The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  The Pepper in the Gumbo

  By

  Mary Jane Hathaway

  All rights reserved. © 2014 by Gumbo Books and Mary Jane Hathaway.

  Cover art provided by Steven Novak

  Editing provided by Kathryn Frazier

  Dedications

  To Mrs. Gaskell, who wrote her books standing in the kitchen, while her five children ran through the house. Your romances captivated a generation. Your passion for social justice shaped my moral code. North and South, the story of a ruthless mill owner and a fiery minister’s daughter, will live forever in the hearts of your readers.

  To Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who wrote some very fine love poetry, but considered her life’s work to be fighting child labor even though she lived in a time that didn’t allow women a political voice. Virginia Woolf said it best when she said, “Elizabeth Barrett Browning rushed into the drawing room and declared that here, where we live and work, is the true place for the poet. The heroine’s passionate interest in social questions, her conflict as artist and woman, her longing for knowledge and freedom, is the true heroine of her age.”

  Also to Christalee Scott May, who will never stop trying to bring me into the twenty-first century.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader,

  BIOGRAPHY

  Novels, illustrators, poetry, and poets which play a role in this story:

  Louisiana Creole glossary

  Recipes

  Chapter One

  If we continue to develop our technology without wisdom or prudence,

  our servant may prove to be our executioner.

  ―Omar N. Bradley

  “Van Winkle, scoot. You’re taking up half the desk.”

  Alice Augustine brushed aside piles of receipts and set down her steaming cup of coffee, but the sleeping gray cat didn’t budge from his spot in the sun. Alice gently slid the kitty to the left and angled into her chair. She loved Mondays, loved the pale light of early morning illuminating her workspace, loved the way her little bookstore creaked and rustled like an old lady waking up from a long winter’s nap. Or at least, she loved every Monday other than the last Monday of the month. Then it was sixteen kinds of terrible.

  Balancing the accounts was becoming an unpleasant task. That far column of red numbers was growing at an alarming rate. She pulled her cardigan tighter against the unseasonable late-summer chill, and reminded herself that the store survived the last ten years of economic downturn and it wasn’t going to fail now. Not on her watch. Not after Mr. Perrault kept it afloat for fifty years and made it one of the most famous bookstores in Louisiana.

  Opening her laptop, she took a slow breath, letting gratitude for the place win over the nagging worries that fought for her attention. Her store was in the National Historic Landmark District, a local treasure at the very end of the thirty-three block stretch along Cane River. The rows of tidy shelves showcased the best in rare and vintage volumes. Customers traveled from around the state to spend the day in By the Book, sharing stories of the eccentric former owner, Mr. Perrault, and his wife, Angeline. Alice was proud to be the owner and so very grateful for every day she came to work. Usually.

  Mr. Perrault. Alice paused, waiting for the ache in her chest to ebb. Mr. Perrault, the man who didn’t snap at a surly teen girl who wandered into his bookshop and argued that Elizabeth Barrett Browning should not be placed next to her husband Robert just because they shared a name. He didn’t laugh, even when she said Robert Browning was an overeducated blowhard whose collection should be used as a doorstop. No, Mr. Perrault spoke to her as if she were a poetry expert and a person. He took notes, offered her coffee, and asked her to come back to chat. Alice had spent so long being angry that she didn’t even notice for the first six months of Saturday literary debates that she’d made a friend. She wasn’t just the annoying little sister of four boys, all being raised by their grandmother and haunted by the accident that took their parents.

  She could never get away from the pitying glances of the people of her small town. Natchitoches was one of the oldest communities in the south, and the people made it their duty to never forget anything, good or bad. Alice was not just Alice. She was “poor, sweet Alice, whose parents are dead.” But not to Mr. Perrault and not to his wife. With them, Alice felt like she was someone apart from all of that, someone who had read more widely than anyone she knew. To them, she was a reader and a friend.

  Mondays always made her pensive and she slipped the fragile chain out from her shirt, touching the two gold rings that hung there. Those simple, plain gold bands had once signified the marriage of her parents and the unity of her family.

  “Darcy, come on down. You’ll get all dusty,” she said more from tradition than any real expectation that he would listen. Darcy didn’t answer to anyone. The large black cat stayed high up, his perfect pink nose in the air. He came down to eat only after the other cats had wandered away. He was happy there, far above the fray, and there was no reason to coax him down. Her employees poked fun at Darcy’s antisocial habits, but Alice felt a secret kinship with him.

  A bright tinkle sounded from the little brass bell that hung from a faded red velvet ribbon on the door.

  “Good morning,” Alice called out. She added a wave although old Bix Beaulieu was so nearsighted he wouldn’t know the difference. In fact, he shouldn’t be driving himself to work. Somehow he kept passing his renewal test. Alice harbored a strong suspicion that had something to do with Bix’s great niece working at the DMV. Like a moving landmark, it had been the cruel end of nativity scenes, award-winning rose bushes, and too many pink flamingos to count. The people of Natchitoches had learned to watch out for Bix and his bright green Cadillac of Doom.

  “Mornin’, sha,” he called back. It made her smile to hear him use the endearment her Papa used. Alice was always “dear” to Bix. Stark white bristles sprouted from under his old straw hat, and his W
orld War II, Navy-issue raincoat was buttoned to his chin. It hardly ever rained, but Bix hated to be unprepared. “I thought I’d come in early and rearrange those bottom shelves of paperbacks.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” Alice could think of ten things more worthwhile than rearranging the paperback section. Customers sorted through them like folded T-shirts on sale at the mall. It was a waste of time to even put them on the shelves. She should just shovel them in mountains labeled Romance, Thrillers, and Mysteries, and not worry any more about it. But Bix did what he liked, when he liked. It could be aggravating, but Alice loved it a little bit, too.

  “Thanks, but I got a cup at The Red Hen.” Bix placed a paper bag on the desk and Alice inhaled the heavenly scent of fresh beignets. The Red Hen served hot Beau Monde coffee and the area’s best bakery items. Bix’s dark brown eyes crinkled at the edges, his face creased with a grin. “I figured you’d appreciate a little pick-me-up while you crunch the numbers.”

  Alice murmured her thanks as she opened the bag. She hated that Bix knew the bookstore was losing money. The man was pretty observant for being nearly blind.

  “Louis asked after you,” Bix said.

  Alice took a large bite of still-warm beignet and chewed slowly. Louis Guillorie was balding, short-tempered, twice her age, and most definitely not Alice’s idea of a romantic partner. The day she graduated high school, he’d asked her out by telling her he had a thing for green-eyed Creole girls. She’d almost cried, trying to let him down easy, afraid to bruise his ego. After nearly ten years of searching for the gentlest way to get through, she decided it wasn’t her problem if he wouldn’t face the facts. Now she just pretended the owner of The Red Hen didn’t exist. It was a whole lot easier than feeling guilty about hurting his feelings.

  “Wanted to know if you were still seeing that short Yankee with the horsey laugh.”

  “He’s not short. He’s three inches taller than I am.” Eric was a perfectly nice guy who made great money as the area’s only dentist. She didn’t argue about him being a Yankee or the laugh. Eric didn’t laugh much, so she could almost forget about his unfortunate affliction.

  “I told him to bide his time. Horse boy won’t last long. He don’t even take you out. A girl’s gotta get out of the house once in a while.” Bix took off his straw hat and unbuttoned his coat, as if he weren’t being rude in the slightest.

  “He’s lasted four months,” Alice said. “And I’m a homebody. I don’t mind.” Eric was more than a little boring, but she was no rock star herself. Her mamere called her curvy, but that was just a nice way for her grandmother to say Alice loved beignets a little too much and didn’t love exercise quite enough. Her hair was so curly it had a life of its own, her mouth was a little too wide, and she wouldn’t ever be called anything more than pretty. Add in the fact that she owned too many cats and a bookstore that was hemorrhaging money, and Alice figured she wasn’t one to point fingers.

  “You’ve got to get out more, especially since you’re up there all alone now. I felt better when that family was living in the other half. This is such a big old place. You could slip in that claw-foot tub, crack your head, and nobody would find you for days.”

  Alice tried to ignore the visual that popped into her mind. “A possibility, I suppose.” If she fell and hit her head while getting in the tub, she certainly wouldn’t want her neighbors to come rescue her. Then again, she couldn’t think of a single person who would be really right for that job.

  A short-haired tabby crossed the floor toward the back door, sending a glance at Bix that seemed to say she was highly offended but would suffer silently, as usual. “Jane Eyre wanted one of those maple-cured bacon slices you brought last time,” Alice interpreted. “And Eric is a perfectly nice boy, whether or not he likes to go out.”

  “Boy. See? There’s your problem. You need a man,” Bix said, punctuating the phrase with a thump of the chest, his wrinkles magnified with a scowl. It would have been funny if he hadn’t been so serious. “Louis wants to take you to the zydeco festival this weekend. He sure is sweet on you.”

  Alice loved zydeco music and the festival ranked as one of her favorite parties of the year. Her parents had met at a dance hall, her mamere sang in a juke band when she was young, and Alice had been listening to zydeco all her life. She could probably dance the crazy combination of swing and foxtrot in her sleep. But although Eric vowed he’d rather drill his own teeth than go, Alice wasn’t about to accept Louis’s invitation. “Yes, I’m aware. Well, we better get ―”

  “You could do worse than Louis, you know. He makes a mean croissant, and he’s a morning person. My first wife was a bear in the morning. I love me some passion, and I gotta have a woman who puts a little pepper in the gumbo, but I didn’t make that morning mistake twice. When she passed away and I was ready to look again, I said to myself, ‘Bix, you get yourself a woman who won’t bite your head off if you talk to her before noon.’ Of course, Ruby is always real affectionate in the mornings so I had to adjust to―”

  “Oh my, look at that dust!” Alice swiped a hand over the bookcase next to her. She cringed at the awkward interruption, but didn’t want to hear any more about Ruby’s morning affections. Every Sunday morning, nine o’clock, Ruby and Bix sat in front of Alice at the cathedral. If she heard any more, she would never be able to look the woman in the eye again.

  “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 text books.”

  “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.

  Alic
e 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 Rosetti, 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.”