Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “Lucky them,” she said. “I meant me.”

  After his ridiculous comment in the stairwell, he hadn’t been able to meet her eyes, expecting contempt, or at the very least, dismissal. But her expression was unexpected― a mixture of shyness, excitement, and hope. Andy wondered if maybe he hadn’t completely ruined his chance to get to know this woman. It shouldn’t matter, since he’d barely met her. They hardly knew each other. But there had been a tight knot under his ribs since he’d flubbed their meeting and as she smiled at him, he felt the knot loosen until it disappeared entirely.

  In fact, for the first time since he’d moved into the apartment above by the Book, he felt that relocating to Natchitoches wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

  Chapter Six

  Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always.

  ― Dante Alighieri

  The smell of the low country boil reminded Roxie how long it had been since she’d eaten real food. She wasn’t a fan of crawfish but a girl couldn’t live on wheat toast and sugar-less jam forever. Of course, a pile of crawfish wasn’t as good as a Philly cheesesteak, but it was better than anything she had in her refrigerator.

  She picked up a piece of corn and was taking a bite when she saw Paul reached out for Alice’s hand. They bowed their heads and Roxie tried to unobtrusively lower the cob to her plate. Andy turned his hand palm up, and she quickly wiped her hand on her jeans before resting her fingers on his. Paul recited a short Creole blessing and she quietly berated herself for the misstep. She wasn’t some heathen. It had simply been a long time since she’d eaten with anyone who prayed before a meal. Every dinner she’d shared with Mamere, she’d arrived after everyone had started eating and the tradition had completely slipped her mind.

  Paul finished the blessing and as Alice asked Andy about his family, Roxie surreptitiously checked her phone once more. No texts. No messages. No calls. Her aunt said she’d pick up Mamere and they’d meet on the riverfront thirty minutes ago, but maybe Roxie had gotten it wrong. Maybe Mamere was waiting back at her little house on Ash Street. Her stomach knotted.

  “Everything okay?” Andy asked quietly. His deep voice slipped under the higher pitched festival noise.

  “Sure,” she said, forcing a smile. “Sorry about that. Not trying to ignore you guys.”

  “Didn’t you say you were going to meet your grandma?” Alice handed Aurora an ear of corn. The baby gnawed on it with a satisfied expression.

  “Sometimes she’s late.” Roxie picked up a crawfish, turning it over in her hands. Actually, Mamere was never late. At least, not until this year. Now she was as unreliable as Roxie was.

  “Roxie’s grandma runs the bakery down on Trudeau Avenue. The cupcakes are incredible,” Alice said.

  Roxie froze. This was a conversation she didn’t want to have.

  “The little yellow place?” Andy had put down his food.

  Roxie looked over his head at the crowd. If only someone would come and rescue her. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “They were open just a few hours ago, right?” he asked. “What’s it called? Sunnyside Bakery?”

  “Sunshine,” Roxie said. “Sunshine Bakery.”

  “Such a great name,” Alice said. “It just sounds happy. Is that why she chose it?”

  For just a moment, Roxie considered lying. “She named it after me.”

  “Because of your sunny disposition?” Andy asked. His expression was carefully neutral.

  “Sunshine is my middle name.” She held his gaze and dared him to laugh. “Literally.”

  There was a split second pause and she could see him working on a response. “They have great beignets there,” Andy said.

  “You’re not going to say anything about the hideously cutesy name my mother gave me? Roxie Sunshine Hardy.” He didn’t react at all and she was trying to decide whether he didn’t understand her accent, or was just being carefully polite. “Oh, have you learned not to remark on Southern names? A person might think Itty Bitty or Sweetie or Queenie or Prince is a nickname, and it can get you in a bit of trouble.”

  Something about his perfectly straight face was starting to annoy her. She wanted him to say what was on his mind. Just because he wasn’t laughing didn’t mean he didn’t think it was funny. She knew he did. She could see it in the way his lips were pressed together and the way he carefully didn’t look at Paul or Alice.

  “You don’t look like a Roxie Sunshine.” And one side of his mouth twitched. “But you don’t look like you’re from around here, either.”

  If she hadn’t liked him before, she would have then. She’d never felt like she fit her name, not any of them, and she certainly never fit into Natchitoches. There were bayou backwaters, and then there was this town. Everybody knew everybody. There were no secrets. Most people thought a party wasn’t any good unless the cops got called, swapping possum recipes was the neighborly thing to do, and not ever traveling out of the state was a point of pride. You were lucky if you escaped after high school and never came back.

  She knew exactly what Andy thought of the crazy traditions, the weird food, and the slow-as-molasses accents. Of course, those accents were only slow until you made a person mad, then you’d be glad if you understood two words together. She’d never felt at home in this place and of course it would take an outsider to really understand.

  Just as she was reveling in the mutual hatred of Natchitoches, a wave of irritation rose up in her, and her eyes narrowed. As much as she disliked the place, it was still her hometown. It was just like when someone talked smack about your family and, even though you agreed whole-heartedly, you never let on.

  Roxie lifted a crawfish and, holding Andy’s gaze, cracked the tail off from the body. His eyes widened as she noisily sucked the juicy flesh of the crawfish into her mouth, and dropped the shells onto her plate with a clatter. “Oh,” she said, licking her lips, “I’m as Southern as they come.”

  He opened his mouth in surprise, or maybe he was going to respond but the words were drowned out by the start of another song. The live band was getting louder as the night wore on and the crowd grew rowdier, letting out whoops and cheers.

  Roxie glanced around, searching the crowd for any sign of Mamere and Auntie. Something was wrong and the prickly feeling at the back of her neck told her that it wouldn’t be anything as fixable as a plunger in the middle of the kitchen.

  ***

  Andy watched Roxie scan the crowd. He’d been stood up plenty of times, by friends and girlfriends and first dates. He’d flown thousands of miles for business meetings that fell apart, and attended product release parties that were gloomier than a funeral. Roxie’s expression, as muted and shuttered as it was, spoke of pure dread.

  He hadn’t thought of it before, but it occurred to him now that living above By the Book could signal family issues. If her family were local, surely they would have found her a place with some relative. Or maybe they were too poor to have the extra room. Or maybe they were the kind of relatives you could only be around for a little at a time.

  A movement caught his eye and he turned to see an older woman stepping out of the crowd. She made a beeline to their table, her eyes fixed on Roxie with a laser focus.

  “Cupcake, I can’t believe you made it out here after your long day,” she said.

  Roxie swiveled in her seat, then froze. For a moment, Andy wasn’t sure she was going to respond. Despite the sweet greeting, Roxie didn’t look particularly happy. “Hi, Mrs. Turpin. How are you?”

  Instead of answering, Mrs. Turpin glanced around the table, feigning surprise at the sight of them. “Goodness, I didn’t mean to interrupt. No, don’t get up. It’s just little ol’ me. I’m nobody.” She fiddled with the heavy purple necklace and waited for someone to contradict her.

  Alice knew a lot of people in town, and Paul had an encyclopedic knowledge of the residents, but they both smiled politely and said nothing.

  “Well, it’s lovely of you to take our Roxie
to the festival. She never did have many friends.” She leaned closer and whispered loudly. “Probably because of your weight and you know… the job.”

  Roxie’s face had gone pink.

  Weight?Job? Maybe she’d been obese and lost a lot of weight. He couldn’t remember her mentioning a job.

  “I’m not really… I was waiting for―” Roxie started to say.

  “And don’t worry about your outfit. With all the servers, you hardly stick out at all. I think it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed, but in a crowd this size, it hardly matters.”

  Roxie glanced down at her leather jacket and jeans. Her expression reminded him of his most painful moments in junior high.

  “Unless you get on the dance floor, of course. But that’s not going to happen, is it, Cupcake?”

  This woman was throwing out insults faster than he could absorb them and certainly faster than Roxie could respond. The endearment was a dead give away. Southern women liked to use them more than most, it seemed, but there seemed something intentional about the ‘cupcake’ label. Mrs. Turpin’s eyes flicked toward him and he realized that she’d meant the dancing dig to reflect on Roxie’s inability to find a partner, rather than her inability to dance.

  “Actually, we were just headed up there.” He stood up and held out his hand. Roxie glared up at him as if he’d just thrown her under the bus. Then she seemed to understand he wasn’t trying to humiliate her further.

  “I promised I would teach Andy how to dance to zydeco music.” She stood up and took his hand, her eyes still dark with anger. “Take care, Mrs. Turpin.”

  He followed her cue and they walked so quickly toward the bandstand that he hoped it looked as if they were overeager to start dancing, rather than running for safety. Reaching the edge of the dancefloor, she dropped his hand and wrapped her arms around herself. The music blared from speakers and the singer bellowed Creole into a microphone. The dancers looked like they were doing a crazy combo of country swing and the foxtrot. He thought of all the time he’d spent complaining about the crowded city clubs with thumping techno music. If only he’d known how bad it could get.

  “Relative?” he asked, leaning close to her ear. He caught a whiff of her shampoo. It smelled like apples. She didn’t seem like an apple shampoo kind of girl.

  She shot him a glance. “No.”

  They watched the dancers for a minute or two. He couldn’t tell if the song was winding down or not. Mrs. Turpin’s words echoed in his brain. He’d known people like her before. They seemed to thrive on the sneaky little insults and double meanings. They dropped bomb after bomb, and it was all very polite and well-meaning. A person couldn’t argue with that kind of verbal assassin without looking completely insane.

  “You look great, you know. As good as anybody here. You really don’t need to dress up.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You think I didn’t dress up?”

  “No, I mean… because of the…” He waved a hand at the women on the dance floor. Quite a few were wearing swirly skirts and cowboy boots. Some were in tight jeans and tighter shirts. She didn’t look like any of them. If you’d asked him a week ago, he’d have said women looked best in dresses and high heels, but she was perfect. From the top of her head to her battered boots, she was perfect.

  “And definitely not fat.”

  She turned to look at him. Her mouth was a tight line. “Well, that’s a relief. Unfortunately, I’m still short.”

  The music came to a stop and the dancers ceased their frantic movements a few seconds later. Andy wiped a hand over his face. “Honestly, I don’t mean to be…”

  “Offensive? That’s what Mrs. Turpin would say, too.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. The band leader called out for requests and the crowd on the dance floor responded with laughter and shouts. Andy didn’t even understand the titles. It was absurd, the way he was standing with a girl he’d offended, listening to music he disliked, and waiting to humiliate himself on the dancefloor.

  She let out a long breath, her shoulders slumping. “Listen, we don’t have to do this. Let’s just stand here for a bit and wait for her to go away.”

  “Won’t that look kind of weird?” He glanced back at the table. Mrs. Turpin had planted herself in Roxie’s spot.

  “Not any weirder than my dancing.”

  “You can’t dance at all?”

  “Not like this. Not like them. And my aunt says that if you can’t run with the big dogs, you should stay under the porch.”

  “Huh.” He realized they’d adopted the same pose, arms crossed over their chests. “I think there’s a lot to be said for dancing just because you like it, not because you’re any good at it.”

  Her lips turned up a little.

  “You mean, like singing in the shower?”

  “Exactly like singing in the shower.”

  “That feels like a challenge.” She smiled at him as if they were friends and that hallway conversation had never even happened. As if none of the stupid things he’d said had mattered.

  He reached over and took her hand. “Come on. Let’s get out from under the porch.”

  ***

  A waltz. Roxie gave a silent prayer of thanks. Besides having a sense of humor, God apparently had mercy on the athletically challenged, too. A waltz was a lot easier than a normal zydeco song. It was slower, had fewer steps, and a little more room for error. Unfortunately, it was also a lot more romantic. The couples held each other close. You could even have a conversation if you wanted.

  Andy turned her toward him, putting one arm around her waist. She was never rattled. Ever. Not by men. If anything, she always felt a little disconnected, no matter how stylish or handsome they were. When she was hit on by men back in Philly, she worked hard not to be bored. Party talk and dance floor flirting just wasn’t interesting to her. But now she hoped he couldn’t feel her hand shaking. It was embarrassing. The harder she tried to tamp it down, the more nervous she got.

  The music started and he took a few steps to the side. She awkwardly followed, trying to remember everything her mother had taught her about being led and not leading. He stepped forward and she shuffled out of his way. He shifted and she promptly stomped on his foot.

  “You should be wearing the steel-toed boots, not me.” She tried to sound as if she didn’t care but her face was hot.

  “You really can’t dance,” he said.

  “I told you.”

  “It’s all about rhythm, just find the rhythm.”

  “I can’t. I’ve tried before. I can’t even clap to the beat.”

  He directed her to the corner of the dance floor and stopped. “We can just hang out over here, swaying.”

  “Great plan.” They moved closer together. She could see the light blue iris of his eyes had dark rims, almost gray. The lashes were long and thick, something she hadn’t noticed before, probably because they were blonde like his hair. Dark brows were straight, no arch, and gave him the impression of being thoughtful. He hadn’t shaved that day or maybe he was one of those guys that grew a beard in ten hours. She’d already noticed his mouth, but she appraised it again, liking the way it turned up even when he wasn’t smiling. It was a friendly face, open and trustworthy.

  He cleared his throat and she realized she’d been analyzing him like a piece of art. She focused on someone over his shoulder, or tried to, since she couldn’t quite see over it.

  “So, what can you do?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you can’t dance, what can you do?”

  “Oh, I work at a fashion magazine in Philadelphia.”

  “And that’s what you’re good at?”

  Usually that style of questioning made Roxie want to throw something in the general direction of the interrogator, but she knew what he was asking.

  “I’m okay at it.” She glanced up at him. She could count on one hand the number of people who had really cared to hear what she was good at, and even those few lost interest after
a few minutes. She’d start to explain and their eyes would glaze over. It was usually better if she didn’t start. He was watching her, waiting for an answer.

  “I’m fluent in Ancient Greek,” she said.

  She felt satisfaction at his blink of surprise.

  “And Latin,” she said.

  He’d stopped swaying for a moment. “So your skill is being fluent in dead languages.”

  If this were her aunt speaking, she’d be long gone. She’d had a lifetime of condescending remarks over her choice of study. But he wasn’t asking to be polite. There was real curiosity in his voice.

  “I know a few that aren’t dead. Creole, French, Italian.”

  “This skill, do you sit around composing letters in Ancient Greek to all your friends? Or singing in Latin?” He still wasn’t moving. They were standing like statues on the edge of the dancefloor. He’d bent his head to hear her better. She was conscious of the way he was holding her hand as they talked. Maybe if her palm hadn’t been resting against his, she wouldn’t have told him anything at all.

  “I work on translating the epic stories and dramas. The old myths, the morality plays.”

  “Haven’t they already been translated?”

  “Of course. A bunch of times. But it’s not straightforward. The entire heroic tradition is all in dactylic hexameter verse.”

  He started moving again, shifting his feet from side to side, nothing elaborate. She managed to keep up with him without stomping on his feet.

  Staring up at the sky, he said slowly, “I’d always thought of translation as nothing more complicated than searching for the most straightforward meaning.”

  “Anybody can translate directions to the bathroom. But to translate a line of the Odyssey takes―”

  “A poet,” he said. “Alice made Aurora a shirt with a Frank McCourt quote. It says, ‘after a full belly, all is poetry’. Do you think that’s true?”

  She looked over his arm, past the trees wound with twinkle lights and the reflections on the slow-moving river, past the trees edging the far bank and up to the stars that shone in the clear, dark sky. “Yes,” she said. “I think that’s true.”