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

  I’m sure you fend off many unwanted requests and demands but I was wondering if you could answer a personal question. Is that you in the fedora? If so, is that your bookshelf in the background? Forgive me for being a nosy parker but I believe you can tell a lot about a person by their bookshelves. Even (especially?) if they own a whole building full of them.

  Alice Augustine (Miss)

  Paul grinned. Three dollars. He flipped to the picture of himself on the website and squinted, trying to see which of his books appeared in the background. A sinking feeling filled his stomach. A few old textbooks, programming guides, Watership Down, Brave New World, a Ray Bradbury collection, the Steve Jobs biography, a Neil Gaiman book for children, 1984, a favorite book of poetry so slender you couldn’t read the title, Dune, a collection of Flannery O’Connor short stories, Fahrenheit 451, Wordsworth’s poetry, a lot of Jules Verne, Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. But at the end, a history book about the Creole people of Cane River and a fat video game programming manual were side by side. He’d written the manual with two other programmers and his name was clear as day on the spine. If anyone had any right to suspect that Browning Wordsworth Keats was Paul Olivier, video game programmer raised in Natchitoches, that was pretty strong evidence.

  No one had asked Paul about the books in the picture before. Not the thousands of visitors who came for the message boards, not the hundreds who emailed. He frowned, considering, then decided it didn’t matter much. No one had any reason to link him to the site. Paul Olivier was a man who spent his waking hours shaping the online gaming world. Browning Wordsworth Keats dedicated his life to giving new life to obscure classic literature. Not even Sherlock could piece that puzzle together.

  Dear Miss Augustine,

  Indeed, that is Browning Wordsworth Keats in the fedora and my books on the shelf. It must strike horror in you to see such disorganization. I wish I had kept all the books I’ve ever loved, but for some reason, there are only a few hundred that have followed me through college to my adult life. I only have three from my own childhood, and they were my grandfather’s. Zane Gray had a baseball series and I have The Shortstop, The Redheaded Outfielder, and The Young Pitcher. With dust jackets. Just holding them in my hands makes me happy.

  Your bookish friend

  The air pressure made his ears ache and Paul reached for a pack of gum. After a few seconds of chewing, he felt his ears pop and he settled back in his chair. Andy was focused so intently on his work he didn’t even glance up.

  Paul opened a few more emails, sent a note back about Hardy Boys books being under copyright, and searched for a website for By the Book. There was nothing, not even a holding place for a website someday. Other mentions came up under her name, though. Pictures of fundraisers, a tax levy protest, a charity drive for the historical district. Paul blinked at the photos. Alice Augustine was about forty-five years younger than he’d figured. And pretty. Very pretty in that way that women are when they don’t try to change too much about their hair and face. She looked slightly uncomfortable in most pictures, but there were a few that made him lean forward and look closely. In one, she was handing a sandbag to a pair of hands belonging to a person outside the frame. Her hair was pulled back, long curls flying around her face, rain soaking her jeans, both feet planted in several inches of mud. She looked intense, focused. He would not have pegged this woman for a bookstore owner. She looked like she would be more at home as a karate instructor. No, something outdoors. Landscaper? He could see her creating beauty and change from the boggy river land.

  Paul caught himself at those last vague images and grimaced. He’d always been a sucker for the brainy girls. Especially the pretty, brainy girls. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He had enough on his plate without crushing on a bookstore owner. Plus, as part of the Natchitoches elite, she was one of those people that wouldn’t have spared a glance for him or his mama, way back when. He closed the page and went back to his email. There was another message from Alice.

  Dear Mr. Keats,

  I don’t come from a book-loving family so there are no special literary treasures from my grandparents, but I did inherit a whole store from my dearest friend Mr. Perrault. I stomped into his store, an angry teen know-it-all, and demanded he rearrange a whole section. He answered me with smile, gave me free reign to rearrange as I saw fit, and offered me a beanbag in a sunlit corner for as many hours as I needed.

  When I was in college, I asked Mr. Perrault why he didn’t tell me to get on out of his store. He said, “Anyone who is that passionate about books should be welcomed. I knew I had found a kindred spirit.”

  He was a wonderful man, Mr. Perrault.

  Your friend,

  Alice

  P.S. I know what you’re going to ask. What did I find so offensive about his poetry section? I’ll just say… it’s related to the leather volume of poetry between The Graveyard Book (you know Gaiman wrote that as a modern day Jungle Book?) and the Flannery O’Connor stories (I’ve never understood her, I’m sorry, I’ve tried). I’m assuming the Browning in your name is not for the Mr., but rather the Mrs.

  P.P.S. We have a few book friends in common but your shelf is much heavier on the science fiction. Also, I’m confused by the video game programming manual. Do you share shelf space with another person? That would be the true test of a friendship. I wonder what that’s like, to be able to intimately mix your books so casually. I find my shelves to be very personal property.

  In two years, no one had come close to discovering anything about him. But in three short letters, Alice figured out more than his most dedicated fan club member.

  The plane hummed along, the top of the clouds bright beyond the windows of the cabin. Andy was in the zone, not bothering to look up from his work. The steward sat reading at the entry to the cockpit. Paul looked around, unsure of whether to trust what he was reading. Could Alice have figured this out from a picture? Or she was someone he had once known in Natchitoches but didn’t remember. Maybe she was teasing him, stringing him along. Maybe she wanted to draw him into a friendship with her tender tales of inheriting a bookstore from an old man, inviting confidences until she trapped him into exposing his identity to the world.

  Paul raked his hands through his hair. Some days he hated his life. Everyone wanted money and power but it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. You never know whether you’re making a friend or an enemy. He stared at the words on the screen, then flipped back to Alice’s photo. She looked like a woman who didn’t care about power. But pictures were deceiving. There was no way to find out whether someone was lying to you, not really. Online, his intuition was non-existent. Not that he was much better in real life. He’d been taken too many times, fallen for so many sob stories, and believed what turned out to be blatant lies, until finally, he’d learned. Be cautious. Slow down. Expect the worst.

  The jet went through a large cloud and for a moment the sunlight in the cabin dimmed. Paul looked back at the screen. He didn’t want to see everyone as a threat. He understood why Mr. Perrault had reacted that way. He wanted to believe there were kindred spirits waiting to stomp into his life and demand that he rearrange something he’d already figured out.

  Dear Alice,

  Mr. Perrault was very wise. Passionate readers are rare and we must stick together. (To be clear, I say we’re different than “the bookful blockhead, ignorantly read with loads of learned lumber in his head” that Alexander Pope described.)

  The books are all mine. I haven’t met the right person to share shelf space with, I suppose. I agree that it’s a very personal decision and it brings up a conundrum. If you’ve fallen in love with someone and decide to live out your lives in happily wedded bliss, but then realize your books can’t coexist on a shelf, does that spell the end of your relationship? I think I would spring for separate book cases but I fear for those ardent readers with limited space and means. Perhaps the real cause of divorce is lack of shelf space? This needs to be studied at a higher level.
r />   Yes to science fiction. I don’t think I read outside the genre from the ages of ten to twenty-five. It has served me well. And I admit I’m disappointed in your lack of appreciation for Miss Flannery. Have you read any of her letters? Maybe some background into her daily life would help. The Graveyard Book was the first new children’s book I loved as an adult. There have been others since then, but that was the first.

  As for that book you spotted, The Seraphim and Other Poems was the first collection she published under her own name but I have other reasons for liking it. Now I have to know how my Elizabeth Barrett Browning is tied to your youthful outrage in Mr. Perrault’s poetry section.

  Your friend,

  Browning Wordsworth Keats

  Paul pushed send, set the laptop on the table and stood. He didn’t mention the gaming manual and he wondered if she would notice. The six wings of the seraph in the logo of ScreenStop came from the title of that book she’d just pointed out. But nobody knew that except for him. Most people thought it was just a cool design, with two large wings crossed at the top, two to the side, and two crossed at the bottom. It made him nervous to dance around such a large clue, but Alice honestly seemed interested in the books, and not in his identity. He didn’t mind letting slip the fact he wasn’t married. She didn’t seem the type to want an online romance. Just the opposite, really. She would be someone who would insist on face-to-face communication.

  He watched the mist outside fade away as the jet slowly descended through the clouds. As soon as the jet landed, someone would spot the ScreenStop logo and the news would spread that he’d returned to his home town. He felt his stomach roll with nerves.

  It had been a long time since he’d made a new friend. Well, not exactly. He made friends all the time. He had five thousand Facebook friends, ten million Twitter followers, and everywhere he went, people knew his name. But it never got around to books. His whole public life was gaming, the company, and the huge conventions that brought thousands of people together in cosplay. He never dressed up, but he never quite felt like himself, either.

  Paul reached for a Coke in the cabin fridge and opened it with a crack. The soda tasted too sweet and he blinked against the burn of carbonation. Andy embraced the geek fandom with open arms, feeling like he had the best of both worlds. For years, Paul worked hard without a break, traveled without a real vacation, and tried to fit into the New York high-tech lifestyle. He’d succeeded beyond anything he could have imagined. But he didn’t feel at home.

  He wandered back to his seat on the couch and set down his drink. The laptop screen showed another message. Paul rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles. Would she insist on asking about the video game programming book?

  Clicking it open, he only saw a few sentences, and a .jpg attachment. She’d sent him a picture. Of herself? Of her store?

  Dear BWK (that’s how I think of you),

  I’m conflicted on the subject of Mr. Pope. I agree with him when he says “an honest man’s the noblest work of God,” but then my hackles rise when I see that too-oft quoted “woman’s at best a contradiction still.” I’m not sure whether he had a sly sense of humor or if he really didn’t like women much.

  Also, I feel like I’ve been very rude. I’m sending this picture as a literary olive branch.

  Your friend, Alice

  P.S. I’ll tell my story when you explain the gaming manual. I really am curious. It’s not something I think is useful, good, or worthy. It’s like seeing a bomb on your shelf, with the timer set and running.

  Paul let out a bark of laughter. A bomb? His software manual was a weapon of mass destruction, set to take out everything around it?

  Andy looked up, an expression of total surprise on his face. “What’s so funny?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. I just got a shock. Wasn’t expecting…”

  Andy stretched and let out a wide yawn. “People are weird. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

  “I guess. Someone just compared designing games to building bombs.” Paul paused. “I’m pretty sure that’s what she meant.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Andy shot him a look. “I thought you were going to scan in a new book while we were hanging out up here in the sky.” His brows went up. “Wait. Did you meet someone new and I’m the last to know? Was she on one of those dating sites?”

  “No, but thanks for implying I need one.” He read the line again. Yup, she had definitely just called him a bomb-maker. “She’s a reader from the classic book site. Well, a bookstore owner, actually.”

  “Hold on, why are you talking about gaming? I thought you were doing your superhero secret identity thing. Is that over? Are you out?” Andy looked honestly alarmed. “You made sure those were all in the public domain, right? We could get the pants sued off us.” He held up a hand. “Sorry, you could get the pants sued off you. Remember to tell the lawyers I had nothing to do with it.”

  Paul snorted. “Your loyalty is touching. I’m still anonymous. She just noticed the books on my shelf. You know, in my profile picture. She must have zoomed in and read the titles.”

  “Buddy, you are playing a dangerous game with those people. They’re worse than gamers. They have no lives. Everything becomes about the online interaction. You talk to them enough and they feel like they own you.”

  He had to agree, just a little. Watching the comment threads explode from one question about an obscure book to thousands of passionate arguments pro and con, he had to wonder if these people had jobs. Paul wasn’t willing to sacrifice hours of his time to argue about whether Kidnapped or Treasure Island was Robert Louis Stevenson’s best work and he was an above-average fan of the man.

  “I’ll be careful. It’s just email,” Paul said. He pulled the laptop closer.

  “Uh huh. That’s what they all say.”

  “Who says? This isn’t going to end up like Stephen King’s Misery, with me tied to a bed by some crazed fan.”

  “I sure hope not. And I meant people who meet their spouses online. My cousin fell in love with this woman from New Zealand and he kept saying it was just a few emails. He lives on the other side of the planet now and they’ve got four kids.”

  “That’s not happening here. She’s a bookstore owner from Natchitoches.” Paul shrugged. “I can’t think of anybody less likely to be a candidate for my affections than someone who lives in that gator swamp.”

  Andy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me. Please tell me you’re kidding. Your secret identity is corresponding with someone from your real-life home town?”

  “It’s nothing really. I only heard of the woman a few hours ago. It doesn’t mean anything so keep your shirt on. I’m not planning a big Creole wedding so I can settle down in the bayou and leave you in charge of everything.”

  Andy didn’t laugh. “If you say so.” He looked like as if wanted to say more, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He turned back to his reports.

  Paul clicked on the attachment, already deciding not to respond to the picture. Whatever it was, it would have to wait, probably indefinitely.

  The photo that popped up wasn’t Alice or the store. It was a picture of a bookshelf. It wasn’t the tidy organized line of leather bound volumes he was expecting. It was a very personal picture, as personal as it could get between bookish types. His face creased with a grin. She was letting him see what no one else saw: the jumble of best-loved books, side by side like adopted siblings. They had no connection, except for the fact the same person loved them all.

  He leaned closer, cocking his head to read the titles. His smile widened. He never would have guessed, not in a million years. Alexander Pope essays next to Louisa May Alcott next to John Green next to Jane Austen’s Emma next to some big science fiction tome with a dragon on the spine next to something called Fat Vampire. He let out a chuckle when he recognized Jane Eyre between Freakonomics and The Big Book of Southern Cakes. A whole row of Alan Bradley mysteries hogged the second shelf but
they were sandwiched between a bookbinding manual and the letters of St. Teresa of Avila.

  “I really hope that goofy smile isn’t for something she sent.” Andy spoke into his papers, a scowl on his face.

  Paul forced himself to sit back and look uninterested. “Just a picture of books. That’s all.”

  Andy sent him a long look. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Only the truth, my friend.” Paul kept his tone offhand. He should close the picture and wait until later, but he might not get another chance anytime soon. They had meetings all afternoon. He tried to seem uninterested but it was hard to casually crane his neck to read the titles.

  Then he felt his smile fade. A leather bound book, the gold lettering clearly visible, was almost lost between The Wind in the Willows and a picture book on the periodic table of elements. What were the chances Alice would have the same little book of poetry? He knew that first edition was rare, it had taken him ages to track it down. But not only did she have it, it was in a treasured spot on the messy shelf of most-beloved books.

  He stood up and walked to the window. His mind was turning the possibilities over and over. She could have searched out a copy before contacting him and staged the picture. She was the one who asked about his shelf first, after all. She’s the one who brought up Elizabeth Barrett Browning and implied that it led to the whole reason she owned the store. He paced up and down in front of the window, wishing he could be more suspicious, and then wished he could be more trusting because he truly wanted to believe in a world of such wonderful coincidences.

  Paul turned back to the window, staring down at the fields below. Time was slipping away and all he’d done was flirt with someone he’d never met. He had a book to scan and real work to do. He should forget all about Alice and her books, never respond to another message. That would be the logical step, especially for a famous billionaire pursued by all kinds of unsavory people and who had that small issue of a secret online identity.