“Dusty? That reminds me. My niece asked if you needed someone to come pass the mop once a week or so. She started a cleaning business all by herself called Nettie’s Nettoyage. She’s got five employees and two big vans. Maybe you seen them,” Bix said.
Alice glanced around. She would have died of embarrassment if anyone told her that By the Book was dirty, but apparently she’d just said as much herself and there wasn’t any way to deny it. “I suppose. Maybe I don’t even see it anymore. I’m thinking it’s clean while the dirt is just staring me in the face. You can give her my cell phone number.”
“I already did. She said you never answer. I explained how you’re against modern inventions.”
“I am not,” Alice protested. “You can’t possibly say that when I’m sitting in front of a laptop. I just believe all this technology has a place.”
“And that place is not in your pocket, right?” Bix smiled. “Everything here is outdated. Just look at that radio. It’s ancient.”
Alice laid a protective hand on the faded red radio. “This is a 1955 Admiral. People pay a lot of money for these.”
“Mm-hmm. And they pay more for something with stereo. My grandson has a little gizmo that holds fifteen hundred songs and fits in his pocket.”
Technology was meant to be a tool, not a crutch. The entire world had become dependent on gadgets for entertainment and personal happiness. But it was silly to argue with a man who was wearing a raincoat he got in 1944. Instead, Alice pulled out a folded sheet of newspaper from under the stack of receipts. “I’m not against the digital age, I’m really not. See here?” She tapped the headline and several inches of column underneath. “There’s some guy who’s uploading rare books to digital e-book platforms. People are rediscovering the classics, poetry, old myths.”
Bix cocked his head, the light reflecting off his thick glasses. “Those books have always been around. You go to any ol’ tag sale and you’ll find a bunch of old college textbooks.”
“Right. At tag sales. Not when you need them and not in perfect condition. If they’re copyrighted, they’re usually in print. If not, they can be impossible to find. Anyway, this guy, he scans them, checks for formatting issues, writes a bit of a commentary, and puts them online.” She leaned over the article and read aloud, “An e-book of lesser known works by the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins was published last month was received enthusiastically and shot to the top of the bestseller lists.”
“Well, it seems like that’s a fine thing to do, if you’ve got the time and the inclination. He must be an old guy like me with not much to do,” Bix said.
Alice scanned the article again. “Not sure. He uses a pen name, Browning Wordsworth Keats.” Alice smiled. She liked him already. “He also runs a website where people go to talk about their favorite authors and old books. Nobody really knows who he is. Which isn’t unusual, is it? Technology has made us just a bunch of profile pictures we can grab from anywhere.”
Bix shrugged. “Sounds like a smart move. He does this long enough and he’s going to run into someone who’s not happy about him making money off their great-great-grandpappy’s poetry.”
“Or great-great-grandmama’s poetry. He also just put up a collection of the works of women poets. Christina Rose tti, St. Therese of Lisieux, Hildegard of Bingen. He definitely went past the Brontes.”
“Sounds like one of those books with just the good stuff. You know, only the pieces you like in a five-inch anthology.” Bix scratched his chin. “Maybe you should get one of those e-readers.”
Alice had been thinking the same thing, but she slowly put the newspaper back on the desk. “I have a whole bookstore. I don’t need to buy an e-reader for just one book.” This is how it starts. One piece of seemingly harmless tech and the next thing you know, you can’t go anywhere without it. You get lazy and just download a copy instead of finding the book on the shelf. And the finding is half the fun. Browsing on either side, above and below, that is the joy of it.
“You don’t know until you try it. You could really be missing out. I’d get one, but I suppose I wouldn’t be able to see the print on a screen any better than on a page.”
Alice felt her heart squeeze at the thought. Even large print was too small for Bix now. “I just figure, if I don’t need it then I won’t miss it.” Alice tugged a few more receipts out from under Van Winkle’s midsection and reopened the Excel page. “Mais, I better get started here.”
“Me, too. I’m meeting Ruby for lunch. But where is Miss Elizabeth?” A few seconds later, a soft meow announced the arrival of the sleek calico. She stepped gracefully into view and Bix bent down, reaching out with both hands. “Up you go, Mamzelle. We have work to do.”
Bix headed toward the back room, Elizabeth perched on his shoulder, staring at Alice with bright eyes that always seemed quietly amused. Bix talked as he worked, and Alice could hear the kitty answer back every now and then, as if in complete agreement. They were a pair, those two. Alice couldn’t imagine one without the other, even though someday... She hurriedly grabbed a few receipts. She didn’t have her head in the sand. People moved away, moved on. They died. She was perfectly aware that someday Bix would be gone and she would have to hire new help. But not now, not today.
A yowl made her jump in her chair and she turned to hush the Siamese cat who trotted after Bix. “Mrs. Bennet, stop your fussing.” As long as Mrs. Bennet stuck close to Miss Elizabeth, she was fairly content, but the moment they were separated, headache-inducing protests began. The cat had the most annoying screech, but Alice couldn’t bear to send her away. She knew the bookstore had a few more than normal. To be honest, quite a few more cats than anyplace she’d ever been to, but they were her family now.
When they discussed books, Mr. Perrault used the Louisiana French that she heard at home when she was little, never correcting her or becoming frustrated when she didn’t know a word. Mrs. Perrault began to invite her upstairs to their apartment for dinner, then gradually extended the invitation to the hours before dinner, when all the cooking was being done. Alice watched at first, fascinated by the slow, methodical steps of Creole cooking. Within months, she could make jambalaya, gumbo, and Natchitoches meat pies by heart.
She didn’t realize until years later that the books were secondary to all the other things she’d learned. The Perraults gave her what had been lost when her parents died. Alice straightened up and blinked back tears. It had been eight years since Mrs. Perrault had passed, and five years since Alice and Mr. Perrault last shared a cup of tea. No use crying over them now. He would never want that. He would want her to work hard and keep By the Book a success, like it had always been. No matter how many people turned to other entertainment, he’d been sure that bookstores would never become extinct. It was all that separated the civilized and sophisticated from the unwashed, ignorant hordes. As long as there were enlightened people in the world, the rising tide of frivolous technology would not prevail. He’d believed it with his whole heart.
As for Alice, she had a healthy streak of pessimism to remind her that surviving and thriving were two very different things. The last Monday of every month told her clearly the bookstore was not thriving. It became even more apparent when the renter in the second apartment above the store moved out. The historic district was the chic place to live and the hefty rent helped By the Book break even. Without it, she was in real trouble.
She opened the laptop and waited for it to warm up. Although she hated Excel with everything in her, the day she’d driven off with the ledger on top of the car and lost several years’ worth of records, Alice had to concede that there might be a better way than pencil and paper.
She took a sip of coffee and squared her shoulders. No more dragging fanny. First, balance the books. Then, notify the realtor the apartment was available again. Better to get it done than to put it off. Her friends called her a “go getter,” others called her “impulsive,” but Alice considered herself a practical woman, simply doing what needed to
be done.
She brought up the accounting sheets as a long-haired tabby wandered across the store and settled at her feet. She reached down and gave him a scratch, whispering, “Mr. Rochester, everyone has it wrong. I’m not against all technology. I just prefer to keep things simple.”
Mr. Rochester sat silent, as he always did. He wasn’t much of a talker and his temper was legendary. He tolerated a pat or two, but if you rubbed him the wrong way, you’d feel his claws. The others cats walked out of their way rather than cross Mr. Rochester. But he did like the females. Before he became a resident of By the Book, he sat in the alleyway and yowled at all hours. His tattered left ear was a souvenir of those tomcat years. Alice felt a little guilty for luring him into a friendship when she fully intended to take away his masculinity, but when Mr. Rochester returned from the vet, he seemed calmer and happier. His shaggy fur even seemed a little more groomed and the wildness in his eyes faded. And Alice slept better, so the guilt didn’t weigh too heavily.
She peeked at Bix to make sure he wasn’t looking, then clicked onto the Internet. She needed to work, but she was curious. A quick search the Browning Wordsworth Keats blog. She expected to see book covers and links, but the site seemed designed as a meeting place for literature enthusiasts. Alice glanced at her desk clock. She’d give herself three minutes. Then, back to work.
Thirty minutes later, Alice closed the page. She’d registered an account, joined four different groups, left fifteen comments, and entered into two rather fierce debates over whether or not typewriters changed writing for the better. Sitting back in her chair, she let out a long breath. BWK, as she now thought of him, was brilliant. He knew books, loved books, and probably owned a bookstore. She’d wasted several minutes staring at his profile, but not because of the strong, stubbled jaw just visible under a lowered black fedora. There was an out-of-focus glimpse of his bookshelf. Alice zoomed in and tried to read the titles on the spines.
She had almost puzzled out the first row when the brass bell sounded and a short, teenaged girl burst through. “Miss Alice, I need you for a sec,” she called.
“Hi Charlie,” Alice said. “You’re not scheduled until this afternoon.” Charlene Soule wouldn’t answer to anything except Charlie since she’d turned eighteen and decided it wasn’t cool. When Alice or Bix spoke French to her, Charlie answered in English. It wasn’t really worth making a fuss over, but it hurt a little bit.
“I know,” she said, rushing up to the desk. “But you gotta see this.” She was wearing black jeans and T-shirt with NERD written on it in bright pink.
Alice blinked up at her. “What, outside?” The teen’s empty hands didn’t give Alice any clues. Her face flushed with excitement as she moved back toward the door. “You know that lot at the corner where they’ve been buildin’?”
Alice stood up, wishing Charlie would just tell her what was so interesting. “Sure. I heard it was going to be a museum on the history of music, from the earliest zydeco to current artists. Or something more general for the city’s three-hundredth anniversary celebrations, except the year’s almost over. Eric said he thought it looked like a modern retail store, but that can’t be right, because the parish would never approve something like that in the District.”
She reached the glass door and stepped outside. She loved the smell of the river, the way the sun reflected off the water and threw shimmers of light into her store. The humidity had risen in the hour she’d been inside and the air felt thick and muggy. The middle of August was a great time for fishing tours, but not so great for the tourists who lightly populated the walkway along the length of her building, and wilted in the heat.
Charlie was speed walking, pointing toward the corner, her straight, blond hair bouncing behind her. “Nope. Somethin’ much better.”
Alice felt her stomach drop as they made their way down the sidewalk toward the construction site. Call it intuition, or blame it on the fact she hated change. Maybe it was because nothing had gone her way for the past six months. But whatever it was, all the little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt as if she teetered on the edge of something. Whether good or bad, she couldn’t tell.
End of excerpt
If you enjoyed this sneak peek of The Pepper in The Gumbo, you can click this link for the full novel here!
Until Winter Comes Again: (An Inspirational Contemporary Romance) (Cane River Romance Book 6) Page 18
