The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance

by Hathaway, Mary Jane

  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, 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 cafes.

  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 coul
dn’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.”

  He stepped toward her. “Alice, it’s true. I paid off Norma Green but―”

  “You’re so clever, really. I would never have agreed to it if I’d known it was you. But as BWK you could walk in here, scope out the place, get set up, and make your move. They call that a hostile take-over, right?”

  “I don’t own this building. The security system was a good idea, to keep you and your books safe. Everything is still in your name.” Paul said, frustration coloring his words.

  “Your mom came to my store and asked me to leave you alone. I thought that was so sweet.” For some reason the thought of Mrs. Olivier hurt more than almost anything else. “I really liked her, you know. Maybe she was more worried about me than about you. She already knew, didn’t she? About how you bought the building?”

  “Alice! I didn’t buy your building and she doesn’t know anything about BWK.” Paul ran a hand through his hair, tension in every line of his body.

  “Sorry, but I just don’t believe you. It’s hard to trust someone who has lied to your face every day you’ve known them.” Alice looked down at the cover of The Duke’s Secret. “Ironic, really,” she whispered to herself.

  She turned toward the door, stopping to ask one more question. “You didn’t really buy those Arthur Rackham prints for a friend, did you?”

  He looked pained. “I admit it. That was a lie. I just wanted to make up for being such a jerk.”

  “No, Paul. That’s called buying people off.” She picked up the Browning book. “You have one of these, right? Unless you already stripped the pages out of it and fed it through your machine.”

  “Alice, wait―” Paul said but the rest of his sentence was lost when she slammed the door.

  She arrived at her apartment, not having seen a single step of the way, tears running down her cheeks. She should have trusted her first instinct and known that Paul was busy buying off the town. Nobody was that generous, that
thoughtful. Everyone wanted money and power. It was part of the human condition.

  She stood in the middle of her living room, weeping and clutching The Seraphim and Other Poems to her chest. After losing her parents and Mr. Perrault, watching her grandmother slide into dementia, and then having her brothers drift away into their own busy lives, Alice thought the world couldn’t break her. She thought she was stronger than anything life could throw at her. She certainly thought she was safe from someone she’d only met a few weeks ago.

  Everything she’d known about herself was shifting, changing. She wasn’t invincible. Her comfortable life had been completely open to anyone who wished to plunder it, and she hadn’t even known.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Everything is fraught with danger. I love technology and I love science. It’s just always all in the way you use it. You can’t really blame anything on the technology. It’s just the way people use it, and it always has been.—Steve Martin

  “We’ve got cosplayers on the sidewalk with broadswords and metal detectors,” Andy said. He was staring out the front window.

  Paul heaved himself off the couch and stood next to Andy. Tuesday had started with the undeniable influx of out-of-towners searching for Alice’s rings, hoping to win the grand prize at the opening.

  “They’re scaring the locals. We should ask them to leave off the body armor until the party.” Paul went back to the couch and slouched into the cushions, reopening his book. The sun streamed through the window and it would have been ideal if he hadn’t been in such a foul mood.

  “And the chainmail bikinis. Not that I really object,” Andy said.

  Paul grunted and turned a page.

  “Hey, Sparkly Vampire, life is still worth living.” He came and sat on the coffee table across from him. “Did her gumbo not taste like your mom’s? That stuff was spicy. I felt like my mouth was melting.”