The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (7 page)

            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.”

            “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.

            “I’ll
be careful. It’s just email,” Paul said. He pulled the laptop closer.

            “Uh
huh. That’s what they all say.”

            “Who
says? This isn’t going to end up like Stephen King’s
Misery
,
with me tied to a bed by some crazed fan.”

            “I
sure hope not. And I meant people who meet their spouses online. My cousin fell
in love with this woman from New Zealand and he kept saying it was just a few
emails. He lives on the other side of the planet now and they’ve got four kids.”

            “That’s
not happening here. She’s a bookstore owner from Natchitoches.” Paul shrugged.
“I can’t think of anybody less likely to be a candidate for my affections than
someone who lives in that gator swamp.”

            Andy’s
mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me. Please tell me you’re kidding. Your
secret identity is corresponding with someone from your real-life home town?”

            “It’s
nothing really. I only heard of the woman a few hours ago. It doesn’t mean
anything so keep your shirt on. I’m not planning a big Creole wedding so I can
settle down in the bayou and leave you in charge of everything.”

            Andy
didn’t laugh. “If you say so.” He looked like as if wanted to say more, but
decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He turned back to his reports.

            Paul
clicked on the attachment, already deciding not to respond to the picture.
Whatever it was, it would have to wait, probably indefinitely.

            The
photo that popped up wasn’t Alice or the store. It was a picture of a
bookshelf. It wasn’t the tidy organized line of leather bound volumes he was
expecting. It was a very personal picture, as personal as it could get between
bookish types. His face creased with a grin. She was letting him see what no
one else saw: the jumble of best-loved books, side by side like adopted
siblings. They had no connection, except for the fact the same person loved
them all.

            He
leaned closer, cocking his head to read the titles. His smile widened. He never
would have guessed, not in a million years. Alexander Pope essays next to Louisa
May Alcott next to John Green next to Jane Austen’s
Emma
next to some big science fiction tome with a dragon on the spine next to
something called
Fat Vampire
.
He let out a chuckle when he recognized Jane Eyre between
Freakonomics
and
The
Big Book of Southern Cakes
. A whole row of Alan Bradley
mysteries hogged the second shelf but they were sandwiched between a
bookbinding manual and the letters of St. Teresa of Avila.

            “I
really hope that goofy smile isn’t for something she sent.” Andy spoke into his
papers, a scowl on his face.

            Paul
forced himself to sit back and look uninterested. “Just a picture of books. That’s
all.”

            Andy
sent him a long look. “I find that hard to believe.”

            “Only
the truth, my friend.” Paul kept his tone offhand. He should close the picture
and wait until later, but he might not get another chance anytime soon. They
had meetings all afternoon. He tried to seem uninterested but it was hard to
casually crane his neck to read the titles.

            Then
he felt his smile fade. A leather bound book, the gold lettering clearly
visible, was almost lost between
The Wind in the Willows
and a picture book on the periodic table of elements. What were the chances
Alice would have the same little book of poetry? He knew that first edition was
rare, it had taken him ages to track it down. But not only did she have it, it
was in a treasured spot on the messy shelf of most-beloved books.

            He
stood up and walked to the window. His mind was turning the possibilities over
and over. She could have searched out a copy before contacting him and staged
the picture. She was the one who asked about his shelf first, after all. She’s
the one who brought up Elizabeth Barrett Browning and implied that it led to
the whole reason she owned the store. He paced up and down in front of the
window, wishing he could be more suspicious, and then wished he could be more
trusting because he truly wanted to believe in a world of such wonderful
coincidences.

            Paul
turned back to the window, staring down at the fields below. Time was slipping
away and all he’d done was flirt with someone he’d never met. He had a book to
scan and real work to do. He should forget all about Alice and her books, never
respond to another message. That would be the logical step, especially for a
famous billionaire pursued by all kinds of unsavory people and who had that
small issue of a secret online identity.

            But
he knew he wouldn’t. Even as he considered it, he pushed it back out of his
mind. Paul walked to his briefcase and pulled out the tidy pile of old pages
that he’d cut from the Alexander Pope poetry book. Opening the portable
scanner, he gently started to feed the pages through the machine. The red
seraph logo on the side was the only thing that connected ScreenStop to his
other life.

             There
was only one way to resolve the mystery of Alice. He would meet her face-to-face
and see if she really was everything her bookshelf claimed to be. The only problem
would be that she wouldn’t know who he was. To her, he would be Paul Olivier,
businessman.