The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  He inhaled the smell of dark roast coffee and country bacon. His stomach spoke up then, and he vaulted out of bed. It was good to be home. It was even better to know that a full Southern breakfast waited for him somewhere close by. There must be a little café already up and serving breakfast.

  Paul didn’t bother to knock on Andy’s door. The guy had never been a morning person and Paul was positive that the promise of good country grits wouldn’t lure him out of bed. He grabbed a towel and headed for the bathroom. The shower was hot in a matter of seconds, another difference from his years growing up. Their tiny trailer had warm water three days out of seven and never enough for two people to shower in a row. He stripped off his pajamas and jumped into the steaming water. Money could buy a lot of creature comforts, that was certain.

  A few minutes later he threw on a pair of jeans, an old Donkey Kong T-Shirt, and his black Converse. He didn’t have any meetings today. Expensive suits would come later, when the big shots of Natchitoches started circling like gators in the bayou. Before college, he’d spent months submitting for city scholarships and gotten nothing. He wasn’t the right kind of kid, not from the right kind of family. Paul paused, his hand on his keys. No, he needed to think of them as partners, not the adversaries of his teen years. He swallowed back his bitterness and took a deep breath. That was all in the past. His full MIT scholarship had done what the city leaders hadn’t―given him the shot he needed to make it.

  He scribbled a quick note for Andy and headed out the door. Somewhere close was a hot Southern breakfast and he was going to find it.

  ***

  The door opened with a familiar tinkle and Alice looked up with a smile. It faded from her face in the next moment.

  “Hi, Eric.” She tried to sound welcoming, but this wasn’t how she’d imagined her first customer of the day. Dealing with the threat of a lawsuit was bad enough without boyfriend issues. Ex-boyfriend issues.

  “Hey,” he said, and cleared his throat. He looked like he’d put special effort into his appearance. An expensive button up shirt and nice slacks complemented a tailored suit jacket. “Am I picking you up tonight or were we just going to meet?”

  Alice blinked. For a moment she wondered if they’d talked through their argument, forgiven each other, made a date and then she’d forgotten about him, like she always did. “Meet where? For what?”

  “The zydeco festival. We made plans. Remember?” He leaned close, ducking his head a little.

  “I don’t remember.” Alice thought he must be trying for a certain boyish charm but what she saw was a man who thought he could manipulate her. “In fact, I don’t think we discussed the festival at all.”

  He straightened up. “Well, I’ll just pick you up at seven. The main stage is twenty feet from your store. It won’t hurt you to have some fun once in a while.”

  Alice stood. Eric was making her angry and didn’t even know it. She would go to the festival, but not because it was right outside her door. Her family’s history was intertwined with Creole music in a way that was hard to explain, but she would have tried, if Eric had ever asked, or even given her a chance to tell him about it. And in that moment, Alice realized how little Eric had ever cared about her. She knew everything about his daily stresses--the secretary who came in late every Monday, the billing system that took a genius to decode. She knew what his parents did for a living, that his sister traveled all over the world, that he hated hush puppies but loved cheese fries. She knew these things because she had cared.

  “Eric, do you know what my favorite color is?”

  “What?” He scanned the room. “How would I know that?”

  “It’s red. Do you know my favorite poet? Do I like my coffee with sugar and milk? Am I a morning person? How many brothers do I have?” She was standing in front of him now, arms crossed. She didn’t expect him to answer any of these questions.

  “Hold on, now. How could I know these things?” He looked panicked. “You like your coffee black,” he exclaimed, his gaze falling somewhere behind her.

  Alice turned and spied her coffee cup on her desk. “With sugar,” she corrected him. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Not a morning person. Four brothers.”

  He scowled, all his defenses were up now. “I just came in to ask you to the festival.”

  She sighed. “Eric, you didn’t come to ask me to the festival. You came to tell me we were going.”

  “Okay. Whatever. Are we going?”

  Alice looked around the store, wishing there was some answer written on the walls. She knew in her heart that she was right but it was difficult to explain to someone who was being willfully ignorant. “No, we’re not. And I’m not sure how to say this, but we’re not going to anything else, ever again. I thought I made it clear the other day.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is it about that guy, Paul Olivier? You’re dumping me for him? If you think he’s going to look twice at someone like you, then you’re really deluded.”

  For a moment it was hard for Alice to draw a breath. “Someone like me? What does that mean?” She held up a hand. “No, wait. I don’t want to know. I’ve always had the feeling that you didn’t think much of me, and now you’re proving me right.”

  He stepped toward her. “You think you can do better? Try it. There aren’t many guys like me in this nasty little backwater.”

  A deep voice cut into their conversation. “And what a good thing that is.”

  Alice jumped, seeing Paul standing there for the first time. She had been so focused on the argument that she hadn’t heard the door or seen him approach. His hair was wet, as if he’d just stepped out of a shower and he was freshly shaved. Although his face was carefully neutral, Alice heard real anger pulsing under his words.

  “Oh, you again. I knew this had something to do with you.” Eric turned, a sneer curling his lip.

  “Don’t blame me for your bad behavior. I’m guessing your were digging this grave long before I showed up in town,” Paul said. He was closer now, arms at his sides. Alice had the impression he was waiting for Eric to take a swing.

  “We were happy before you got here,” Eric said.

  Paul shook his head, as if starting to realize that arguing with Eric was a complete waste of energy. “So, I managed to ruin your relationship all in one day? I came in, bought a book, rented her apartment, and everything fell to pieces?”

  Eric swung around, glaring at Alice. “He’s living up there with you? Oh, that explains a lot.”

  Alice felt her face go hot even before the words completely sunk in. Her hand went to the rings at her neck, as if to shield them from what Eric had just said. She was a secure, intelligent, professional woman. But his insinuation touched something deep inside, where old hurts and shame lurked. Fury coursed through her. “Get out,” she whispered.

  “Don’t need to tell me twice. I don’t like to share.” He walked by Paul, smirking.

  Alice didn’t see the first swing, only saw Eric’s head snap to the side and then he went down. Paul hooked a hand into Eric’s belt, another under his collar and dragged-carried him to the door. He propped him up, opened the door, and tossed him out. Alice could see Eric through the glass door, stumbling to his feet, one hand over his cheekbone.

  Paul walked back to the desk, face tight with anger. His brown eyes seemed black under dark brows. He was breathing heavily.

  “That was completely unnecessary,” Alice hissed. She peered behind Paul, watching Eric walk away, his expression furious. People on the sidewalk turned their heads to stare, a few pointing out the man who had clearly just lost a fight.

  “I agree. But it felt great.”

  “You probably feel like you can do that sort of thing because you’re…” Alice was having trouble finding words.

  “Rich? Famous?”

  “From out of town! But I have to live here. People talk.” She put her hands to her face, feeling her cheeks burning. She felt sick at the thought of what Eric would tell people now.

&
nbsp; He sighed, examining his knuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.”

  “Obviously,” she said, letting the word stretch into the space between them.

  Paul shifted his feet, eyes downcast. He really did seem as if he regretted punching Eric and it certainly had happened faster than she could imagine. Maybe he was under as much stress as she was. She certainly wanted to punch Eric herself. Paul seemed calm and collected on the outside, but inside he might just be as hot-headed as she was.

  Alice felt a laugh rise in her throat. She tried to keep her face straight, but the memory of Eric’s expression as he went down to the floor had her giggling.

  Paul looked up. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  Alice covered her mouth, snickering. “I’m not a violent person,” she started to say.

  “But you enjoyed that a little bit?”

  She nodded, laughing. “Eric is one of those people who’d gripe with a ham under each arm. He is never happy.” Then her smile faded away. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, her resolution to avoid Paul Olivier had been broken. “Did you need something? Is everything all right with the apartment?”

  “Fine, everything’s fine,” he said. “I always sleep to blaring zydeco music.”

  “Me, too. Must be a Natchitoches thing.”

  “As for why I’m standing in your shop, I woke up and smelled the most amazing breakfast somewhere very close. Maple bacon, eggs, maybe some hash browns. Definitely good coffee. So I went looking. I’ve been up and down the block and can’t find the café. So, if you could just point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I’m afraid you just described my breakfast.”

  Paul gave her a quick scan from head to toe. “All of that? You must be a runner. Nobody can eat like that and stay so―”

  Alice waited. It had been a long time since anyone complimented her appearance. She shouldn’t have cared, but she really wanted to know what came after the “so.”

  His neck slowly turned redder and redder, and when the color reached his cheeks, she couldn’t hold back a smile. “That’s the nicest thing anybody has said about me for a long time.”

  “That you must be a runner?”

  “No, that they got out of bed and looked all over the block for my cooking.” She was teasing him and he knew it. The real compliment was the approving look and the longer pause. She thought of how Eric had never mentioned her appearance unless it was to suggest she straighten her hair or wear a little more make up because it fit his idea of a professional woman. Eric always talked about cholesterol, and salt intake, and how she should get a gym membership because working at a desk in a bookstore would shorten her lifespan.

  “I didn’t know the apartment came with olfactory torture.”

  “Wait until Monday. Gumbo simmers all day in a crock pot while I work. I can smell it through the vents.”

  “My mama always made gumbo on wash day, too,” he said, his lips tugging up.

  Alice nodded in surprise. Mrs. Perrault called Monday wash day, a tradition from back when the woman spent the day doing laundry and needed a meal that could simmer while they worked.

  He grinned, and she stood there, thinking of how good it felt to share a joke with him.

  His eyes dropped to her necklace. “Can I ask you something?”

  She paused. Paul already knew more about her than most people. She nodded.

  “What are the rings about?”

  Alice quickly tucked her necklace back in place under her shirt. “My parents’ wedding rings,” she said. She drew in a shaky breath. Eric had never asked that. How had she been so blind? That relationship had gone on about six months too long. “Sorry. You asked about breakfast. Two blocks east is Babet’s Diner. Great pancakes, grits, and eggs. Biscuits are better before ten or after four when she makes another batch,” she said.

  He nodded, looking as if he wanted to ask another question. “Thanks. I’ll head right over. And that’s a great Heinlein series. Starship Troopers is my favorite.”

  Alice was grateful she didn’t have to explain why her parents’ rings were around her neck and not on their fingers. She picked up one of the books, looking at the mass market 1950’s cover. “I’ve never read them. I’m not really into science fiction.”

  He’d turned toward the door, but came back and took the book from her hands. “These are in great condition, too. Starship Troopers was originally published as a serial called ‘Starship Soldier’ in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science. The interstellar war between the Terran Federation, which is Earth, and the Arachnids, which are called ‘The Bugs,’ was actually Heinlein’s way of defending his views on production of nuclear weapons.”

  “Okay. I never knew that.” Alice stared down at the stack of paperbacks. She wasn’t really sure what an interstellar war had to do with the nuclear arms race. Probably one of those things that people read into a book when the author had no intention of ever having written it.

  “There’s a real famous soliloquy about violence that people think glorifies militarism, but I think has more to do with Heinlein’s own views on moral philosophy, especially about how only veterans should be able to vote for a military intervention.” He paused. “I think what I love about science fiction is how it’s always just ahead of reality. Heinlein dreamed up this world of an all-volunteer, highly trained force in a time when our military was mostly conscripted.”

  Alice couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She nodded instead.

  He turned the book over in his hands, a smile touching his lips. “And the very best authors insert little nods to history, so even in this futuristic war, he’s sprinkled in World War I and World War II references, which a lot of men in his time caught and appreciated. Like my Granddaddy. He loved Heinlein. Maybe not so many readers catch it now, since the study of military history isn’t very popular.”

  Alice cleared her throat. She hadn’t felt this out of her depth in a long time. Charlie nagged at her to read fantasy, but Alice had never seen a reason. But the way Paul explained it, the stories were as relevant now as they were sixty years ago. Maybe more.

  He seemed to notice that she had nothing to say and frowned, weighing the paperback in his hand. “It sounds kinda strange, doesn’t it?” Then he snapped his fingers and said, “Well, it’s just like Beau Geste, really, with the themes of personal responsibility, never leaving a man behind, and doing the right thing even when it involves tremendous personal sacrifice.”

  “Oh!” Alice saw all the details start to fall into place and she nodded. “I think I know what you’re saying. And it’s really odd you should mention that book. I’ve talked to more people about Beau Geste in the last few days than I have in ten years. It must be coming back into popularity.”

  He was silent for a moment, carefully placing the Heinlein back on the stack. “I’d better get some breakfast. Sorry again for―”

  Bix burst through the door. “I was down at The Red Hen and Eric came in, caterwauling that you dumped him for that ScreenStop owner. But I told everybody it was impossible because you can’t stand the guy.” Bix seemed to see Paul at the same time he uttered the last words, right as he pulled up close to the desk. He turned, his straw hat askew and his green raincoat misbuttoned, and said, “Well, good mornin’, Paul.”

  Alice rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Beaulieu. Nice to see you again,” Paul said.

  “Call me Bix. So, the rumors are true?” Bix nudged his hat up and gave Paul a calculating look. “Let me tell ya, we keep a close eye on Miss Alice here. She don’t have a lot of family. We’re all she got. You think it’s all sweet sugar now, but there will be rules and expectations. None of that bossin’ her around, tellin’ her which lipstick you like, and not to wear red, and how she needs to exercise.”

  Paul’s lips were twitching. “I wouldn’t ask her to change a thing. She’s perfect just the way she is.”

  Ali
ce was in the middle of forming a protest but the words died in her throat. He was placating Bix, that was all. But the words seemed to reverberate in her somewhere, like the ringing of a bell, sending out little ripples of surprise and happiness.

  Bix continued, “And her store comes first. You get in between her and this shop, and it’ll be the end of you.”

  An awkward silence fell and Alice stared at her feet. Everything Bix said was true. Especially the shop part. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Her shop and his store, her town and his business. They were at odds, no matter how many compliments Paul sent her way or how many bookish conversations they had.

  “Duly noted, sir.” Paul looked like he got the message. He nodded to Alice. “Thanks for the tip on breakfast. You two have a good day.”

  Seconds later he was gone, the tinkling of the bell like a post script to their conversation. Alice stood there, staring at the door. She’d felt more emotion in the past hour than in the past month. And it had been a pretty rough month.

  Bix unbuttoned his coat and hung it behind the desk. “Well, I can’t blame ya. I told you to find a man, not a boy. Even before the fisticuffs, I’d say he fit the bill. Not just because he runs that big company, either. You get the feeling he’s worked hard to make it in the world and he doesn’t walk around complaining. He gets the job done.”

  “Bix, you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not dating. He just came in at a bad time. He was looking for directions to a good diner. And I don’t approve that kind of behavior, no matter what people will say.”

  “Not dating? You could have fooled me. I seen the way he looks at you. And if you’re not, why’d he take out his aggression on Eric? The guy got it good, one side of his face was already swellin’ up by the time he made it to The Red Hen.”