The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  Removing a box cutter from his drawer, he carefully cut each fragile page from the rotting binding. As soon as he signed the lease, he’d have Mrs. Connors pack these up and send them on. He didn’t want to neglect the community of readers who waited for the next out-of-print book to pop up in their notifications.

  Paul paused, his hands full of paper. There was nothing better than the smell of old books. These poems reminded him of the miracle of words. They would have new life, in ten thousand different hands. Instead of molding in the basement of an apartment building, this book would be reincarnated in binary code, transferred in terabytes across the country, and read around the world. Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man would live again in a way it hadn’t lived before.

  Chapter Five

  Any sufficiently advanced technology is

  indistinguishable from magic. ― Arthur C. Clarke

  “Can I help you?” Alice approached the customer with a smile. It was rare to have anyone in so early on a Saturday. The twenty-something woman with short curly hair had the focused look of someone in search of a specific book. Alice held out a hand and introduced herself.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Karen.” She glanced at the display of brand new hardbacks and then around the rest of the store, her gaze settling on Van Winkle at the desk. “Is that a cat or a really big paperweight?”

  Alice had to smile. “Both, I’m afraid. He doesn’t move much so on windy days I just tuck papers under his portly body.”

  Karen giggled but it was cut short when she noticed Darcy on the top of the range. “Oh, he gave me a start! He looks so…”

  “Severe? Yes, he can be quite intimidating.” Alice hoped the girl wouldn’t notice any more cats. Maybe she was allergic. Alice did have a sign in the window warning people, but some might think the resident attack cat poster was a joke. She used a high-powered air filter and a top-notch vacuum to keep hairballs to a minimum.

  “He’s beautiful, even if he does look like he hates me,” Karen said. “Anyway, this is the first time I’ve been in a book store in years. I usually order everything online ‘cause I don’t have to search for it and it’s delivered right to my house.”

  Alice kept her smile in place. She heard some version of this a few times a week. Everyone told her what great deals they found on Amazon. She wanted to tell them that Amazon couldn’t find your book when you didn’t remember anything except the author’s name started with a D and the cover had a seagull. But she could.

  “Anyway, I read this great book and I wanted to find the rest of the author’s stuff, but it’s all…” Karen paused, as if searching for the right word. “Out of print, I guess. And you have to buy them from little bookstores, but I don’t want to pay shipping and I thought…” Her voice trailed off and she looked around the store, as if wondering how she would ever find what she needed.

  “I’d be happy to help,” Alice said, doing her best to ooze reassurance. “Who’s the author?”

  “Um.” Karen reached into her bag, grabbed a red, zippered notebook, and pulled out a tablet. She turned it on, scrolled through a few pages, and then turned the screen toward Alice. “Browning Wordsworth Keats”, she announced. “No, wait. That’s not right.”

  Here he was again, the mysterious BWK. Now he was actually bringing people into her store, bless him. Alice said, “I think that’s the name of the man who’s posting the book, not the author.”

  She frowned. “Right. I knew that, I think.”

  “Can I see the book?” Alice held out her hand, and the dark-eyed girl passed her the e-reader. The cover was bright and clear like a photograph, but before she could take it all in, Alice accidentally touched the screen and it was gone, replaced by a line of books. “I’m sorry. I think I did something and lost the page.”

  The girl took it back with a smile. “You’ve never used one of these before? But, I guess you wouldn’t need one. You have a whole bookstore.”

  “Exactly,” Alice said, nodding.

  “My grandpapa just got a tablet for his birthday and we set it up to handle e-books. He didn’t think he’d like it, but his eyesight has gotten so bad that he pretty much gave up reading. Even the large print wasn’t enough. He’d tried books on tape and hated them. He said they all read so slowly.”

  “I would think reading on a screen is harder, not easier,” Alice said.

  “Oh, no.” The girl touched a few buttons and the font on the page enlarged. “He’s read more books in the last week than he’s read in the last three years. He’s so happy.”

  Alice stared down at the page. Bix’s face popped into her mind. He’d just mentioned how much he missed reading. “I didn’t know that they could do that,” she said.

  “Sure can,” the girl said. She tapped it a few times and turned it back to Alice. “Here it is.”

  “Beau Geste, by P.C. Wren.” Alice tried not to look surprised. “We have quite a few of his stories, including the sequels, Beau Sabreur and Beau Ideal. They made several movies out of this one. I think Gary Cooper played in one version.” She motioned her toward the far aisle. “Let me show you.”

  As the woman followed her down the row, Alice had a sudden thought. “Have you ever been to the website run by Browning Wordsworth Keats?”

  “Sure, but my friend May is on it a lot more. She loves old books. Her house is packed with them. Not just the romances, but everything, like this one called Tom the Telephone Boy, about a kid who runs the switchboard in his town.” She laughed. “May keeps telling me to read it, but I don’t think I’d understand half of it. Everything is so outdated.”

  Alice nodded, even though Karen couldn’t see her face. “Even some of the kids’ books from the sixties are sort of lost in translation.” She motioned to another aisle. “We have the reissued Encyclopedia Brown books and I loved those when I was little. But I had a lady come in, asking to return them. Her grandson said a lot of the mysteries didn’t make sense anymore. With cell phones, people can be reached night and day. Plus, you can Google anything and there’s no reason to have a boy detective at all.”

  Karen paused at the end of the aisle, reaching out to touch a book. “I know what she means. I was a French major and liked the title of Beau Geste, so I clicked on it, but the first chapter or so was a real struggle. It wasn’t just the language, it was…” She stopped. “When they’re puzzling out a murder and talking about breech-loading rifles and bayonets, I could understand that. But it was when I realized the whole book was wrapped around this idea of always doing what is right, even to the point of sacrificing yourself for your family honor, I thought it just wasn’t the kind of book I wanted right then. Not exactly light reading.” She turned, smiling. “But I didn’t stop reading it. And now I’m looking for all the others.”

  Alice felt her smile widen in response. “If someone told you it was a book about three brothers joining the Foreign Legion, fighting terrible battles, and the main character dies in the end…”

  “No way I’d ever read it,” Karen laughed. “But I’d already picked up Tess of the D’urbervilles after I watched the movie, so I was looking on the list for something else and…” She shrugged. “It wasn’t anything like Tess, but I’m glad I read it.”

  “Let’s find those sequels, then.” Alice started down the aisle and stopped near the end, pointing to the middle shelf. “You’ll find all of Wren’s work here, and some similar books. I’ll let you browse for a bit.”

  “Thank you,” Karen said, already scanning the titles.

  Alice walked slowly back to her desk. Her mind had been caught up in the lawyer’s letter and for a moment it was hard for her to see how one new customer could make a difference, but now she felt optimism rise in her. She wasn’t one to fan-girl over anyone, except an author, but she just might make an exception for the mysterious BWK.

  She opened her laptop, and in a few clicks she was back on his site. There were a hundred and fifty more comments on the thread she’d been reading a few days before, and
another forty people had joined the group dedicated to Gothic romances. She clicked onto the About Me page and stared at his profile. She leaned closer, noting the way his hand casually reached to straighten his loose tie. It was a nice hand, with strong fingers and manicured nails. The slight beard stubble, his tan skin, and the way the collar of his shirt was perfectly pressed, made her think of an Italian mobster. But he was probably trying to channel someone cooler, like Hugh Jackman in that really long movie about Australia.

  She leaned back, absent-mindedly fiddling with the rings on her necklace. Either it was a staged photo or the man had style and money. Money for the expensive shirt and tie, style to pull it all together with a sly smile. Or it wasn’t even him. BWK could be anyone, anywhere.

  Something about that thought gave her courage and she hovered the mouse over the contact button, and then finally clicked. There was an email address but any messages probably just got some automated response. Alice chewed her bottom lip and then quickly opened her email, pasting in the address. She didn’t know what to write. She wasn’t even sure why she was writing him. But she felt compelled to reach out, even knowing she must be one of literally hundreds of people wanting to make a connection to this person.

  Dear Mr. (or Mrs.? Miss?) Keats,

  I’m sure I’m one of thousands who feel the need to write and thank you for your hard work. I can’t imagine the time and effort needed to create and maintain this website, unless you have a dedicated team of assistants. No one solely interested in monetary gain would give this much of his or her time.

  Alice stared at the screen for a moment. That was enough. He didn’t need to know anything about her and probably wouldn’t read it anyway. But she found herself continuing.

  I own a bookstore dedicated to rare and classic books. I just met one of your customers. She’d discovered Beau Geste and was looking for more of P.C. Wren’s work. I suppose you could say that I’m writing to thank you for the sales. My shop is suffering and has been for a long while, so this was a wonderful surprise on a usually quiet morning.

  I wish everyone had access to real books, but if that’s not possible, I’m glad they get a chance to experience them on a screen.

  If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.

  Sincerely,

  Alice Augustine

  By the Book

  Natchitoches, Louisiana

  Alice pushed send before she could change her mind. She really wasn’t one to send fan letters, but this was more of a thank you note, really. Plus, nobody was on the other side of that email, probably.

  “There you are.” Eric’s voice made her jump in her chair. “Did you get my message?”

  Alice turned, feeling her face flush with guilt. She closed her laptop and stood up, catching her thigh painfully on the edge of the desk. “I’m so sorry! I forgot to call you back.” She reached out to give him a big hug but he stepped back.

  “I really feel like you’re ignoring me, Alice. Maybe I should ask you to pencil in a few minutes on your calendar because just calling doesn’t seem to be working. Maybe I should make an appointment.” Eric’s handsome face was devoid of any humor.

  Alice felt, to her horror, a laugh welling up. The stress of the legal problem and the surprise of seeing him made her want to laugh. And she couldn’t force back the realization that Eric sounded just like a girl she was friends with when she was little. Well, not really friends, because Lorinda nagged her incessantly so that their play times always went exactly as she wanted.

  “You think this is funny? I’m not kidding.” Now his arms were crossed and he was giving her a look of total outrage.

  “I’m sorry. I’m―” Alice covered her face for a moment and tried to get control. Eric was a nice guy. She really shouldn’t be laughing at his very understandable pique. “I had a shock this morning.”

  “Excuse me, I think I have everything I want.” Karen’s soft voice interrupted the tense moment and Alice stepped to the side.

  “Come right over here to the register.” She motioned toward the long counter where Charlie usually sat on a stool. Karen crossed the tile floor, glancing back at them.

  “I’m sorry,” Alice whispered, reaching up on tiptoes to give Eric a kiss. “Come back at lunch time and I’ll leave Charlie in charge for a bit. We can go grab a sandwich at Babet’s Cafe. I need your advice on something.”

  Eric shook his head and for a moment Alice thought he was going to walk away from her in anger. “Okay, but don’t forget. I have a root canal scheduled for two this afternoon and I can’t be late.” He softened, leaning his blond head towards hers. “I’ll meet you and we can walk over. It’s such a beautiful day.”

  She gave him another quick kiss and whispered, “Promise.”

  As he went out the door, Alice wondered at the way he hadn’t asked about what had shocked her, or what she needed to tell him. She thought of how many times she’d forgotten to call him. She liked Eric and enjoyed his company when she wasn’t feeling guilty about forgetting him. But something was wrong, either with her heart or with him.

  Chapter Six

  If it keeps up, man will atrophy all his limbs but the push button finger.

  ―Frank Lloyd Wright

  Paul settled back in the leather reclining seat and did his best to ignore the fact they were no longer in contact with the earth. He closed his eyes and let out long, slow breaths. His doctor had offered to prescribe a mild sedative but Paul didn’t like the idea of taking a pill just because he couldn’t handle his fears. His mama had asked him to get the jet blessed by a priest but he never had. Now he was wondering about the wisdom of that oversight. At least he’d been to confession recently. Flying was a good way to keep himself on the straight and narrow. He really didn’t want to die in a state of sin. No matter how many times he got on a plane, he still felt the scrabble of panic in his throat as they made the slow climb into the clouds.

  “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).