The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance (8 page)

            Paul
swallowed a lump of unease. This was more complicated than he thought it would
be. But he couldn’t think of any other way around the problem. He knew one
thing for sure. He had to know if Alice Augustine, Natchitoches bookstore owner
and swapper of intimate shelf portraits, was for real.

I force people to have coffee with
me, just because I don’t trust that

a friendship can be maintained with
any other senses besides a computer

or a cell phone screen. ―
John Cusack

            Alice
sat down at her desk and stared at Van Winkle. It must be great to sleep one’s
life away in a patch of sunshine. She wished with all her might that the legal
letter would disappear, along with “Norma the beloved niece.” She rubbed her
parents’ wedding rings between her thumb and forefinger, trying to calm her
thoughts. There was no use worrying about it right then. She couldn’t do a
thing until she found a lawyer.

            She
wandered the store, desperate for some distraction from her anxiety. She wanted
to call this woman and ask what gave her the right to take something that
wasn’t hers. More than anything, she wished she could talk to Mr. Perrault.

             Apart
from the customer looking for books by BWK, no one else had opened the door.
Alice had enjoyed talking to Karen, and had even exchanged phone numbers with
her after the woman mentioned wanting to talk about the books she’d read with
someone over coffee. Karen said the online forums were fun, but they could never
replace a face-to-face book discussion over coffee. With that, Alice warmed to
her completely. As different as they were, they were also very much alike. They
both preferred friends to be of the breathing variety, rather than the cold
screen and profile picture type.

            Alice
caught sight of her little shelf of personal books and grimaced. She should
know better than to share private information with strangers. But he’d seemed
so real, so much like herself. They even had the same small volume of poetry,
The Seraphim and Other Poems. Except for the science fiction part. She couldn’t
see how reading that much sci-fi would serve anybody well in the real world.

            With
every new email, she’d been drawn in to the conversation, beginning to think of
him as a new friend. After an hour passed with no response, Alice wished she
could snatch back the picture and hide it away. She’d been flirting and was
ashamed of herself. Maybe he hadn’t read it that way, but she felt the way her
heart rate quickened every time she’d seen a new message. Of all the traits she
respected the most, loyalty was one of the highest and she hadn’t shown Eric
any loyalty this morning.

            A
lot of people would laugh at her scruples, but Alice saw it very clearly. She’d
become momentarily infatuated with someone she’d never met and completely
forgotten Eric.
Again.
He was coming to take her to lunch in less than
an hour and he hadn’t even crossed her mind.

            Alice
hung her head for a moment. Eric deserved better. He deserved honesty. Slumping
into her chair, she caught her reflection in the long mirror across the room. She
sat up straighter. Starting now, she’d be a better person, inside and out. She
squinted. Maybe she’d neglected her outside a bit, too. Her normally tan skin
reminded her of Dickens’ description of Miss Havisham’s wedding dress: “pale,
like something shut up inside too long.” The shock from this morning showed. She
put her hands to her cheeks and rubbed them. Maybe she needed to get into the
sun a little more. Her dark hair was going every which way, but that wasn’t
unusual and she didn’t bother to redo her ponytail. Her brothers used to joke
that she looked like Marge Simpson in the mornings, her hair a towering column
of crazy curls. It wasn’t quite that bad at the moment, but it was definitely
not a smooth, professional look. She didn’t really care. She had bigger
problems.

            She
drew back her lips, showing off her best asset: straight, white teeth. The
mirror was dusty and the
glass wavered with age, but the image reflected
wasn’t too bad, considering. She turned her face to one side, and then the
other, keeping her wide smile in place. Squinting, she lifted her chin and
noted the softening of her jawline. Every year, she looked more and more like the
old photos of her mother.

             “It
doesn’t bother me. Doesn’t bother me a single bit,” she said into the quiet,
but she heard the lie in her own voice.

            She
tossed her ponytail over one shoulder and flashed another smile. Her upper-eye
area seemed puffy. She hadn’t cried when she’d read the legal letter so maybe
she was retaining water. She widened her eyes and smiled again, trying to
reproduce the look of a girl ten years younger.

            The
barest echo made Alice’s heart drop, along with her smile. She whirled in her
chair, hoping it was just the mail falling through the slot, or Charlie coming
in early so she could go to lunch. A man stood just outside the glass door,
eyes fixed on her. He was young, tall, with straight black hair. His tailored button-up
shirt and jeans said he was wealthy and on vacation. His expression was a cross
between amusement and confusion.

            Alice
held his gaze, willing him to move on. Her mind flashed to the letter, but that
lawyer had lived in Houston. This man was likely a customer, but she didn’t
care if he was looking to buy half her inventory, she wanted him to keep
walking. He’d caught her preening at the mirror and she didn’t think her ego could
hold up under a whole conversation.

            As
if he knew what she was thinking, his mouth tugged up in a smile. Pushing the
door open, he stepped into the dim interior as the tiny brass bell announced
his arrival a few minutes too late. He walked confidently, as if he’d been born
into privilege.

            When
customers came in, Alice usually hopped out of her chair and came to see if
they needed any particular help. But this time she felt rooted to the seat,
like a toad caught crossing the highway, frozen in the high beams of an old
pick-up truck. She watched him saunter in, gaze locked on hers, until he stood
directly in front of her. The corners of his eyes crinkled and Alice edged his
age up a little further, closer to thirty than twenty.

            He
took in the snoozing Van Winkle, the piles of papers, her coffee mug steaming
gently. He turned, slowly scanning the room. “A mirror,” he said. His voice was
deep and his accent was local, but muted, as if he hadn’t been home in a long
time.

            “Excuse
me?”

            “I
assumed you were having a conversation with someone you didn’t care for, but
you were simply menacing your own reflection.”

            Several
responses flew through her mind but she didn’t want to speak any of them aloud.
She was a modern woman who treated herself kindly, including daily pep talks on
body image and being good enough for any man who had the brains to look past
bra size and her slight tendency to gain weight in the winter. If anyone had
asked, she would have declared herself more confident and secure than the
general female population.

            “I
looked pale,” she muttered.

            A
dark brow arched upward. “Feeling okay?”

            “Perfectly
fine, thanks.” Aside from an ebbing tide of residual embarrassment. “How can I
help you?”

            “I’m
looking for old poetry. Specifically Alexander Pope and Robert Browning,” he
said.

            He
was fit but bulkier than a runner. She would have said businessman from the
understated watch with the leather band, but his shoes were battered black Converse.
He was looking at her, a smile tugging at his lips and she realized she’d been
giving him the whole body scan.

            She
pushed back from her desk. “Our poetry section is small, but I have quite a few
first editions.”

            “It
doesn’t matter which editions. Anything will be fine.” He stepped aside to let
her pass and she smelled something really good, a cross between a man and…old
books. She led the way toward the front of the store and into the poetry
section, but halfway down the narrow aisle she turned to face him.

            “Are
you a collector?” No, she already that knew that wasn’t right. He would have
specified an edition or a publisher.

            “Not
exactly.” He smiled, but there was a tightness to his mouth. He glanced over
her head. “Are they at the end? I can find them. No need to trouble yourself.”

            “Are
you a bookseller?” She’d stepped forward without thinking. The sunlight was
filtering through the range, hitting him in the chest, illuminating his neck
and stubbled chin, putting his eyes into shadow. Something was wrong with this
man who didn’t care which editions he wanted but smelled like he’d rolled in a
pile of old manuscripts.

            “Kinda
sorta,” he said. He shrugged, as if pretending to be mysterious and a little
bit flirtatious. but as he moved, the sun flashed across his face and Alice
caught the hint of panic in his eyes. He didn’t want to tell her what he was
doing.

             “You’re
not… You’re not one of those people, are you? The ones who rip out pages from
perfectly good books to make horrible art that ignorant folk hang on their
walls so they can feel literary and bookish?” She dropped her hand to the shelf,
steadying herself against the thought. She stepped forward, her nose almost
touching his chest, and inhaled deeply. He held his hands up in surprise and
she caught his wrist, pulling his palm towards her. He smelled wonderful, because
on his skin was the unmistakable scent of dusty books.            

            She
was filled with outrage. “You are. I can smell them on you. Murderer!”

            He
laughed--a deep, warm sound. “I assure you. I am no book murderer.”            

            “Then
tell me what you’re going to do with them,” Alice said, dropping his hand.

            His
gaze went over her head toward the leather bound books at the end of the row,
like a hungry man who could smell gumbo simmering on the stove. He didn’t
answer.

            “You
can’t have them.” She crossed her arms. Everything about him spoke of privilege
and wealth. He probably got his way in every bookstore he wandered into,
especially with that laugh. Her bookstore was operating in the red but she’d
rather die than let a book meet its end that way.

            “But
you run a bookstore. Are you telling me that you won’t sell me any books?” His voice
had dropped an octave and he spoke very deliberately.

            “That’s
what I’m saying. They tell me you can find anything you need on the Internet so―”

            “They
tell you that, do they?” His lips turned up, but there was steel in his smile.

            Alice
ignored him. “I’m only prolonging the process a tiny bit but,” she tossed her
hair back and straightened her shoulders, “I’ll be darned if I’m going to hand
over a rare book to a… a book murderer.”

            “I
said I wasn’t--” He rubbed a hand over his face. He was really nice looking, in
an offbeat sort of way. If life were like the movies, he’d always be cast as
the not-too-handsome supporting actor, the kind that viewers naturally trusted
and admired. But she knew better.

            “People
like you are the reason the world has given up reading,” Alice said. “Everyone
is stuck on their phones and their computers, never bothering to pick up a book
unless they want to make some horrible art out of it, which they can post on Facebook
for all their friends. But these,” she touched the leather bound volumes, her
voice rising, “are my friends. I only want them to go home with people who will
treasure them.”

            His
eyes narrowed. “That’s a lot of persnickety proprietary nonsense. And that’s also
why you’re not making any money.”

            She
sucked in air. “Who said I wasn’t making any money?”

            “I
did.” He gestured to the center of the store. “No trinkets, no greeting cards.
No board games or junior chemistry sets. No coffee mugs with inspiring
quotations or T-shirts with Colin’s Firth’s face.”

            “I
don’t run a Hallmark store. I sell―”

            “I
know.” He stepped closer. They were just inches apart now. “You sell books.
There’s no real money in books, you know. Especially if you work yourself into
damp spot on the floor trying
not
to sell them, even to people who come
in and ask for them ever so politely.”

            She
blinked up, struggling to ignore that part of biology that convinces a woman
that a handsome man means well, even when his words don’t add up.

             “Are
you a book smuggler? Do you sell them on the black market? Just tell me what
you’re doing and let me decide whether to give you the books,” she said.

            “The
black market? You mean eBay?” He seemed honestly confused by her question.

            “Just
tell me.”

            “I
can’t.”

            “It
couldn’t be worse than what I’m thinking. Anything that doesn’t physically harm
a book should be okay.” She wasn’t sure if what she was saying was exactly
true. She preferred that books be read, of course. She’d sold a beautiful set
of Thomas Hardy to a realtor from Atlanta, who then moved it from house to
house as scene-setting décor, never to be read. That still bothered her and
every now and then, late at night, she dreamed of stealing them back.