The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)
by Mary Jane Hathaway
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 World 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.”