The man shot a look at her as Darcy sauntered away.
“Jane Eyre?”
“No.”
A whisper of sound made him turn his head, but Alice stood stock still. Maybe if she didn’t move, Jane Eyre would go back into hiding. The next moment, the striped tabby stepped from between a row of books and put her nose to the man’s pant leg. He cocked his head and a small smile touched his lips.
“Mr. Rochester? Everybody loves him. Crazy wife in the attic and all.”
“No.” She wanted to keep him from guessing but couldn’t figure out whether to push him toward the poetry or out the door. A movement drew her gaze and Alice couldn’t believe her eyes as Mr. Rochester took up a position at the end of the row. His tattered ear was even uglier in the bright sunlight, and he looked mangy and old. Something in her expression made the man turn around and his smile spread into a grin. Then he went back to guessing.
“Elizabeth? Mrs. Bennet?”
“No and no. We weren’t talking about my cats. We were―”
“Just how many cats do you have?” He sounded simultaneously amused and alarmed as Miss Elizabeth padded over, her eyes bright with excitement, Mrs. Bennet following right behind her.
“Not that many,” Alice exclaimed. Her cats had never once responded to her, even for breakfast. They came when they wanted, as if they owned the building and she was just living at their convenience. But they all seemed to know it was time to visit the obnoxious know-it-all customer today and prove how truly odd Alice was.
“It’s from a romance. Definitely something made into a BBC movie. Let me think.” He put a finger to his chin and pretended to consider it, but cracked an almost-suppressed smile. If she hadn’t been so irritated, she would have let herself admire him a little more.
“It could be from a horror novel for all you know.”
“You’re a romantic,” he said. “Look at the size of your poetry section.”
She couldn’t think of a word to say. She’d been called a lot of things. Odd, weird, reclusive, introverted, quiet. She’d even been called impossible to please by a few boyfriends. Just last week, Eric called her stubborn because she refused to trade in her perfectly nice car for something newer. But no one had ever called her a romantic. And she was, to her very core, a romantic.
Every relationship she’d ever had was doomed from the start because the men couldn’t measure up to her book heroes. She wanted a Darcy, a Rochester, a Thornton, a Colonel Brandon, a Captain Wentworth. Alice couldn’t change that fact, no matter how much she tried. This dark secret fueled her fear that she would never find true love, never marry. Now this stranger stood there describing her so perfectly, it felt like someone had peeled back a layer of her skin and exposed her very heart beating within her chest.
“Her name is Mrs. Gaskell,” she whispered.
He snapped his fingers. “Right! The author of North and South. Richard Armitage as the cotton mill owner.” He glanced at her face and the smile faded away. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, his voice no longer teasing.
Alice looked at her feet. The whole day had been a disaster and it wasn’t even noon. She’d flirted ridiculously online, accused a customer of book abuse, been called the early version of a crazy cat lady, and now she was going to sell this man some books even though she really, really wished he’d just go away. She lifted her head to tell him to choose what he wanted, but she couldn’t seem to get the words past the ache in her throat.
He seemed uncomfortable now. “About the books, they’ll be read and enjoyed, I promise,” he said. He cleared his throat, as if waiting for her to continue the argument. She stayed silent. There was something like tenderness in his eyes as he said, “They’re not for me.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. Some of these books have been in Cane River families for generations. They were passed down from father to son, from mother to daughter. These aren’t just books. They’re part of our city history, and I won’t allow someone to destroy them. I know you think that’s backwards and silly.”
He dropped his head, leaving his face shadowed again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was just surprised by your questions.”
Alice tried to pull herself together. “I don’t know why you would be. You’ve met lots of people just like me before, right?” She pointed toward the poetry section. “Help yourself. I’m sorry I made this difficult for you.” She heard the softness in her voice, the little waver at the end of her words, and hated it.
He paused, as if searching for something else to say, then shook his head. He walked away, leaving Alice alone.
She dropped into her chair and stared at the top of her desk, watching Van Winkle’s chest rise and fall with every breath as he slept. She had always thought of herself as a complex, intricate person, woven together of all the complicated characters she’d ever read and re-read. She considered herself part Creole woman raised by an old woman who was too tired to really bother with an angry teen girl and part Mr. Perrault’s living depository of book knowledge. Her past was bright college-girl freedom and her present was working-woman worries. She was a dedicated hometown girl and the historic district business owner who always felt as if she’d lucked into her life. But no matter what she’d always thought of herself, maybe she really was just someone who was afraid to join the real world. Her romantic nature seemed charming in this little place, but to the rest of the population, she was a nut job.
She rested her chin in both hands and thought about the picture she’d sent Browning Wordsworth Keats. How desperate she must have looked, sending him a picture of her shelf. He probably brushed it off. She was nobody to him and he certainly wouldn’t give it a second glance.
It shouldn’t matter, but it did, because Alice knew her own heart. She’d taken out the cell phone she never used, took her first mobile photo, sent it to herself on email and then on to him. That was a lot of trouble for a man who didn’t even give out his real name. It was a whole lot more trouble than she took for the man she was actually dating.
As if called by her thoughts, there was a jingling at the door and Eric stepped through. Alice stood up, forcing a smile. It seemed impossible that she could have forgotten that they had a date, yet again.
As bad as this day was going, it was about to get worse. She had to tell him the truth. They weren’t meant to be together. He was better off with someone who could remember he existed.
Chapter Eight
Technological society has succeeded in multiplying the opportunities for pleasure,
but it has great difficulty in generating joy. ― Pope Paul VI
Paul stood with an old leather book in his hands, cracked open to a random page, his gaze unfocused on the words. He’d only planned to pop into the store long enough to take the measure of her and then go on to meet the realtor. He couldn’t have predicted how his plan would go. The little book he’d scanned on the plane left enough book dust behind that she’d noticed. His mind flashed to the moment she’d stepped forward, put her face in his shirt, then grabbed his hand and smelled his palm. He choked back a laugh at the memory. He’d never been manhandled by a bookstore owner before and he had to admit he hadn’t minded a bit. She must have superhuman olfactory senses along with those green eyes and perfect skin. But it wasn’t just that she surprised him by asking what he was doing with the books, or even that she’d smelled it on him in the first place. It wasn’t the uncannily astute questions or the whirlwind of the conversation, either. It was that she was ten times prettier than her pictures and a hundred times more captivating than any of those little notes.
He knew he’d been treading on thin ice this morning but now he was in genuine trouble. Of all the women he’d ever known, Paul had never been so instantly smitten. He wanted to know everything about her life here, ask her about those rings she wore on that necklace, ask her opinion on all his favorite books, and he especially wanted to impress the socks off her. Which would be pretty
difficult now that he’d insulted her to her face.
Paul slammed the book closed and didn’t bother to open the next. He’d acted like a complete jerk, implying she would die alone and surrounded by cats. He’d never been the smoothest guy in the room but this was a new low, even for him. Maybe his manners had sunk to that level without him noticing because most people cared more about his money and name, rather than whether or not he was decent human being. Andy would have told him to shut up if he’d been here, but Paul had sent him on an errand at the opposite end of the city so he could make this trip in secret. That was his first mistake.
Shame made his neck go hot. He needed to apologize. Whether or not they ever wrote each other again, whether or not she helped him find books he needed, whether or not they ever had another conversation. His conscience burned at the memory of the things he’d said. His mother hadn’t raised him to speak like that to anyone, especially a woman.
He trudged down the aisle toward the little desk, forming his apology in his mind. He stopped short at the end of the range by the sight of Alice planting a kiss on a man’s mouth. The man turned and gave him a look of surprise, which Paul was sure matched his own expression. He hadn’t expected Alice to have a boyfriend although she’d never said she didn’t. Paul swept a look from the man’s blond head to his too-tight polo shirt to his tasseled loafers.
“Are you ready?” Alice came toward him, holding out her hand. Her cheeks looked pink but she didn’t have the glow of a woman in love. She seemed under stress, anxious.
But of course she was. Paul was still in her store. She probably thought he was going to launch into another litany of insults. “Almost. I was wondering if you had a few more books I need.”
The blond man let out a deep sigh. “Where’s Charlie? You promised she’d be here and we’d go to lunch. I know I didn’t imagine that.” His voice was bordering on whiney and it grated on Paul’s nerves.
Paul saw the little grimace Alice made, but she recovered quickly and turned back with a smile. “Sorry, Eric. She’ll be here in a few minutes. I think you’re early. We said noon, right?”
Eric shrugged. “Okay, but if we say noon for lunch, that means I come down here at eleven forty-five so we can get to the restaurant in time.”
“Oh, did you make a reservation somewhere? How thoughtful.” Alice’s voice was a little too sweet. Her sarcasm said this guy wasn’t the type to bother with making a reservation at a nice place on a Friday at noon, but he wasn’t above whining when his plans got bumped.
She was half-turning back to Paul when Eric stumbled out a denial. “No, but I have patients waiting on me. You don’t even have customers, usually. You could close and no one would even notice.”
“I guess I would notice,” Paul said. He shouldn’t get involved but the man was talking as if Paul didn’t exist, even though they stood less than five feet apart. Paul was trying hard to keep a straight face. This couple was in the last stages of a relationship. They’d probably been together for years and years, clinging to the comfort of old arguments. He glanced at Alice, saw surprise in her eyes. She deserved better than this too-tight-polo-and-loafer guy.
Eric gave him a once over, letting his eyes rest on Paul’s favorite Converse shoes and then turned back to Alice, as if Paul hadn’t spoken. “Maybe you could call Charlie. I bet she answers her phone.”
Ouch. The snide comment made Paul’s offhand remark seem even more pointed. He saw Alice’s face go red and he regretted ever having said those words. He stepped toward Alice, holding up the book. “I’m sorry to keep you. If you need to leave, I can come back later.”
Alice bit her lip, glanced at the poetry books and then at Eric, as if mentally calculating how much it was worth to keep her boyfriend happy. “Well, maybe you should…”
“Or maybe I’ll just buy these if you don’t have the others I need,” Paul said. “It would take just a second to check your inventory, right?”
Eric made another noise and walked to Alice’s desk, slumping down in her chair. Alice kept her eyes straight ahead but her face went tight. Paul felt her frustration, being caught between the rudest customer she’d probably ever met and the boyfriend she apparently couldn’t stand.
“What are you looking for exactly?” she asked. “I’m afraid we don’t have much more poetry than what you saw in that section.”
The weariness in her voice triggered something in Paul, and he made a decision without really thinking it through. “I’m looking for a present. This person is a collector, has almost everything. I need something really impressive. Doesn’t matter what.”
Alice frowned. “It should matter if they’re a collector. Have you ever seen their shelves? Maybe you have some idea―”
“Nope. And don’t worry, I won’t come back and return it if he doesn’t like it,” Paul said. “But if you have something rare and valuable, I think that would be best.”
“Eleven fifty-two,” Eric intoned from the desk chair.
Alice closed her eyes briefly and Paul wondered if she was going to tell Eric to get out. Instead, she nodded. “I’ll show you where we keep our most valuable editions,” she said, and she led Paul toward the far side of the store, through a little doorway. There stood wall-to-wall cabinets, all climate-controlled. Paul peered into one case and was momentarily speechless. He didn’t expect this little shop to have a treasure-trove of rare books that would put his own collection to shame. He thought back to the front of the store and wondered why she had no security system, no cameras, no alarms. She was asking to be robbed of she didn’t take more precautions. But it all sort of fit with her refusal to join the modern world.
“A Farewell to Arms. Signed?” Paul didn’t need a signed copy and he didn’t really like Hemingway. But he knew how much that little book cost. He’d seen one in a bookstore in New York City for close to twenty thousand dollars. “Cat’s Cradle. I don’t think he has any Kurt Vonnegut.”
He moved to the next cabinet without waiting for her to answer. “You have a lot of children’s books,” he said, almost to himself.
“The previous owner, Mr. Perrault, had always wanted children but he and his wife were never blessed with any. “ Alice came to stand beside him and turned, eyes bright. “Would you like to see my favorite?” Paul nodded. If she had asked him to step off a cliff, he might have agreed. She took a small key from a bracelet around her wrist and opened a low display case.
She quickly tugged on a pair of white cotton gloves and brought out a cream-colored box. Inside was an artist’s portfolio. Leaning over, the rings on her necklace swung forward and he could see they were plain gold bands in two different sizes. She untied the ribbons and moved close to him so he could see. “It’s not really a book, but rather the pictures to a book. Little White Bird, by J.M. Barrie, was illustrated by―”
“Arthur Rackham,” Paul breathed. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Vellum gilt-edged pages, perfectly engraved plates of full-sized watercolors.
“Only twenty were signed even though the publisher had planned for hundreds. As far as we know, there are only twenty total.” Alice sighed. “Probably money issues.”
“I’ll take this one,” he said. “This will be perfect.”
Alice opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She looked conflicted. “I hate to tell you this, but the price is more than a new car. It’s a very rare portfolio.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, smiling.
“It’s almost sixty thousand dollars,” she said, already moving to put the folio back in the box.
“I’ll take it,” he said. He wasn’t trying to impress her with his wealth but he felt great satisfaction in knowing that buying this piece would make up for being a real jerk earlier. “I think my friend will really like it.”
Her hand stilled on the papers. He wondered if she’d hoped to save it for her own children, but then he figured she would have put it aside. Unless she couldn’t afford to put it aside for her future child
ren when her store was suffering. Paul blew out a breath. He didn’t know which way to go with this woman. It seemed whatever he did was wrong.
“Sorry, I probably seem like I don’t want to sell you a single thing in this store,” she said, rushing her words out. “I’m just surprised.” She glanced at him, smiling a little. “Not many people can buy a first edition like this. Let me get this wrapped back up in its box back to the register.”
“Thank you,” he said, feeling his shoulders relax. Maybe meeting him wasn’t a complete disaster on her side. Money didn’t solve everything but it sure helped soften the blow. He glanced around the small room, unsure if they would get another chance to speak alone. He cleared his throat, feeling more nervous than he had in a long time. “And I wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier.”
She looked up, meeting his gaze directly. “Don’t be. You were right.” Sadness touched her eyes. “Everything you said was right.”
He let out a short laugh. “Not everything, surely.”
She nodded. “Especially the part about―”
A teen girl with long blond hair came in at a trot, already talking before she was through the doorway. “Hey, Miss Alice! Why is Darcy down from his spot? Did you get the broom?”
“Darcy?” Paul asked. “I thought you didn’t have a cat named Darcy.”
“No, I said that particular cat wasn’t named Darcy,” Alice responded, her lips tugging up.
“You would have made a good lawyer,” he said.
“Oh, my gosh,” breathed the teenage girl. She came forward slowly, blue eyes wide. “Are you Paul Olivier?”
“Yes, I am.” He smiled and held out his hand.
She grasped it, shaking it reverently. “Wow,” she said. “Just… wow. I never thought I’d meet you. I’m Charlie Soule. I’m, like, your biggest fan ever.”
Alice stared from one to the other. “Are you an actor? I’m sorry, maybe I should have recognized you. I don’t watch TV.”
The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance Page 8
