly trained force in a time when our military was mostly conscripted.”