“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 as if he 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.
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.
Chapter Seven
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 normal
ly 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.
He shook his head, half-turning “You wouldn’t believe me. And there’s nothing I can say to convince you. I’ve met people like you before. Stuck in the past, refusing to move into the modern world. I could quote the greatest minds of the past century and you’d still believe technology was a curse.”
Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series Page 7
