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

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “Wow,” she breathed, walking toward them. Her mind couldn’t grasp how much Cane River history was contained in the dank, musty basement. She turned in a circle, trying to take it all in. Gideon set a hurricane lamp on the desk and lit the wick, carefully setting the glass back in place. “But how do you run your scanner if there isn’t any electricity down here?”

  “Extension cord,” he said, pointing toward a bright orange cable that snaked along one wall and out a casement window. “It’s plugged into the neighbor’s external outlet. Mr. Ferraux has been very happy to lend a hand when needed.”

  “Couldn’t you bring a few electric lanterns down here if you’ve got that cord?”

  “Hm, you’re right. But it wouldn’t be nearly as authentic, toiling away by candlelight, knowing my eyesight was slowly failing from the strain.” After lighting a second lamp on the desk, he looked around. “If you’re really worried about being stuck in here, just remember the door swings inward.”

  “Will that help me?”

  He took out his keys, walked back to the old oak door and pointed toward the hinges. “These are ancient and it would take some muscle, but here, watch.” He held up a key, gently jimmied it under the pin that held the hinge together, and started to wiggle it around. After a few moments, a larger space appeared, and he grasped the top of the pin and pulled. “You remove the pins, and the door would open from the other side.”

  “Hm,” she said. The top hinge was about a foot over her head, and she didn’t think she had the strength to yank a dirty pin out of the place it had sat for so many years.

  “Try it. Work on the bottom hinge.”

  Henry wanted to laugh and wave it away, but then she thought of being stuck in the basement and took his key. Crouching down, she worked the key into the space between the pin and the hinge, just as he’d shown her. Grabbing the top, she tugged and at first, it didn’t move at all. Then she imagined herself trapped down there, without anything to eat, no bed, and no bathroom.

  “Nice,” he said, admiration in his voice. She’d yanked the pin almost clear of the hinge. “And I think you’d want to do the top one next, in case the door shifted and made it harder to get out.”

  She stood back, grinning. “You learn something new every day.”

  “Something useful, no less. Making sure I can get in and out is the first thing that crosses my mind when I enter a place.” He turned, as if regretting his words. “More about getting out, than getting in. I’m no burglar.”

  She smiled at him. “I know.”

  He pounded the pins back into place and dropped his keys in his pocket. “So, probably the worst set up you’ve ever seen, right?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Well, now I’m curious,” he said.

  “As a graduate student, I was asked to organize a large collection of porcelain dolls. After his death, his family wanted them catalogued and moved as quickly as possible, which I don’t blame them for in the slightest. Anyway, my advisor thought we should take photos and catalogue them before moving in case there was any accidental damage.”

  “Dolls. Definitely not a favorite subject of mine,” he said.

  “Oh, it gets better. The owner was many paper plates short of a picnic. He hadn’t collected whole dolls, just the heads. The collection was in his attic, arranged on shelves, with little labels holding the names he’d chosen for them. Names like Sweet Dreams, Baby’s Breath, Genevieve’s Tears.”

  She stepped closer to him and dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Imagine, if you will, the moment the sky starts to turn dark. You have long hours of work yet ahead. The house creaks and pops as it settles in for the night. The multitude of little glass doll eyes glimmer in the dim light. You refuse to think about how the owner of this collection died at home, just a few feet below the room you’re in. Working faster, you tell yourself it doesn’t matter that the owner of this ghastly collection wanted it to go to his children, but that none of them wanted it. They’d told you more than once that he would be so angry if he knew, if he ever found out his beloved doll heads were being touched by a stranger.” She held up a finger. “Shhh. That sounded like…. Footsteps on the attic stairs?”

  He clapped a hand to his chest. “I see why you read Poe stories. You seemed to enjoy telling that tale a little too much.”

  She grinned and pushed up her glasses. “Oh, come on. You wouldn’t have been rattled. I bet you’re not afraid of anything.”

  His smile faded away and he said, “I am. A very few things.”

  Truth.

  If there were an instrument that measured levity, it would have shown a massive drop, a shift in the conversation that stripped away the silly stories and the jokes.

  “What are they?”

  He looked at her for a long second or two before he responded. “Acting on emotion, rather than logic, is one.”

  She considered that. “Funny. I think I have the exact opposite fear. I’m afraid I’ll be one of those people who act on what I’m told to believe, rather than what I know is true.”

  “Aren’t they usually the same thing?”

  “Almost never,” she said.

  “You’re not talking about religion,” he said.

  “No.” She pushed up her glasses, suddenly wishing she’d never asked him about his fears. There was no way to explain, and it was too late to gracefully back out of the conversation. More than that, she realized she wanted to tell Gideon about her curse. There, in the middle of the dark basement, she would explain how she could spot a lie like a neon sign, how it sounded like an alarm in her head. She would tell him how she’d known since she was very small that her mother wasn’t really her mother, and how much she’d hated the lie about the father who’d run away with the waitress. She wanted to empty herself of all the ugliness she held inside, all the lies that weren’t hers but that she tended and kept safe for other people. Then after she was hollow and clean again, she’d admit how much she wanted to be normal. She hated Kimberly for her endless string of boyfriends and yet, and yet, she wished for some small taste of it. Just a dinner or two or ten, all dressed up, sitting across a fancy dinner from a handsome man and not hearing a single lie he told.

  She wanted to say these things but she didn’t. Henry was a good daughter, the keeper of secrets and protector of lies.

  “We should get started,” she said, looking toward the walls of boxes.

  She felt him standing there, a few feet behind the shoulder she’d just turned, and the silence was so deep she wondered for just a moment if he would ask her to explain.

  “Of course,” he said.

  ***

  Gideon carefully set out piles of sorted letters, explaining the complicated system he’d constructed and illustrating the step-by-step process of his cataloguing project. Henry listened attentively and asked several questions, but seemed to understand it all intuitively. Of course, she’d spent years doing this kind of work.

  “I think I’ve got the idea,” she said. “You’ve done a really thorough job. This will change the way we access Cane River history.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “If you have any questions, you can call my cell phone.”

  She glanced at the table full of documents and uncertainty crossed her face. “Since you’re here, we could always work together. Unless you have other plans.”

  He thought of her anxiety over the stubborn door and nodded. “Sure. You take the desk.”

  She started to protest but he’d already dragged over a few boxes and sat down.

  They started to work, and for the first few minutes he could only hear her small movements, the breaths she took, and the sense of someone else so near. But after a while, he fell into a rhythm of carefully unfurling the fragile papers and deciphering the spidery, faded writing.

  He picked up a small photo of two men, one had a bushy beard and held a flintlock rifle, the other was considerably younger and held a revolver. The back identified them as uncle and nephe
w. They didn’t look at all related. He thought of the moment he’d walked around the corner and seen Kimberly Gray standing next to Henry. Before that moment, he would have said the two were nearly polar opposites and not just in appearance. He only had a vague impression of the actress, mostly from pictures he’d seen of her on the red carpet or on the front of the gossip magazines at the grocery store. Henry was serious, thoughtful, quiet. Kimberly seemed to seek out as much ugly drama as possible.

  Once they were side by side, it was clear they had the same high cheekbones, full mouth and perfect complexion. He watched her read over a letter, a tiny frown line between her brows. His first impressions were almost never wrong, but now everything shifted, like a picture coming into focus. Henry wasn’t concerned with looking academic enough. The glasses and severe ponytail were simply an effort at disguising her connection to Kimberly Gray.

  She looked up “Is something wrong?”

  “No, sorry, just thinking,” he said.

  Setting another letter in the pile to the right, he tried to focus. He carefully sorted and stacked most of a box before his mind swung back to Henry. She clearly disliked her aunt enough to avoid any connection, but she must have wanted the Cane River Creole Park position enough to deal with her feelings. Or at least try to keep the two areas separate. Maybe that accounted for her reluctance to go out in public.

  He rubbed a hand over his beard. It might explain her expression of utter sadness a few minutes ago when she mentioned her fears. He didn’t know what had possessed him to answer her question, but she’d answered him just as honestly.

  Chapter Six

  “Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.”

  ― Thoreau

  Henry rummaged through her purse one last time. She couldn’t believe she’d managed to lose her keys the day after Alice left for New York. They couldn’t be in her office since she’d driven home yesterday. Most likely they were somewhere between By the Book and the Finnamore place. She heaved a sigh and pulled the door of her apartment closed behind her. It was a good thing she had a spare key to her car and that the rest of the staff would be at Oakland to open the doors. She wasn’t usually so scattered but she clearly was still adjusting to the move. Everything seemed out of place.

  A few minutes later she reached the sidewalk and headed for the little lot where she parked her car. The usually clear morning sky showed large clouds gathering at the horizon. She wondered if she should turn back for an umbrella. Her flowered skirt and bright red sleeveless shirt felt perfect for the moment, but she didn’t look forward to dashing down the block through the rain on her way back to the apartment.

  “Miss Byrne? Hello?”

  Henry turned at the sound of a man’s voice and even though it was clearly someone younger and much more cheerful, she pictured Gideon. But it wasn’t.

  “My aunt Bernice told me to keep my eye out for you,” he said, catching up to her. His dark hair was closely trimmed and he had the look of someone who took care with his wardrobe. He wasn’t a dandy, in any sense, but he was definitely more stylish than the average Natchitoches man.

  He held out a hand, and even though he wasn’t smiling, his brown eyes were warm. “My name is Blue Chalfant. My office is just a few doors down from By the Book.”

  “She mentioned you, yes. So glad to meet you at last.” Henry wasn’t sure where the ‘at last’ bit had come from. She certainly hadn’t been looking for him. In fact, she’d forgotten all about him until that moment.

  “I can see you’re headed to work, but we should have dinner together some time. I promised Aunt Bernice I’d show you some Natchitoches hospitality.”

  Lie.

  She would be much more offended if he was asking her out under duress. As it was, Blue Chalfant seemed to actually want to get to know her better. She considered politely declining but an image flashed through her mind of her last date, almost four years ago. Unmitigated disaster was too kind a term for it. She was older and wiser, and if she were truly honest, more than a bit lonely.

  “I’d like that. I don’t know many people here.”

  “Besides your family,” he corrected her. “But I know what you mean.” His tone was teasing.

  She couldn’t hold back a laugh. Maybe he was in the same boat. Quite a few relatives, but not many friends. “Yes, of course.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and looked down the street. “You’ve probably got plans for tonight.”

  “Actually, I’m free.”

  “You like ribs? I could pick you up at seven.” He was grinning now, a straight white smile that made Henry wonder what she’d done to deserve such a great start to the day.

  “Perfect. To both of those.” She stood there, smiling shyly. “Oh, I’ll meet you out front since By the Book will be closed and the back door is usually locked.”

  “Sounds great.” After a moment he turned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I better get back. My secretary’s out sick and I’ve got to man the phones. They should have made us take a class on that in law school.”

  “See you later,” she said, raising a hand. She walked the rest of the way to the car with a smile on her face. He looked a few years younger than she was but he didn’t give off the cocky air of the usual privileged Southern kid. Maybe it was the small gesture of nervousness before he asked her out, maybe it was how he’d asked whether she liked ribs, but Henry couldn’t help feeling like this might be a first date that didn’t end up a complete failure. Of course, with her track record, only time would tell.

  ***

  Gideon wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and stared into his own eyes. When he was little, his father had told him that he had his mama’s eyes and Gideon hadn’t understood how that could be. Sure, they were the same color, but hers were large and beautiful, rimmed with dark lashes and sparkling with laughter. Even then he’d been a serious kind of kid, nothing like his mama. Or his papa, for that matter. Those two weren’t happy unless they were headed to a party or inviting people over.

  He filled the sink with water, opened the old medical cabinet and took out his razor. Katie Rose had been more like their parents. She was happiest toddling around the guests, pulling at pants or hems of skirts, trying to take part in the conversations. Sometimes he’d catch her reaching for the ice cubes in amber-colored drinks left on side tables and she’d howl when he dragged her away.

  He sprayed shaving foam onto his fingers and slowly worked it into a lather. The smell was so familiar. Within seconds, the memory hit him and he saw the early morning light streaming through the bathroom window in his childhood home, his papa frowning into the mirror, intent on his razor, his mama’s lilting voice coming from the kitchen, Katie Rose coming to stand beside him, her little brown curls sticking to her sweaty cheeks. It had been a long time since he’d been hit by a memory that strong.

  He made the first sweep of the razor across his cheekbone. He could almost hear his mama’s singing ‘L’anse aux pailles’ while his papa bowed the fiddle. He swallowed hard and rinsed the razor in the water. Sometimes he wished he’d known the dark truths that lurked behind the image of a happy family. It would have made the transition to orphan and foster kid so much easier. But then, he wouldn’t have had even those few years of happiness, blind to what was really happening in his house.

  The solitude of the little house had appealed to him when he’d first moved to Natchitoches and he still loved the way it sat back under the trees, removed from any of the traffic of the city. Usually the silence was soothing, but at the moment he wished he owned a radio, or even a TV. The thoughts in his head were louder than usual.

  Sliding the razor down one cheek, his skin emerged pale and smooth, and along with it a memory of his fifteenth birthday. He’d wanted cash but Vince had given him an electric razor, a hug, and a promise that he’d need it soon. His foster father had misunderstood the tension that had gripped Gideon that year, that kept him coiled like a spring, seeking a way out of
their little family. Gideon rinsed the razor and tipped his head, gliding the blade along his jaw. Tom had arrived in the foster home few years before and although he was as angry as Gideon, his rage didn’t take the same shape, with his secret map under the mattress and hours of plotting late into the night. Tom liked to say that he and Gideon were just alike, except that one of them was given the grace of a glimpse into the future and had the chance to change his path, but Gideon didn’t believe it. Tom had always carried a tenderness inside that Gideon had not.

  The silence in the bathroom seemed to grow with each pass of the razor. Gideon could hear himself breathing. He hadn’t seen himself without a beard for a long time, not since those first years in prison.

  He rinsed the razor and turned back to the mirror, so unlike the square of polished steel he’d used in his cell. He remembered the low thrum of footfalls and conversation. In prison, every surface he touched carried the vibration of the thousands of bodies that moved in the same building, like the hum of bees in a hive. Even in the middle of the night, he could hear men crying softly in their bunks, or whispering, which was worse. A crying man wasn’t plotting against you, but two men whispering could mean you were going to get jumped while in line for scrambled eggs the next morning.

  Gideon stepped back. He looked like a split before and after photo of a hermit who’d been given a makeover. There was no going back now. He leaned in and slowly shaved under his chin, wincing at the tickling sensation. As he worked his way down his left cheek, he saw the way his muscles rippled under the skin of his shoulder and forearm. Maybe Tom was right and he needed to scale back on the weight lifting.

  He paused, the razor hovering just above his left cheekbone, remembering the moment outside the Finnamore house when he’d misunderstood Henry’s Poe reference. A slow smile touched his lips. He didn’t usually worry whether anyone was afraid of him. In fact, he figured most people who knew about his time in prison would be. But it made him strangely happy to know Henry was more worried about a sticky door than being alone with him.