Closing the laptop, Alice stood up and crossed the room to the poetry section. If she was going to try and make amends, she should come bearing gifts. And she knew just the book to bring.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Despite our ever-connective technology, neither Skype nor Facebook- not even a telephone call- can come close to the joy of being with loved ones in person.”― Marlo Thomas
“No sign of reporters downstairs. They’re camped across the street but the guards are doing a good job keeping them away from the door.” Andy dropped a package into Paul’s lap. “You had something overnighted? I hope it’s pair of leggy models for the opening. I still don’t have a date.”
Paul glanced over and then logged out of the raid he was running with a team. The dungeon was boring him anyway.
“Hey, no need for that.” Andy frowned at his bad manners. A guy didn’t just drop a game and leave his buddies in the lurch.
“I’ll say it was a bad connection,” Paul said and reached for the package. “It’s a book I needed for the site. Alice sent it to the P.O. box.”
“Why? Couldn’t you just pick it up downstairs?”
Paul shot him a look.
“Oh, right. She doesn’t know your secret identity.” Andy unzipped his sweatshirt and tossed it on a chair. “So, Meg Ryan just sent Tom Hanks a book but…”
“No, Meg Ryan just sent NY152 a book, which was then overnighted to Tom Hanks, who lives above Meg Ryan and knows she’s Shopgirl, while she has no idea he’s NY152.”
“I’m a little disturbed you know that movie so well.”
“It was actually a remake of a 1937 play called Parfumerie by Miklós László.” Paul blew out a breath. “And it’s really not as fun as they made it sound.”
“But hey, at least you can say you’ve got mail,” Andy said, chuckling.
“You’re hilarious,” Paul said. He peeled the package open and The Duke’s Secret dropped into his hand. Alice had been right. The binding was broken, there were water spots on the cover, but all the pages were there. It was the perfect candidate for a Browning Wordsworth Keats upload. He might just make it through the day if he had another project.
“Are you leaving the apartment today or should I call your mom to help stage an intervention?”
“You want me to set up shop down at the Starbucks and see if I get anything done?” Paul walked to the table and picked up his X-ACTO knife.
Andy followed him. “Listen, I don’t care if you go into hibernation mode until the party. It would probably add to your mystique. But we’ve got some big meetings coming up. I need to make you sure you’re going to be at the top of your game. You seem… like you’ve been gutted by an orc and left on a pike at the city gates.”
Paul turned around, knife in hand. “Am I really giving that impression?”
Andy held up his hands. “Watch where you wave that thing. I’m just looking out for you.”
He went back to slicing pages out of the book. “I’m good. You know me.”
“Yeah, I do know you.” Andy’s voice was quiet. He didn’t say any more, moving toward the couch and picking up the controls.
Paul worked quickly, and soon The Duke’s Secret was stacked carefully, free of its binding and ready for the scanner. He examined every page for spots and tears but it was in remarkably good condition. And it only cost him a million dollars. He smiled at his own joke. Buying off Norma Green was one of the most satisfying things he’d done all year and he had no regrets.
He stacked the pages into the feeder and turned on the machine. The ScreenStop logo sticker had gotten scratched somehow during delivery and he smoothed back one of the angel’s wings. Alice’s letter to BWK still made him wonder. He wished he could walk down the hallway and ask her.
His cell phone rang and he answered it, frowning at the local number.
“Mr. Olivier? This is Peter Chatham from city hall.”
“Hi. How can I help you?” Paul punched a few buttons on the scanner and adjusted the papers, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“I wanted to let you know that Alice Augustine dropped the lawsuit against your company this morning. The injunction has been lifted and construction can resume on your building.”
Paul lifted his head and the phone fell to the floor with a crash. It bounced under the table and Paul stood motionless for a moment before he dropped to his knees and grabbed it. “I’m sorry. Can you say that again?”
“The injunction. She asked her lawyer to unsuit it, or cancel the petition for a temporary stay.” He was speaking slowly now, as if he didn’t think Paul was very bright.
“Thank you for telling me. Is there anything we need to do?”
“No, not on this end. If you had your lawyers preparing a defense then you can tell them they can let it go.”
Paul thanked him again and disconnected. He stood there, watching the pages of The Duke’s Secret slide into the scanner, disappear for a few minutes, then emerge out the other side.
“What was that about?” Andy called over, his gaze fixed on the screen as he fought his way through an army of white orcs.
“Alice dropped her suit.” Paul’s voice sounded odd to his own ears.
“What? It sounded like you said―”
Paul turned around. “I did. She did. And we have a store to open.”
Andy stared at him for a moment. Then he logged out of the game and stood up. “Let’s get this party started.”
“You just razzed me for dropping out of a game like that,” Paul said, laughing.
“Yeah, well, you did it for a piece of mail. This is serious.” Andy grabbed a laptop and pulled up the ScreenStop official page. “People are going to start getting real confused if we keep changing the venue.”
“I don’t think we’re going to have a problem.” Paul sat next to him, watching the seraph logo pop up on the screen and feeling an enormous sense of relief wash over him. The opening was happening. Fans wouldn’t be disappointed. And for some reason, he and Alice were no longer legal adversaries. Her letter to BWK was making more and more sense.
“Whoever said Mondays sucked never had a Monday like this one,” Paul said.
“Agreed. That girl could have done some damage. Forget selling gossip to TMZ. I’m just glad she didn’t decide to drop your dox onto one of those crazy fan boards. Someone got ahold of Steve Job’s info once. The next day, fifty pizzas and three tow trucks showed up at his house.”
Paul shook his head. “She never would have done that.”
“The girl sued you. I don’t think a pizza prank would be below her.” Andy typed a quick celebratory update and published it on the blog. He refreshed the page and watched the page views start climbing. He reached out and gave Paul a high five. “We’re in business again, my friend.”
***
Alice stirred the gumbo and inhaled the spicy scent. Monday meant washday gumbo. She smiled at the thought, remembering how Mrs. Perrault would sing as she cooked. Alice had always been in such a hurry when she was a teenager. If she’d tried to speed things up, Mrs. Perrault would say, “Slow down, honey! You try to stir too many pots and you'll end up putting vinegar in the pudding and vanilla extract in the turnip greens.”
When Alice told Bix what she had planned, he’d shooed her upstairs. “Nobody likes to eat at bedtime, sha,” he said. He’d refused to let her work that afternoon, declaring that she was taking a sick day, or a cooking day. It was for a good cause. She figured that if Paul didn’t want to open the door for her, he just might if he knew there was gumbo for dinner.
Alice took a taste of the rice and frowned. It needed a bit more pep. She grabbed the Louisiana hot sauce and gave the gumbo a few more dashes. She wasn’t a very convincing speaker, but a pot of hot gumbo and a book of good poetry might go a long way toward making amends. Rochester wandered through the kitchen and gave her a solemn look. He usually preferred to stay in the dim corners of the room and watch, but he stopped near the stove
. His one tattered ear and scarred forehead looked startling in the harsh light.
“Wish me luck, Rochester.” Alice leaned down and fed him a bit of shrimp. She could only hope Paul would as merciful as Jane Eyre, but nothing was for certain.
She changed into a deep green, sleeveless shirtdress with a white cardigan. Staring at her reflection, she realized she looked like a 1950’s housewife. All she needed was a kerchief and some horn-rimmed glasses. Alice sighed, stripped it all off and started over. Her closet was packed with cute clothes, but for some reason she couldn’t find anything to wear.
Twenty minutes later, she put the green dress back on and muttered to herself, “He’s not going to notice your dress. You’re bringing gumbo.” She slipped on some heels and, tucking the little book of poetry under her arm, and picking up the pot of gumbo, she made her way to the door. It took a little bit of balancing but she got the door shut behind her and started down the hallway. Her heart was pounding out of her chest and she focused on breathing slowly.
At the door, she poked the doorbell and listened to the old-fashioned jangle inside. She wondered if Paul and Andy thought it was ugly. They were probably used to a video intercom or something. She wasn’t really sure how the New York apartments were. Probably a lot nicer than this place.
There wasn’t any answer. Alice felt her throat go tight. What if they knew she was here and just didn’t want to answer? Her stomach curled in on itself. She reached out and hit the bell again, letting it ring a little longer. After a few seconds, she put her ear to the door. She couldn’t hear anything from inside. Their rental car was out front, but maybe they’d walked down to dinner at one of the cafés.
Alice looked at her little blue pot of gumbo. She should have called, but she was afraid she wouldn’t get the words out. Showing up in person with a big pot of steaming dinner sounded like a good idea at the time. She sighed, leaned forward, and rang the bell one more time. After a few seconds, she felt the vibration of footsteps and straightened up.
The door swung open. “Did you forget your key or―” Paul said. He stopped short when he saw her. He clutched a tiny towel around his waist. Soap bubbles clung to his chest. “I thought you were Andy.” He blinked at the pot. His hair was plastered to his head and water was dripping down his face. A small puddle formed at his feet.
Alice didn’t know where to look. She held out the gumbo a little then realized he couldn’t take it. “I made some gumbo for you. Because of the, you know, reporters.” She stared up at the ceiling.
He didn’t say anything, just stood there silently. The only sound in the room was water drops hitting the floor.
“I’ll just go.” Alice backed away.
“Thank you,” he said suddenly. “I wish I…” He shrugged, both hands still holding his towel.
“No, I understand.” Alice turned and walked back down the hallway, hearing the door of his apartment close with a thud. She made it back into her apartment and set the pot on the counter. Miss Elizabeth wandered over, tail twitching.
Reconciliation fail. She flopped onto the couch and threw an arm over her face. A note would have been fine. She must look like some kind of nut case. She groaned, grabbing a pillow and tossing it across the room. After a few minutes of jaw clenching and eye rolling, Alice sat up. Okay, that hadn’t gone well but it was a minor setback. At least he hadn’t called security and had her thrown out of his doorway.
There was a knock at her door and Alice froze. Looking around, she saw piles of books and cushions strewn over the floor, Mrs. Gaskell napping on the coffee table, cat toys, Jane Eyre lounging on the end of the couch, papers, and the dishes she’d left on the table. There was no way she could clean it all and still make it to the door before he turned around and left.
Alice opened the door and peeked out. “That was fast.”
He grinned. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was still wet but he had on a Tshirt and jeans. No shoes. The shirt was black and the image of an old Atari system on it. It read “Classically Trained.”
“The power of gumbo,” he said. “Sorry about that. For some reason the towels that got delivered are really…” He moved his hands close together. “I would have invited you in, but all I could think of was the fact I couldn’t really turn around.”
A guffaw burst out of her and Alice slapped a hand over her mouth.
“If I didn’t know better I’d think it was one of Andy’s pranks. But he’s stuck using them, too, so it was probably just a glitch in the order.” Paul stuck his hands in his pockets. “Any chance that dinner is still on offer?”
“Of course! But,” Alice glanced behind her. “I didn’t think I’d have guests and my place is a bit of a mess.”
He peeked over her head. “It looks perfect to me, but we can go back to my place if you want.”
“Let me just grab everything.” Alice dashed back to the counter. In seconds she was back at the door and Paul snapped to attention, pretending he hadn’t just been checking out her living room.
“Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and lots of cats. I never would have guessed.”
Alice grinned. She liked that he was curious about her life, and if she’d had five minutes to tidy up, she’d invite him to stay.
They walked down the hallway in silence and Alice snuck a glance at him. He seemed totally at ease. But, of course, he wasn’t the one trying to make up for filing a legal injunction.
Once they were in his kitchen, Paul hurried to the living room, straightening papers and closing a few laptops. He stood near what looked like a copier for a few seconds, stacking small sheets together and then carefully tucking them into an envelope.
As soon as he was back in the kitchen, Alice took off the lid. “Gumbo.” She took the book out from under her arm. “And a book of poetry I thought you might like.”
Paul stared down at the copy of The Seraphim and Other Poems. His mouth was open slightly and he seemed confused.
Alice rushed on. “The first day we met, you asked for a book of old poetry, remember?”
He nodded, slowly reaching for the little volume, running a finger over the letters on the cover.
“I have one just like it. This is the first time Elizabeth Barrett Browning published under her own name, so it’s really special. She was announcing herself to the world. No more pen names.” Alice swallowed. He heart was in her throat. “And I remembered what you said at the zydeco festival. You quoted Aurora Leigh so I thought you might like Elizabeth Barrett Browning poetry.”
He still hadn’t said anything.
“Do you have bowls? We should dish this up while it’s hot. Do you know when Andy’ll be back?” She knew she was jabbering but she couldn’t help it. He had the oddest look on his face, as if she’d given him one of her cats.
He reached out as she started toward the cabinets, his hand wrapping around her wrist. She looked down, surprised.
“Merci,” he said, his voice rough, the language of her childhood reaching out and grabbing her heart. “I can’t believe that after everything I’ve done to your life here, you still think you’re at fault.”
She watched the emotions flash over his face, feeling as if she was missing something very important. She started to speak, but he pulled her close. The stubble on his chin rasped against her skin as he pressed a kiss to her lips, then her cheeks, then her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered back to him in Creole, forcing the words out. “I never meant to bring all of this trouble on you.”
He held her face in his hands, switching to English. “And each man stands with his face in the light of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.”
Alice smiled. “So, you do like Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And I guess that means you accept my apology.”
Paul leaned forward as if he was going to kiss her again, and then seemed to decide against it. He dropped his hands to her shoulders. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath. Then another
. “You hardly touched the book and you smell like you’ve been handling dusty books all day. It’s really strange.” She glanced up, laughing. “Not that I’m complaining. The combination of Paul-plus-old-books is really fabulous.”
He wasn’t smiling. His gaze slid toward a piece of equipment in the living room and back to her. “I tried to tell you before. At the festival.” He waved a hand toward the machine and then said nothing. He acted like she should understand what he was trying to say.
Alice followed his gaze to what looked like a fancy printer. It had a decal on the side, the seraph logo of Paul’s company. On the table was the cover of a book stripped of its pages. She walked toward it, tendrils of shock creeping up her scalp. She reached out to pick it up, turning it over in her hands, unable to comprehend how The Duke’s Secret ended up back in Natchitoches when she’d sent it to New York City. Piece by piece, all the small details fell together. And then just as quickly, her life was tumbling away around her, leaving her teetering on a ledge.
The smell on his hands the first day, the seraph logo, the poetry, Beau Geste. Alice closed her eyes tight at her own blindness. She’d never met another person who quoted poetry in real life. She’d willfully ignored all the signs. How stupid she’d been.
She turned slowly, still holding the cover in her hands. She could see BWK now, the strong jaw, the stubble, the curve of his mouth. All he needed was a fedora tipped low over his face and a shelf of books behind him.
BWK. Her friend. Alice’s heart squeezed in her chest. He’d come to the zydeco festival after all. He’d been in Natchitoches the whole time. He’d also known about Norma Green and how her store had been threatened. After everything I’ve done to your life here.
“You’ve always wanted a building like this one,” she said, almost to herself.
“What?” Of all the things Paul had thought she would say, apparently this wasn’t one of them.
“You want to turn it into an office building. The cable guys told me. That’s why you wanted a good security system installed, too.” Alice rubbed her eyes. She refused to cry now. “I’ve been so blind. All of these little signs I tried to ignore. Nobody is that generous without a motive. I kept telling myself that you weren’t trying to buy us all off. I tried and tried to make myself believe you were just that nice.”
Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series Page 26
