The Pepper In The Gumbo: A Cane River Romance Page 15

  In the last two days he’d spent sixty thousand dollars on a book he didn’t need and punched a man he didn’t really know. In a few minutes he was going to reveal the secret he’d carefully kept for two years. It didn’t make any sense. None of it did. He obviously wasn’t thinking with his head, but his heart.

  “I don’t know what she feels,” Paul said.

  “Oh, boy,” Andy said. “I knew the day would come when I’d watch you join the ranks of the love-struck zombies. I just didn’t know it was going to happen here.”

  “I’m not--” Paul cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure what he was. “I’m not a zombie. This is a calculated business move to help our new store.”

  “Uh huh. Well, let me go change and then we can see how this new business move goes.” Andy stopped at the doorway to his bedroom. “But if I had to guess, I would say this is going to get a lot uglier before it gets better. If it gets better.”

  Paul walked to the window and looked out toward the stage. Maybe Alice was already there, looking for BWK. His stomach rolled. He hadn’t been this nervous in years. Not when that actress took him to the Oscars. Not when he accepted the award for best Online Game Play of the Year before the Academy of Interactive Arts and Sciences. . Not on his last date, that was for sure.

  ***

  Alice turned and gave herself a long look. The tall, standing mirror showed the reflection of a young, pretty woman. She belted the waist of her teal, Western-style shirtdress with red embroidery on the hem and pockets, accentuating her hourglass figure. A scuffed pair of red cowboy boots replaced her usual vintage pumps. She tucked the rings into her shirt. The only thing left was a smile. Alice grinned at her reflection. There was nothing she could do about the lawsuit at that very minute, but it was hard not to worry. She leaned forward, examining her lashes and pressing her lips together. She wondered if she needed more makeup. Suddenly she remembered the first time she met Paul.

  She sighed. She was excited to meet BWK and couldn’t stop imagining this mysterious book lover. But at the same time, Paul crept into every thought. She wondered what he was doing tonight. Probably having a party. She’d never know because of the noise level of the festival right outside. Or maybe he was going out with friends. He was from Natchitoches and must have loads of friends here.

  Alice glanced up, catching a glimpse of her reflection. “Green-eyed girl,” she whispered. It was a mystery why she even cared. She hardly knew the guy. It wasn’t like her to crush on a man just because he was handsome. Of course, he was smart and interesting and generous to his friends, too. But Charlie said Paul was a partier, that she’d seen pictures of women hanging all over him. Really, it made sense when she tried thinking logically about it. Famous people were famous for a reason. They were good at making strangers feel connected to them in a personal way.

  She straightened her shoulders and flashed her brightest smile. She wasn’t famous and she didn’t have any fans. She would do what she did best, which was to be real. What people saw is what they got, no media spin required.

  ***

  Alice looked around the crowd, examining every man under forty, looking for the jawline that appeared under the fedora in the picture. It was hard to see by the dim illumination of the stage lights. She could see the glimmer of the river in the distance. The warm summer air was still except for a small breeze every so often.

  Dancers crowded the stage, milling around, looking for partners. There were women in jeans, dresses, shorts, and a few fantastical costumes that really had nothing to do with Creole culture but were certainly fun to see. The men stayed pretty close to boots, jeans, and T-shirts, but there were a few in fancy suits, mostly older folks who used any occasion to put on seersucker and a bowtie.

  “Allons danser!” The lead singer of the zydeco band called out. The crowd answered with a wave of hollering and stomping that made the stage shake under Alice’s feet. She felt a huge smile spread over her face. She belonged with these people.

  “Manzell, danser vous?” She turned to find a teen holding out a hand. It was Julien Burel’s little brother, Xavier. He had to be nearly ten years younger than her, and clearly nervous. He spoke the Creole of her mamere, not the European French that kids learn in school.

  “Mais, oui,” she answered with a smile. As they moved to the center of the stage, she gave one last glance around. Her gaze caught a familiar face and her heart jumped into her throat.

  Paul stood at the edge of the stage, Andy at his side. He was dressed in a light blue shirt and jeans. His gaze was fixed on her and her heart seemed to stop in her chest as their eyes met. He didn’t smile, but simply lifted a hand in greeting.

  Alice turned her head back to the band, swallowing back a wave of sudden nerves. It didn’t matter if Paul was there, watching. Sure he was handsome, but he was just like any other tourist to the festival. People would stand and watch the dancers, tap their toes to the music, then go back home without ever thinking about it again until next year.

  The accordion player took the spotlight and started with the song “I Done Got Over.” A five-person band with just a few guitars, a drummer, and the singer, radiated energy. Her teen friend was a surprisingly good dancer, and Alice tried to put Paul out of her thoughts and focus on the complicated steps. Their hands were linked but their feet were moving at high speeds and Alice started to laugh. The dance brought everything back. Her family used to hold informal Saturday house dances in the summer, and the neighbors would come at dusk and stay until dawn. The women would bring biscuits and pots of gumbo to share. When it got late, Alice’s mama would send her inside to lie down, but she would sneak out of bed to sit by the window and watch the dancing. Now, as her feet moved to the music, she felt the years slip away. Joy pulsed through her, unbidden, lifting her heart.

  Before she knew it, the dance came to a ringing finish and she stood still, out of breath, with a huge smile on her face. “Merci, misye,” she said, and shook Xavier’s hand.

  “Merci, manzell,” he responded with a grin, and rejoined a group of teens near the edge of the floor. A few of the boys clapped him on the back in congratulations, and Alice wondered if she had been part of a good-natured dare.

  The singer adjusted his cowboy hat and took a sip of water. “Encore?” he called out to the crowd and the dancers around her yelled back an enthusiastic response. Alice scanned the people around her, wondering if she should move off the stage to be more visible. BWK might be here, but outside the group, and not able to find her. Or maybe even approaching another woman with red cowboy boots. She frowned, wishing she’d been more specific.

  “Evenin’.” A man’s low voice to her right made her catch her breath. She turned, wondering what BWK would look like without the fedora. Instead, it was the lead singer of one of the night’s bands. For just a moment, she considered the possibility that BWK was also fronting a local zydeco group, but then she pushed the thought away. About as likely as him being the president, really.

  “Good evenin’,” she returned. “You play with Creole Kings, right?”

  He nodded, his dark eyes reflecting the lights of the stage. He was the type that Charlie would admiringly describe as “tall, dark, and Creole.” The man sang in front of hundreds of people and he looked perfectly at ease approaching a stranger. Alice admired that kind of extroverted personality. “My name’s Alphonse DeCote, but everybody calls me Al.” He held out his hands. “I was wonderin’ if you’d like to dance.”

  She reached out. “I’m Alice Augustine and that’s why I’m here.”

  The next song started and Alice let herself get lost in the music, focusing on Al’s hands holding hers and every now and then, his dark eyes. It was the one night of the year where she could enjoy being with a lot of people and not worry what anyone thought of her. The whole town was out dancing, whether they were locals or tourists, from across the river in the industrial wasteland or ten feet from a historic building.

  As the song faded away, Al took her
hand one more time. “I gotta go get ready, but I saw you, and you were so pretty, I just needed to have one dance.”

  Alice couldn’t help the smile on her face. She didn’t need anyone fawning over her, but it was nice to hear. After dating Eric, she’d forgotten what it felt like it be admired, instead of picked on.

  Al took a card out of his back pocket and held it out it to her. “If you want, you can give me a call. I’m not far away in Shreveport. I’d be happy to drive down for lunch, or just to set a spell and talk.”

  She took the card. “Thanks, Al.” She wasn’t sure she’d ever call but she liked his ways, confident and polite. The farther she got away from her time with Eric, the more she realized that what she thought was Eric’s self-confidence was actually arrogance.

  Al grinned and left the stage, heading for the back of the bandstand. She watched him go, admiring the length of his stride and the easy grace of his steps.

  There was the sound of a throat being cleared behind her and Alice knew who she’d see before she turned around. Paul stood there, dark eyes unsure, his hands at his sides as if he didn’t know where to put them. She felt her mouth drop open in surprise. After what had happened that morning, she hadn’t thought he would seek her out again and certainly not in public. She wanted to remind him of what a small town it was and how most of the locals were probably already discussing their relationship, but part of her really didn’t want to talk about it right then.

  “Bonswe, misye,” she said with a smile.

  And to her surprise, he answered back, “Bonswe, manzell.”

  She was going to say that it was nice he’d learned a few phrases for the festival when he went on, as fluent as Mr. Perrault had ever been. “It’s been a long time and I wasn’t a good dancer to begin with, but …” He held out his hands. “Would you like to dance?”

  Alice didn’t move for a second as her brain processed his words. She looked up at the handsome man with dark hair and the soft accent, feeling her idea of him shift and tilt. Paul, who had left Natchitoches for New York City and never looked back, was as much a child of Cane River as she was, right down to the Louisiana Creole language that was dying out with every passing year. Alice reached out and took his hands.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The technology that threatens to kill off books as we know them - the 'physical book,' a new phrase in our language - is also making the physical book capable of being more beautiful than books have been since the middle ages.―Art Spiegelman

  “I waved to Bix but he didn’t respond. Did I do something to offend him?” Paul asked. He glanced over Alice’s head toward the chairs set up in the grass for spectators.

  Alice took a moment to process the words. She’d never really noticed what a wonderful voice Paul had. Sometimes she spoke Cajun French with tourists from other parts of Louisiana, and sometimes French with tourists from Europe. But it had been a long time since she’d spoken Creole with someone she didn’t know very well. It felt strangely foreign and absurdly familiar all at the same time.

  “Oh, he has terrible eye-sight. Both far and near. The only reason he spoke to you that day was because he recognized the portfolio when he passed you on the bench. He knows those books like his children. It’s so hard for him to live without reading, but at least he can help in the store.” She knew she was talking too much but he was still holding her hands and it was disconcerting. The band was playing a few chords, waiting for the singer to decide on a song.

  “I see.” He frowned. “He can’t use an e-reader? Or a double screen?”

  Alice shook her head. Paul said the words e-reader and screen in English. For a moment she wondered if their language had any words for current technology. She certainly didn’t know. “He doesn’t have one. And I’m not sure what a double screen is.”

  He opened his mouth to explain but the first few bars of the next song interrupted him. “We’re gonna take requests for our next song. What do all y’all wanna hear?” the band leader called. The dancers responded with several suggestions and the band chose the song of a middle aged lady near the front of the stage, wearing a red-check Western shirt.

  Alice said, “Well, if you really can’t dance, we’d better go over the basics, no?”

  “I’ll be your eager student,” he said, and winked.

  Alice felt heat flash through her and she dropped her gaze. Paul was good at making women like him, that was for sure. It was an undeniable fact. She jumped into rapid-fire directions to cover her confusion. “Step to the left and back, that’s water and seasoning. Then step backwards and then forward, your left leg and my left leg. That’s the meat and the roux.”

  They practiced a few times as the band warmed up and then she said, “Now we need the gumbo, so put your right hand around my waist, and keep holding my left hand. Let’s try it all together.” Alice focused only on the steps, not on the man in front of her. She tried to block out how close he was. He smelled wonderful, and he still carried the undeniable scent of old books.

  “My mama made me practice these dances with her every Friday night. She was sure that it would help me when I found the right girl.”

  “Because women like dancing?”

  “No, because she thought there was a girl for me out there, right then, being taught by her mama. She didn’t want me to look bad in front of her future in-laws.”

  Alice couldn’t help laughing. “Mothers are kind of all the same. They all want to do the choosing.” She wanted to tell him how she loved to hear him speak Louisiana Creole. He sounded like her family, like everything she’d lost when she was young and then found again as a woman.

  “And what did your mama think of Eric?” He gave the tiniest wink.

  “If she were alive, I probably wouldn’t have dated him. I think she probably would have set me straight before we got past the first date.” She tried to say it lightly.

  “I’m sorry.” He looked pained. “And your papa?”

  “Gone in the same accident. I was young.” She looked around, wishing the band would start. This wasn’t the conversation she wanted to have tonight.

  “So that’s why you have their rings.” He reached out, slipping a finger under the chain against her neck, gently bringing forward until the rings dangled between them. He held them both, looking closely. “Your mama had tiny hands.”

  Nobody knew that except her family. In fact, nobody but Alice had touched those rings for years and years. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from them now, held gently in Paul’s fingers. She cleared her throat. “She really did. I have a pair of her gloves. They’re just so little. I must take after my daddy’s side because mine are huge.” She held up a hand for inspection.

  “You’re right. Gigantic man hands.”

  “I mean, in comparison,” Alice said. She turned her hand palm up and he dropped the rings into it. “What about your parents?”

  “I was raised by my mama. Just her. We lived in a little shack outside the city limits. It’s probably been condemned and burned by now.” He smiled. “Here’s to surviving childhood, eh?”

  She had to grin. “Yes. I think we should both get a medal.” It felt so strange to talk about her parents and not feel sad or awkward. Most of the time she felt like people either asked too many questions or acted like they’d never existed.

  A few more dancers arrived and there was a lot of quick practicing around the floor. The band seemed to be arguing about the choice of a song. Alice knew the zydeco festival was serious business and she loved how the musicians wanted to get it just right.

  “Aren’t you sad to let go of your culture?” she asked.

  “What? You mean because I live in New York City?”

  She nodded. “I think you just can’t raise Creole kids outside of the area. It’s hard enough keeping the traditions alive with everybody plugged into cable and their iPods and everything.” She felt her cheeks go pink. “Not that I have kids, but you know…”

  Paul laughed. “Just b
ecause I live in New York doesn’t mean I’ve rejected my roots.” His expression turned serious. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. I know we can’t have everything, all at the same time. Choices have to be made. I do understand that.”

  Alice didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t meant to start such a serious conversation out there on the dance floor but she and Paul didn’t seem to be able to keep the topics light.

  The band finally launched into a waltzy number and the singer stepped to the microphone, the words coming too fast for her to understand. She remembered the song, “Zydeco Gris Gris,” from when she was younger. Her mama had loved this song but she’d never learned it. Paul took a moment, then matched her step for step. He sang along as easily as if he still went to house dances every Saturday night.

  Alice swallowed back her surprise a second time in just a few minutes. He really could dance, no matter what he’d just claimed. He was better than she was, effortlessly bringing her close and swinging her around, then bringing her close again. The sound of his voice in her ear made a shiver go up her spine, and for a moment she forgot they were on opposite sides of a fight. She wasn’t Alice the bookstore owner and he wasn’t Paul the video game mogul. She was a woman and he was a man, simply enjoying the late summer night, moving to a music that was deep in their blood.

  For the first time in a long while, Alice didn’t worry about what was going to happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. She felt like everything was right with the world. More than all right. It was perfect.

  Zydeco music isn’t known for its short, easy tunes. Jazz musicians borrowed their idea of long, complicated riffs on a repeating melody. Blues singers borrowed the melancholy words and some of the beats. And the dances are meant to give as much pleasure, for as long as possible, until the dancers are worn down and tuckered out. Alice was glad it was only the third dance of the night because Paul moved with an energy that was hard to match. This wasn’t the dancing of an awkward teen boy. He was confident and smooth, as if he’d had years of practice like she had, in backyard barbeques and summer festivals.