The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  Bix headed toward the back room, Elizabeth perched on his shoulder, staring at Alice with bright eyes that always seemed quietly amused. Bix talked as he worked, and Alice could hear the kitty answer back every now and then, as if in complete agreement. They were a pair, those two. Alice couldn’t imagine one without the other, even though someday... She hurriedly grabbed a few receipts. She didn’t have her head in the sand. People moved away, moved on. They died. She was perfectly aware that someday Bix would be gone and she would have to hire new help. But not now, not today.

  A yowl made her jump in her chair and she turned to hush the Siamese cat who trotted after Bix. “Mrs. Bennet, stop your fussing.” As long as Mrs. Bennet stuck close to Miss Elizabeth, she was fairly content, but the moment they were separated, headache-inducing protests began. The cat had the most annoying screech, but Alice couldn’t bear to send her away. She knew the bookstore had a few more than normal. To be honest, quite a few more cats than anyplace she’d ever been to, but they were her family now.

  When they discussed books, Mr. Perrault used the Louisiana French that she heard at home when she was little, never correcting her or becoming frustrated when she didn’t know a word. Mrs. Perrault began to invite her upstairs to their apartment for dinner, then gradually extended the invitation to the hours before dinner, when all the cooking was being done. Alice watched at first, fascinated by the slow, methodical steps of Creole cooking. Within months, she could make jambalaya, gumbo, and Natchitoches meat pies by heart.

  She didn’t realize until years later that the books were secondary to all the other things she’d learned. The Perraults gave her what had been lost when her parents died. Alice straightened up and blinked back tears. It had been eight years since Mrs. Perrault had passed, and five years since Alice and Mr. Perrault last shared a cup of tea. No use crying over them now. He would never want that. He would want her to work hard and keep By the Book a success, like it had always been. No matter how many people turned to other entertainment, he’d been sure that bookstores would never become extinct. It was all that separated the civilized and sophisticated from the unwashed, ignorant hordes. As long as there were enlightened people in the world, the rising tide of frivolous technology would not prevail. He’d believed it with his whole heart.

  As for Alice, she had a healthy streak of pessimism to remind her that surviving and thriving were two very different things. The last Monday of every month told her clearly the bookstore was not thriving. It became even more apparent when the renter in the second apartment above the store moved out. The historic district was the chic place to live and the hefty rent helped By the Book break even. Without it, she was in real trouble.

  She opened the laptop and waited for it to warm up. Although she hated Excel with everything in her, the day she’d driven off with the ledger on top of the car and lost several years’ worth of records, Alice had to concede that there might be a better way than pencil and paper.

  She took a sip of coffee and squared her shoulders. No more dragging fanny. First, balance the books. Then, notify the realtor the apartment was available again. Better to get it done than to put it off. Her friends called her a “go getter,” others called her “impulsive,” but Alice considered herself a practical woman, simply doing what needed to be done. Reaching for the first receipt, her hand paused in mid-air, hovering like a Frisbee before descent, as she spied a large, black cat on the top of a bookshelf.

  She brought up the accounting sheets as a long-haired tabby wandered across the store and settled at her feet. She reached down and gave him a scratch, whispering, “Mr. Rochester, everyone has it wrong. I’m not against all technology. I just prefer to keep things simple.”

  Mr. Rochester sat silent, as he always did. He wasn’t much of a talker and his temper was legendary. He tolerated a pat or two, but if you rubbed him the wrong way, you’d feel his claws. The others cats walked out of their way rather than cross Mr. Rochester. But he did like the females. Before he became a resident of By The Book, he sat in the alleyway and yowled at all hours. His tattered left ear was a souvenir of those tomcat years. Alice felt a little guilty for luring him into a friendship when she fully intended to take away his masculinity, but when Mr. Rochester returned from the vet, he seemed calmer and happier. His shaggy fur even seemed a little more groomed and the wildness in his eyes faded. And Alice slept better, so the guilt didn’t weigh too heavily.

  She peeked at Bix to make sure he wasn’t looking, then clicked onto the Internet. She needed to work, but she was curious. A quick search the Browning Wordsworth Keats blog. She expected to see book covers and links, but the site seemed designed as a meeting place for literature enthusiasts. Alice glanced at her desk clock. She’d give herself three minutes. Then, back to work.

  Thirty minutes later, Alice closed the page. She’d registered an account, joined four different groups, left fifteen comments, and entered into two rather fierce debates over whether or not typewriters changed writing for the better. Sitting back in her chair, she let out a long breath. BWK, as she now thought of him, was brilliant. He knew books, loved books, and probably owned a bookstore. She’d wasted several minutes staring at his profile, but not because of the strong, stubbled jaw just visible under a lowered black fedora. There was an out-of-focus glimpse of his bookshelf. Alice zoomed in and tried to read the titles on the spines.

  She had almost puzzled out the first row when the brass bell sounded and a short, teenaged girl burst through. “Miss Alice, I need you for a sec,” she called.

  “Hi Charlie,” Alice said. “You’re not scheduled until this afternoon.” Charlene Soule wouldn’t answer to anything except Charlie since she’d turned eighteen and decided it wasn’t cool. When Alice or Bix spoke French to her, Charlie answered in English. It wasn’t really worth making a fuss over, but it hurt a little bit.

  “I know,” she said, rushing up to the desk. “But you gotta see this.” She was wearing black jeans and T-shirt with NERD written on it in bright pink.

  Alice blinked up at her. “What, outside?” The teen’s empty hands didn’t give Alice any clues. Her face flushed with excitement as she moved back toward the door. “You know that lot at the corner where they’ve been buildin’?”

  Alice stood up, wishing Charlie would just tell her what was so interesting. “Sure. I heard it was going to be a museum on the history of music, from the earliest zydeco to current artists. Or something more general for the city’s three-hundredth anniversary celebrations, except the year’s almost over. Eric said he thought it looked like a modern retail store, but that can’t be right, because the parish would never approve something like that in the District.”

  She reached the glass door and stepped outside. She loved the smell of the river, the way the sun reflected off the water and threw shimmers of light into her store. The humidity had risen in the hour she’d been inside and the air felt thick and muggy. The middle of August was a great time for fishing tours, but not so great for the tourists who lightly populated the walkway along the length of her building, and wilted in the heat.

  Charlie was speed walking, pointing toward the corner, her straight, blond hair bouncing behind her. “Nope. Somethin’ much better.”

  Alice felt her stomach drop as they made their way down the sidewalk toward the construction site. Call it intuition, or blame it on the fact she hated change. Maybe it was because nothing had gone her way for the past six months. But whatever it was, all the little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt as if she teetered on the edge of something. Whether good or bad, she couldn’t tell.

  Chapter Two

  “Technology is a gift from God. After the gift of life, it is perhaps the greatest

  of God’s gifts. It is the mother of civilizations,

  of arts and sciences.”― Freeman Dyson

  “Okay, I’m not getting it. You’ve got to explain this one to me.”

  “I’ve tried.” Paul Olivier leveled a gaze at his best fr
iend. “And it doesn’t matter whether you get it. Construction started weeks ago.” He tried to keep a poker face but couldn’t help cracking a smile.

  “Well, I’m still not understanding.” Andy McBride perched on the edge of Paul’s desk and waved a hand at the blueprints pinned to the wall. “Of all the places to open a flagship store, why your home town? I thought you hated that place.”

  “I never said that.” Paul angled out from behind his desk and stood in front of the blueprints, arms crossed. “Natchitoches was a hard place to grow up as the only techno geek for hundreds of miles.” He turned and flashed a smile. “But I won’t be the only one now. Not anymore. Everyone has a computer, everybody uses the Internet--even the old folks. My great Aunt Sandrine has a Facebook page for her garden club.”

  Andy was quiet for a moment. “I thought you were nuts when you opened three stores in Atlanta in the same year, but it was the right move. I thought you’d lost your marbles when you partnered up with those reality TV stars at Comic-Con, but our profits doubled that year. Let’s not even talk about that whole super-secret identity you have going on with the stolen books.”

  “It’s not secret. I’m just using a pen name. And they’re not stolen. They’re all out from under copyright and it’s fair use to upload.” Paul tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Andy was a genius at keeping the company on track, but the guy could get some serious tunnel vision. If it didn’t have graphics and a soundtrack, he wasn’t interested. In college, Andy had always nagged Paul to drop his double major and focus on computer science, but Paul wouldn’t let go of his English degree. “I’m bringing classics of Western Literature to the masses. These are books that you’d have to hunt down in rare book stores, books that cost hundreds of dollars. People are thrilled to find them available so easily. They think I’m saving the world,” he said. “I’ve got fan clubs.”

  “Nice. Fan clubs for your secret superhero identity which has no connection to the company and therefore won’t give us any benefits,” Andy said. “Anyway, I never argued with any of that, but I’m telling you as your business partner and your best friend, this Natchitoches store doesn’t look like a good move, and not just because the town’s name is unpronounceable.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” Paul walked forward and stared at the property lines of the newest ScreenStop store. Even as they debated, the parking lot was being finished. Getting permission to build on that side of the river was usually a long and ugly process, involving mounds of paperwork and months of waiting. Getting permission to build in the National Historic Landmark District was unheard of. Paul had managed both in weeks. There were perks to being a famous billionaire after all.

  “But it’s a good place for a store. There’s nothing like it for three hundred miles,” Paul said. “We’re filling a technology gap that reaches from New Orleans to Shreveport. It’s a good move. I can feel it.” He poked a finger at the maps. “This store will make money.”

  “And you get to come back home the conquering hero.” Andy intoned. His lips were turned up in a smile but his dark eyes were somber. “I’m not saying you can’t afford it. As your CTO, I’m perfectly okay with you throwing a store into the void if it makes you feel better. One store won’t break this company. I just don’t want you to disappear into the wilds of Louisiana when you said you’d never set foot there again.”

  Paul threw his head back and laughed. “The wilds?” He turned, clapping a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “It’s swampland. My friend, you’re coming with me. It’s time for a little Southern education.”

  He grimaced. “No, thanks. I went to that tech conference in Atlanta last year. That was as far south as I needed to go, and a weekend was more than enough.”

  “Sitting in a hotel for the weekend is not really getting to know the people, Andy.” Paul sat back down in his chair and swiveled from side to side. He hated being still, especially when he had a new idea, and showing Andy a good time in Cane River was his best idea in a long time. “There’s no reason to rush back here. You broke up with Reilly, right?”

  Andy shot him a look. “Yeah. She said she thought our relationship had ‘run its course,’ and ‘we should branch out,’ whatever that means. I wasn’t surprised. We all can’t be billionaire playboys like you.”

  Paul smiled at Andy’s dig because the guy wasn’t far behind, himself. Tech industries did that, making normal programmers with a great idea into the wealthy elite. He’d always liked Andy, but watching the way he’d handled the rise in his fortunes made him trust him, too. The guy was solid. Paul wasn’t sad to hear about Reilly. He wasn’t convinced she liked Andy for anything more than how famous he was. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Andy, let me tell you a little secret about women.”

  “I don’t need your dating advice.” He adjusted a shirt cuff and pretended to straighten his tie. “I’m an MIT grad. I go to the gym. I never eat red meat and drink only on holidays. I have a great relationship with my mother and I’m best friends with Paul Olivier, the boy genius who made technology so simple your granny can use it,” he said. “Women love me.”

  “Sure they do.” Paul tried not to smile. “But they’d love you more if you were Southern.”

  Andy let out a grunt. “Are you telling me to fake an accent?”

  “Nope. When you’re there for a while, it sort of just… happens. Women can’t resist it.”

  “I don’t see the magic happening for you. When was the last time you seriously dated anybody? A year ago?”

  “I’ve been busy.” Paul tried not to remember, but she popped into his head, unbidden. Holly was beautiful, smart, funny. He couldn’t have been happier. But the more time they spent together, the more he realized that she was far more interested in when he planned to sell his stock and retire than in him. When she mentioned a pretty little chateau for sale on a lake in Italy, he knew that she wasn’t interested in him at all. He’d decided then and there to focus on his job.

  “Well, I did want to ask out Janine Land, that pretty girl who works for Dell,” Andy said. “You know, the redhead? But every time I strike up a conversation, we get interrupted and she wanders away.”

  Paul shook his head. Andy was taller, better-looking, and funnier than Paul. But when it came down to it, they were both geeks, through and through. No matter how expensive the suit or how tall the high-rise, they would never be the smoothest guys in the room.

  “Let’s make a bet,” Paul said. “We’ll go to Natchitoches for a month or two. I’ll rent us a trendy little place in the historic district. Throw the big opening, bring in some famous people, maybe fly in a band or two. Then we’ll spend the rest of the time at the old place on the river. I’ll educate you in all things Southern. We’ll go bream fishin’, frog giggin’, and crawfish trappin’. You’ll eat hush puppies, mud pie, and collard greens. My aunts will feed you gumbo by the bowl and cornbread by the pan. By the end of the month, we’ll see if Janine still wanders away while you’re talking.”

  “You just want someone to run interference between you and all your crazy relatives,” Andy said.

  “Maybe a little of that, too.” Paul stood up and held out his hand. “So, Mr. CTO, are you in?”

  Andy gripped it. “Against my better judgment, boss. I guess we’re headed Natchitoches, Louisiana.”

  Paul couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face. “It’s only a month. We’ll go dazzle the townsfolk, get our Southern on, and then come right back to New York City. You won’t regret it.”

  “I hope not,” Andy said. He stepped to the door. “I’ll ask your PA to make the reservations. Anything else? Should I go buy some bowties and seersucker?”

  “Better not. Seersucker is for pros. We’ll start you small. Maybe a backwards baseball cap or something.” Paul snapped his fingers. “Hey, we’ll get to go to the zydeco festival!”

  “The what? Is that a seafood dish?”

  “Music. It’s got accordions and rub boards and...” Paul
shook his head. “I guess that means nothing to you. Let me think… Oh, it’s the background music in Sims Unleashed.”

  Andy stared at the ceiling for a second. “Okay, yeah. It’s been a while since I played that game but I think I know what you mean. And there’s a whole festival of it? Sounds like overkill.”

  “Nope. This isn’t the game version. It’s the real thing. Live, surrounded by people, all that energy just seeps into your bones. You start moving your feet.” The more Paul thought about it, bringing Andy to Natchitoches was going to be the best part about going home.

  “Okaaayyy,” Andy grimaced, hand on the door handle. “I’m not sure if I want anything seeping into my bones.”

  Paul turned back to the map. The orange-red of the sunset tinted the blueprints. If he was really honest, he could have opened that store anywhere from the Gulf to Atlanta. It didn’t have to be in the Creole region he’d left for the scholarship to MIT. But as famous as he’d become, and as much money as he’d made, a part of Paul Olivier was still that scrawny fifteen-year-old kid with the absent dad and the mom who cleaned rich folks’ houses.

  Paul walked to the window and stared at his own reflection. The people of Natchitoches might not even remember him. He’d grown another four inches and put on thirty pounds of muscle thanks to a fancy gym membership, a personal trainer, and a chef with history in the healthiest five-star restaurants. He’d traded his old jeans and faded T-shirts for custom suits. The buzz-cut his mama gave him every few months was replaced by a more fashionable style, trimmed every two weeks by a stylist that came to his office so he didn’t have to deal with the traffic.

  He frowned, dark brows drawing down, shading his eyes completely. Most people here thought he was Italian, with his dark skin and angular features. Even when he opened his mouth and they heard a hint of that slow Louisiana drawl, nobody thought to ask if he was Creole. When he conversed easily with the overseas team based in Paris, but struggled to understand the managers from Houston, people assumed he’d been educated overseas. They couldn’t imagine that a quarter million Louisianans speak French at home, and Paul had been of them. To the rest of the United States, his people didn’t even exist. For a while, that was perfectly fine with the awkward nerd from the wrong side of town. He was glad nobody knew anything about his past. But the older he got, the more he realized some things couldn’t be erased. Not in ten years, not in a hundred.