Padding back into her bedroom, she searched through her closet for the cheeriest sundress she could find. She had a whole closet of retro clothing but today she felt like celebrating the possibility of a new renter. Slipping on a fitted, red polka dot shirtdress and a little white sweater, Alice decided a simple ponytail would finish the look. Not that she ever did anything much with her hair, since it was untamable. She grabbed a pair of red patent heels and set them by the front door.
One more cup of coffee and she’d head downstairs. The black-and-white tile kitchen floor gleamed in the early morning sunlight. She lifted the double-hung window above the old porcelain kitchen sink, propped it with a chipped mug that was older than she was, and inhaled. The air smelled of the river a few hundred feet away, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the humidity was finally easing off. A feeling of intense satisfaction filled her. She led a charmed life, compared to most of the world. Even with her money worries, her existence was about as peaceful as anyone could ask for.
Looking across at the row of hardwood trees that edged the opposite bank of Cane River Lake, she remembered the moment she’d learned Mr. Perrault had left her the shop. She was a month from graduating with a degree in English Literature. She’d already enrolled in a master’s of education program, assuming she would do what English majors did and teach. But Mr. Perrault’s last will changed the trajectory of her life, spinning her out of the program and back to Natchitoches.
Her college friends did their best to warn her, even sitting her down in a sort of intervention, laying out all the reasons she shouldn’t return to her tiny hometown. But what they didn’t understand was that Alice liked her quiet life, her small town, her Cane River people. She had never yearned for the big city. She was content in this place and she felt no shame in choosing it. In fact, she was thrilled to come home. The first years after college her friends would travel from Atlanta or Miami or Seattle. They wanted to experience the food, the accents and the cypress groves without the commitment of trying to make a living in the tiny tourist town. Alice was happy to play tour director. As much as they encouraged her to travel to their cities, she just never found the time.
Alice turned, letting her gaze wander over her little kitchen and toward the bright living room where every wall was covered with full bookshelves and the furniture was more comfortable than stylish. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to find the time. Maybe it had never been a question of money. This place was as much a part of her as her love of classic literature or her collection of cats.
When Cane River Lake flooded five years ago, she was out in the rain with everyone else, loading sandbags and praying for a miracle. When the grade school organized a bake sale to benefit the soccer team, she spent a whole weekend making pies, even though she’d never played soccer in her life. When the parish council wanted to impose an extra tax on little barbeque stands in the region, she picketed in front of city hall with her neighbors. She, Alice, who avoided crowds with the dedication of the truly introverted, had stood shoulder to shoulder with them and felt at home.
The smile that touched her lips at the memory, now slowly faded away. There was a new threat in town. It wasn’t flooding or a lack of school supplies or exorbitant taxes. But it was just as insidious, just as damaging. Alice pulled in a long breath, as if steadying herself for an argument. That ScreenStop store was not what Natchitoches needed. Her people had a culture that was unique to Louisiana, unique in all of the South, and she wasn’t about to let some entertainment giant kill it off with a steady diet of immorally violent games filled with bikini-clad warrior maidens. Mr. Perrault had given her countless lectures on the damaging effects of modern media and she was glad she’d listened. She kept her life simple and as low tech as possible. She ignored the fashion mags, didn’t watch the talk shows, and refused to get sucked into the latest TV shows. Especially the TV. Really, it seemed like every Emmy winner was either sickeningly violent or extolled a shallow kind of lifestyle contrary to everything she held dear.
If she had to track down the council person that gave ScreenStop an okay without a vote, she would. She was going to stop the construction any way she could. If they moved it across the river toward the other big box stores, she might be able to live with it, but there was no way she was going to let that technological eyesore exist down the block from her building.
Alice picked up her mail and flipped through the stack. She needed to get going or she’d be late opening the store. She refused to be lazy about the store hours, even if there weren’t many customers. She opened the first envelope without glancing at the return address and scanned the front page.
…Norma R. Green, hereafter known as the Testator, challenges the Last Will and Testament of Mr. Ronald B. Perrault. The Testator, also an heir at law by blood relation, was named in the will of the decedent as inheritor of By the Book until 2009, when the current will was written to benefit Miss Alice Augustine. The Testator appeals to the court for a review of the unintentional exclusion of Mrs. Norma R. Green, in light of the possible unsound mind of Mr. Perrault or the possibility his actions were made under duress.
Alice snatched up the envelope and stared, heart racing. She forced herself to breathe, sat down, then took a glance at the page again. Mr. Perrault’s will was being contested five years after he’d passed away? Maybe it was a mistake. She found the number of the lawyer’s office, someplace in Houston, and punched it in.
A secretary answered and Alice explained what she’d received, hating the quiver in her voice. The secretary transferred her, a man answered the line, and seconds later she was hearing the sound of her life being turned upside down.
“I’m glad you called, Alice. My client would like to reach a fair and equitable resolution to this problem,” Mr. Crocket said.
“I’m sorry. What problem? And how does your client know Mr. Perrault? He had no children or other relatives that I was aware of,” Alice said.
“No, she’s not a child. She’s his niece, his sister’s child. Mr. Perrault and his sister weren’t close.”
“But… the paper I got says that Norma was in the previous will? Is that correct?”
He sounded pleased. “Exactly. It must be an oversight. She was the heir to all the Perrault’s property and assets until 2009, when a new will was drawn up, with you as the beneficiary. Since it doesn’t exclude her specifically, we can only assume it’s a simple oversight.”
“The paper says he might have made the will when he wasn’t of sound mind or that he was under duress. I can tell you he was perfectly sane and no one forced him to give me the store. I didn’t even know he had until he’d passed away.” She tried not to let her anger show at the suggestion of forcing Mr. Perrault to change his will.
“Well, I think it’s best to let a court decide whether he meant to exclude his beloved niece, Norma.” Mr. Crocket’s voice had gone steely.
“Beloved? She didn’t even know he was dead!”
“Miss Augustine, I suggest you retain a lawyer to present your case. You’re aware of the petition to the court and if we can’t come to an agreement about the property, then we’ll have to let a higher authority decide.”
“The property. It’s just a store. And I live above it. I mean, there’s another apartment but the rent money only offsets the amount the store is losing…” Alice couldn’t help stuttering.
“The store may not be worth much, but the property has been appraised at seven hundred thousand dollars because of the parcel of property, the location, and the historic nature of the building. If you’re willing to meet with us, my client is amenable to being bought out from her share of the property. A third of the appraised value would be sufficient.”
Alice slumped against the chair. This woman and her lawyer wanted a quarter million dollars or they would take her to court to contest the will. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“If the building is sold, then the profits could be split evenly between you,” he suggested.
&n
bsp; “I won’t sell the bookstore. Mr. Perrault left it to me.”
“Well, again, I’d advise you to hire a lawyer. Or you can take our offer. If the judge finds in favor of my client, then you could be left with nothing.”
Alice felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if the walls were closing in on her. Black spots appeared in her vision. “Goodbye, Mr. Crocket,” she whispered and hung up. She leaned over, whispering prayers learned in childhood, the French words coming to her unbidden. God wouldn’t let someone take her store, would He? She’d lived her life according to all His commandments, carefully guarding her eyes and her heart, making her store a place of refuge from the gritty ugliness of the modern world. Didn’t that count for anything?
The sound of the phone ringing so close to her head made Alice jump. The lawyer might be calling her back to harass her into selling the store. Alice held her breath, not making a sound, as if the person on the other end might sense she was there.
The ringing stopped, and her own voice filled the room. Then there was a beep, followed by an extremely loud sigh.
“Alice, pick up the phone. I know you’re there,” Eric said.
She grimaced. Why couldn’t he just leave a message like everyone else? Why did she have to talk to him at eight in the morning?
“Come on, Alice. I called last night and left a message. It’s really your turn to call me, but here I am, talking into the void.”
Ouch. That was right. She’d forgotten all about him.
“I hate your machine. I know you know that. Nobody uses them anymore. They cut you off just as you’re―” Beeep!
Alice stood up, eyes wide, hand hovering over the receiver. Too late to pick up now, and probably not a good time to call back. He’d be irritated with her for not answering. She tried to tell herself that it was simply hard to pretend to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. Truthfully, she just didn’t like to talk to Eric on the phone. He had one of those personalities that was better in person. Face to face, his rapid-fire speech and expressive voice was entertaining. On the phone, he seemed bossy and off-putting. She’d text him when she got downstairs and ask him to meet her for lunch. That would patch things up. Plus, she could really use some advice. Eric was a dentist, not a lawyer, but he might know what to do.
Alice took her mug of coffee and headed down the narrow, wooden stairs from her apartment to the back of the shop. It was Friday and Charlie would be in soon, because she had a half day of school on Friday. When she’d told Alice that she wanted to apply to work in ScreenStop, it had hit Alice hard, right in the heart. The lawyer’s letter was a kick to the same spot. Alice knew she might be fighting a losing battle to keep her store, preserve their culture, and swim against the rising tide of technology, but she couldn’t let any of it go. She was going to encourage Charlie in every way that being Creole was important. It was sacred. She’d speak French, even when Charlie answered in English. She’d remind Charlie to be proud of what she’d been given by birth. If only Charlie would give up the gaming and come back to what really mattered. Alice would explain it the way Mr. Perrault had explained to her. Charlie would understand how much was at stake. She had to.
***
“All ready?” Paul kept his voice as upbeat as possible.
“Huh.” Andy responded with a grunt. In the background of the call, Paul could hear clanking and thuds. “With every item I pack, I ask myself again why we’re doing this.”
“Must be a short answer. Or you’re not packing very quickly.”
“I don’t get any answer, so now I’m finished.” He heard Andy pull a long zipper.
“You don’t have to go,” Paul said. He wanted Andy to come to Natchitoches, but he didn’t want his friend to feel miserable, either. It might be better if the CTO just stayed in the big city.
“Nope. I’m in. Just questioning my own good judgment and your sanity. Did you get the apartment lined up?”
“We’re seeing it this afternoon. Try not to look like a party animal,” Paul said.
“I’ll do my best ‘working stiff’ impression. And this place will be high tech, right? We’re not going to be adjusting the rabbit ears to watch a game or playing on an old Atari or something?”
“It may not be now, but it will be when I’m done with it,” Paul said, laughing a bit. He was sure the place had cable. Well, actually not very sure. But they could get a good gaming set up installed in a few hours. As soon as the lease was signed, he’d have everything overnighted. He’d managed to get the building permit shoved through faster than he’d ever dreamed possible. Surely he could get the manager to install cable Internet service. “I’ve got to pack. The car should be there to pick you up in about an hour. Meet you at the gate.”
“You’d better. Paul and Andy’s Excellent Creole Adventure is about to begin.”
Paul disconnected, but instead of starting to pack, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. New York City teemed with bodies, noise, and choking exhaust fumes, but that was far, far below the glass walls of Paul’s high rise bedroom. He stared out at the skyline and wondered if he should just cancel the entire Cane River project. He must be crazy to think of coming back to that backwater. Maybe Andy was right. Was he making a bad business decision just to satisfy his ego? He took a long moment to let the idea sit, and then he shook his head. No, Andy was only partly right.
Paul headed to the walk-in closet, where he pulled a suitcase from the back. It was true, he didn’t need to spend two months in Natchitoches. He could open the store and fly in for the night, maybe two. His ego had everything to do with dropping out of his life in New York City to show off to the people who used to make him feel like trash. But he was certain it was a good business decision and the store would be successful. He wanted to cram his rags-to-riches story down a few throats, but he wasn’t stupid enough to throw away a million dollars to do it.
Paul slid one of his favorite T-shirts into his suitcase and paused. It had been so long since he’d been home, he wasn’t even sure what to wear. He grabbed another shirt, a black one with a favorite band logo on the front. He had a closet of nice suits he’d use for meetings and media events. The rest of the time, he wouldn’t wear anything out of the usual. He knew better than anyone that putting on a nice suit didn’t make you popular in Natchitoches. You had to really be someone. Of course, there were different levels of being “someone”. It was always better to be born someone than to work your way up, but if you had enough money, sometimes you got a sort of honorary “someone” status. It wasn’t always sincere, but you got to hang around with the old families and eat dinner at their long dinner tables, and date their daughters, just back from a few years in Europe or an Ivy League college. You were tolerated, if you were rich enough, no matter which side of the river your family came from in the beginning.
Tolerated. He clenched his jaw at the thought and slammed another worn out T-shirt on the pile. He wasn’t the skinny geek anymore. He had money, power, and influence on his side. More than that, he was famous. Fame counted for everything these days.
He threw in socks, underwear, and his favorite jeans, and zipped the case closed. He’d hired Andy because he was the right guy for the job, but Andy was his best friend because the guy didn’t care how many followers you had on Twitter or how many likes your business page had on Facebook. Andy understood the real measure of a man was wrapped up in faith, honor, and living above the standards of world. He knew that the rest was all show, just numbers and bits of data floating around in cyberspace, masquerading as reality.
Paul had learned to walk the fine line, to play the game. He played it so well, he’d become the master, making millions in stock off the sheer popularity of his name. When he wore a gray hoody, gray hoodies sold out. When he let himself be photographed with an iPad, sales went through the roof. Paul knew how to work the media, turning the Internet to his advantage, and he wasn’t going to let that skill go to waste in Cane River.
Sliding into his desk
chair, he brought up the ticket information again. Today he’d be voluntarily stepping back into the place that had nothing but a few good memories. His stomach dropped at the thought. Bringing up his email, he saw the realtor was ready to show the apartment. She’d sent him a few pictures of the inside. It wasn’t anything close to his penthouse suite, but Paul was satisfied. He didn’t want anything from this century. He wanted to stay in one of those historic homes with the twelve-foot ceilings adorned with vintage chandeliers, and living rooms with exposed brick walls and enormous fireplaces. It spoke of all the places he was denied when he was growing up. It was the kind of place he’d never even have been allowed to tour, before he created ScreenStop and made his fortune. And the historic district was perfect. Not because it was close to the new site, but because it was where everything important happened. Rich people lived, shopped, and hobnobbed there. The buildings were uniformly old and showy. Paul could have rented the graceful wooden river house with the wraparound porch for the whole two months, but he wanted this apartment. He needed it. He was going to come back to Natchitoches as if he’d born in high cotton, not dirt poor.
He leaned back and gazed at the photos of the enormous, sunny living room. He’d outfit the place with a sixty inch TV, the best gaming system around, and turn it into the techno bachelor pad he’d always dreamed of when he was fifteen. A wide smile spread over his face. They say the best revenge is success. Well, the wealthy snobs of Natchitoches better watch out. The day of reckoning was at hand. In a few hours, Paul Olivier was coming back to town and nobody was going to be able ignore him this time.
Or not. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest, Paul whispered to himself. Alexander Pope said it, but he also had a lot to say about focusing on the good, instead of wasting energy on what couldn’t be changed. Paul opened one of the cardboard boxes and searched through the contents. He had just enough time to scan in a small volume of old poetry if he was quick about it. As if in answer to his unspoken question, he saw a slim volume of Alexander Pope poetry and essays.
The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance Page 4
